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hookedonapirate · 4 years ago

Text

The Dirty Text Challenge

Summary: “I told you, Emma, you should try it!” Mary Margaret screeches through the phone.

Emma pulls the device away from her ear, lest she go half-deaf by the sheer volume of her sister-in-law’s voice. “And I told you, I’m not doing that,” she protests, leaning back against the wall of the corridor outside the restrooms.

“Why not? You’ll be able to see how interested he is without having to tell him how you feel to his face.”

“But what if he's not?”

“Oh Emma, do you really not know your best friend? He’s interested, trust me!”

“Has he said anything to you or David?”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in you. It just means he’s not interested in getting clocked in the face by your brother.”

Notes: This is a birthday gift for my good friend, @onceuponaprincessworld. Thank you for always being supportive and encouraging and, well, for putting up with me :) Hope you have an awesome day, love!

Inspired by the Dirty Text Challenge on Tik Tok that was trending awhile back, where you send a dirty text to your significant other and record his reaction when he reads it. There was one video in particular that made me want to write this for CS, and it was by realkayjane. She posted a video of her best friend reading a text she sent him in a bar, and then they started dating. It very well could've been staged, or maybe not, I honestly don't know. Nevertheless, I wanted to write it, so here it is. And if you're interested to see what the text says, no worries, I've included a flashback at the end ;)

Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for being so kind and for looking it over at the last minute!

Rated: Explicit

Also Available on: AO3 FF.N

Killian’s phone vibrates from his pants pocket for the second time since he’s been at The Rabbit Hole that evening, but he continues to ignore it. What could possibly be more important than hanging out with his best friend at their favorite bar anyhow?

“Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

“It can wait,” Killian says, waving off her question and taking a swig of his rum.

“It might be important.”

Killian glances up at her from over the rim of his tumbler.

More important than being with you?

Unlikely.

His phone vibrates once more, but he still doesn’t move to retrieve it.

She cocks her brow, giving that castigating look. A look that tells him he should answer his phone.

So he sighs and reluctantly digs it out, seeing three text messages from the same person.

Unknown: Hey Killian. It’s Tina. David gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.

He groans.

Yes, I do mind. Bloody hell, Dave, why did you have to give her my number?

Unknown: Are you free tonight?

Definitely not.

Unknown: You can come over if you want.

He’s never even been on a single date with Tina.

Killian thinks about how he will politely decline.

“Who is it? If it’s David, I swear, he better either be in jail or the hospital if he’s interrupting our evening.”

Killian’s cheeks heat with blush, and he has to suppress the smile threatening his lips.

She said our evening .

Killian scratches behind his ear, reluctant to tell her the texts are from some woman David’s trying to set him up with. “Uh, it’s… it’s no one.”

Emma grins, clearly not buying it. “Doesn’t seem like no one. You’re blushing.”

Not for the reasons you probably think.

He chuckles nervously. “Truly, it’s no one important.”

Emma cocks her head to the side.

Damn her for knowing him so well. For being able to tell when someone is lying to her. Tina is really no one important to him—he barely knows her, if at all. He spoke to her one time, and that was when David introduced her to him. They chatted for all of ten seconds. So he’s not exactly lying to Emma. But she thinks he’s blushing over the person sending him the texts. She doesn't know she is the one he is blushing over.

He's about to slip his phone into his pocket, but before he can, Emma grabs his arm with one hand and steals the device with her other one. She's so quick and smooth, he doesn’t have time to stop her.

Killian gulps as she checks his phone.

Her eyes light up with amusement when she sees the messages from Tina and reads them out loud. Then she looks up at him, raising her brow. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?”

Killian reaches over the table and plucks the phone from her hands with a heavy sigh. “She’s not my girlfriend. Your brother is trying to set me up with her.”

She picks up her strawberry daiquiri, knitting her brows in confusion. “Sounds like you’ve already hooked up with her.” She brings the glass to her lips, taking a sip as he watches her intently.

“We haven't even been on one date.”

She nods, lowering her drink as she swallows. “So, are you going over to her place?”

He wishes he could read minds right now because he can’t tell if she’s asking about Tina because she’s just curious or if she's asking because she’s jealous.

Definitely the first option, he thinks.

He shakes his head. “Of course not.” A small smile plays at his lips. “Why would I go to her place when I’m already with my favorite person in the entire world?”

Emma’s cheeks paint with blush as she sets her drink down and crosses her arms on the tabletop. “Because obviously you’d be getting laid.”

“Well, you know me, Emma. I’m too much of a gentleman to just go over to a woman’s home who I barely know and get my rocks off.”

She smirks and teases him playfully. “I know. So are you at least going to ask her on a date?”

He stares at Emma for a moment, trying to figure out how to properly answer her question without baring his soul to her. So he settles on a flat-out lie. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He hates this.

He hates not being able to tell his best friend he’s madly in love with her.

And he’d nearly blurted it out over an intense game of Mario Kart a few days ago.

“Fuck me!” Emma whines after losing another round against him and nearly throwing the controller across the room (she probably would have if David hadn’t plucked it from her hands).

Killian is busy trying to recover from her expletives and how her words had shot straight through him. He knows he should just keep his mouth shut, because, for one... her brother is in the room and two… well, he would very much like to take her up on that offer. No actually, he doesn’t want that, and that’s the problem. He wants so much more than that. He’s had so many fantasies about being with Emma, but they all involve things like taking her out on a proper date, holding her hand, kissing her, making love to her. So no, he doesn’t want to fuck her. He wants a future with her, one which involves being more than her best friend. Gods, he wants so much more than that. But he’s not willing to give up any less than what he already has. So, instead of revealing his true feelings, he covers them up with a playful quip. “Is that an invitation, love?”

The look she gives him makes his heartbeat quicken, one corner of her lips curving up into a shy smirk, her cheeks reddening as he feels David’s stare burning into him.

“Why? You offering?” she retorts.

Killian stares at his best friend in shock, his mouth slightly agape. “Maybe I a — ”

Before he can finish his reply, David threatens him with a deadly glare and cuts him off. “No, it’s not an invitation and no, he’s not offering,” he answers for both of them.

And that is one of the other reasons why Killian hasn’t had the guts to tell Emma how he really feels. Okay, it’s the main reason. Because not only could it destroy his friendship with her, but also his friendship with her brother.

Emma scowls at David and snatches the controller from his hands. “Who died and made you king?”

David mimics her in a whiny voice and Emma retaliates by shoving him in the arm.

“Ow!” He rubs the spot where she'd hit him, and sticks his tongue out at her. “Brat.”

She does it back. “Dork.”

Killian chuckles . He's always thouroughly entertained by their little sibling squabbles.

“One more game, Jones?” Emma asks him.

And that was that. They played another round, which she won, and neither of them spoke of the words exchanged that night.

Which makes tonight pretty awkward, considering it’s the first time Killian’s actually been alone with Emma since then. Well, if you consider sitting together in a booth at a crowded bar, alone. So to dial down the awkward tension between them, Killian keeps the drinks coming so the alcohol will ease the nerves in his stomach.

But the problem with alcohol is the effects it has.

The first one is giggliness.

Emma is adorable when she’s sober, but when she’s drunk, she is extra adorable. She can’t say three words in a row without giggling.

That effect, mixed with the second one, is bound to lead to things he’s not sure he’s prepared for. Especially not while they’re drunk.

Oversharing.

Not that they don’t already know everything there is to know about each other, but when he’s trying to keep his biggest secret from his best friend… well, that presents quite the problem when he’s drunk. At least he still has enough presence of mind to know how much to overshare.

“Must be nice to have women throwing themselves at you, Jones. I swear, if it wasn’t for my vibrator, I’d probably have cobwebs!” she exclaims over the noisy bar chatter.

Killian shudders at the images her confession is supplying him with. He’s certainly not imagining her using said vibrator. And he’s fairly certain she wouldn’t have to worry about cobwebs if she didn’t have a vibrator. Emma could have any man she wanted. He’s one of them. “I’m definitely not getting laid as often as you make it sound,” he retorts with a chuckle. “Or as much as I’d like to.”

“Please!” she snorts. “You could have your cock licked by every woman at this bar with a snap of your fingers if you wanted to.”

Testing her theory, he snaps his fingers and looks around. “Where are they, love?” Not that he has any interest to get his cock licked by anyone at this bar. Or anyone, really. Anyone except the gorgeous blonde sitting across from him with the most beautiful emerald green eyes he’s ever seen and a smile that sets his heart on fire as she bursts out laughing.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just being honest,” he says before draining the last of his rum.

She taps her empty glass with her nails. “One more round?”

He nods and raises his hand to summon the server.

“But first, I have to pee. My bladder is about to burst.” She rises from the booth, and he follows her with his eyes as she makes her way to the restrooms.

~*~

Emma’s a bit lightheaded as she leaves the ladies' room, but not nearly as much as she’s led on. She was hoping to drop hints to Killian without repelling him. But she’s afraid she’s completely failing. How does one exactly go about telling her best friend of five years she’s completely in love with him?

She has no fucking clue.

“I told you, Emma, you should try it!” Mary Margaret screeches through the phone.

“Why not? You’ll be able to see how interested he is without having to tell him how you feel to his face.”

“But what if he's not?”

“Oh Emma, do you really not know your best friend? He’s interested, trust me!”

“Has he said anything to you or David?”

“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in you. It just means he’s not interested in getting clocked in the face by your brother.”

“And if you’re wrong? Then what?”

Mary Margaret sighs. “If I’m wrong—which I’m definitely not—then you can just tell him you meant to send the text to someone else.”

“But who? I just told him I have an exclusive relationship with my vibrator.”

“Then maybe one of your past flings? I don’t know, Emma, you’ll come up with something. But I’m like one hundred and ten percent sure you won’t have to.”

Emma sighs in exasperation and defeat. “Fine, but if this ends badly, I’m only blaming you.”

She can almost hear her sister-in-law’s grin from the other line, even though she can’t see her. “Fine. If I’m wrong, I'll take full responsibility. In fact, if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you grilled cheese sandwiches every day for an entire year.”

Hmmm, that does sound appealing.“With onion rings?”

“I’ll buy you the whole freaking menu at Granny’s if you want.”

“Okay,” Emma laughs. “And if you’re right, what do you want?”

“If I’m right, I will already have everything I could possibly want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, besides your brother, obviously, the knowledge that you and Killian will live happily ever after, of course.”

Emma’s heart warms at her sister-in-law’s sentiment. If only love could be that simple. Just offer her heart to Killian and receive his in return. But this isn’t some fairytale or romance novel where the heroine rides off into the sunset with her handsome hero. This is real life. “Okay.” Suddenly the idea of what she’s about to do makes her heart flitter in panic. “So I’m actually doing this?”

“You’re doing this. And you won’t regret it. Now put on your big girl pants and go get your man.”

After they end the call, Emma lowers the phone from her ear and with shaky hands, pulls up her text conversations with Killian. She sucks in a deep breath and releases it slowly, her breath wobbly. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she types a text with shaky fingers, erases it, retypes it and repeats that cycle three more times before she’s satisfied with the message. At first, she didn’t want to send anything to Killian that she wouldn’t be able to defend and say it was meant for someone else. But then she thought, screw it. She can blame it on the alcohol.

For years, she’s been wanting to tell her best friend how she really feels about him, and when she finally scrounged up the courage to tell Mary Margaret, her sister-in-law suggested this hair-brained scheme she came up with after watching these trending Tik Tok videos of women sending their boyfriends or husbands dirty texts in public and recording their reactions. Since Killian isn’t her boyfriend or husband, Mary Margaret thought it would be a great idea to find out whether he likes her or not. Or rather, prove to a stubborn Emma he’s secretly in love with her.

Well, she’s about to find out. Here goes nothing...

She peers around the corner of the hallway entrance and does a quick check to make sure he didn't leave and go into the men's room or something. When she spots him across the room, still sitting at their booth, she sends off the text. Then she quickly pulls up the camera on her phone and starts recording, her heart pounding. It’s pounding so loud she can hear it in her ears over the loud music and boisterous bar chatter.

His phone lights up on the table and he sets down his tumbler to pick up the device.

Emma watches him with bated breath, hoping and praying this wasn’t a mistake. Hoping his reaction won’t be the same reaction he had when he received those texts from Tina. Emma had done her best to hide her emotions when she saw that skank’s text messages. She had to swallow her words and shove down her jealousy, but when she remembered that look of irritation written all over Killian’s face as he read those texts, she realized why he was irritated. Needless to say, she was relieved beyond belief.

Through her phone, Emma watches as Killian’s mouth falls open, his eyes big and wide as he stares at his screen.

Emma has no idea what he’s thinking right now, but she really wishes she did. Is he happy, excited, turned on? Or is he pissed off, disappointed, disgusted? She’s usually pretty good at reading her best friend, but right now it’s like trying to read a blank page.

He lifts his head and looks toward the restrooms, so she quickly retreats inside the hallway, keeping her phone in place so it’s still recording him. She presses her back against the wall, as though the opposite wall is closing in on her, and she’s trying to draw in as much air into her lungs before she’s suffocated to death.

Shit, shit, shit.

What if Mary Margaret’s plan didn’t work? What if Emma scared him away?

Cautiously and carefully, she turns her head and looks around the corner again.

To her utter horror, Killian is not in the booth.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why did she send him the text?

In panic mode, Emma brings her hand back and stops recording as she flattens against the wall again and contemplates shooting Killian another text saying she sent the text by mistake.

She starts typing out a message.

Emma: Sorry, that text was for someone else. Ooops, my bad.

But then she sees the text she'd sent and realizes she made it impossible to say it wasn’t meant for him because of what the text said.

Nope, she definitely can’t talk her way out of that one.

Before she can erase the message and type out how sorry she is, her phone is being slipped from her hands.

She’s about to lose her shit when she looks up and gasps as her eyes meet vivid blue ones.

Killian’s looking at her with a hungry—no, primal—stare.

And just like that, all of her oncoming anger melts away.

Emma can’t move. She can’t speak, she can’t even breathe. This man has impaired her ability to do anything other than stare back at him, waiting for him to speak. Her stomach is clenching and her heart is racing under the heaviness of his stare.

She doesn’t even give two flying fucks when he slips her phone into his pocket.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leans into her space and murmurs in her ear. “You said I could have any woman in the bar licking my cock at a snap of my fingers...” His voice is decadent and drops an octave when he speaks again. “What if I told you, you could have one man licking your pussy at the snap of yours?”

She gulps hard and just stares at him in shock. He’s joking, right? But she’s known him for five years and can’t detect a single trace of mocking in his words.

Without breaking her challenging stare, she lifts her hand.

And snaps her fingers.

Without hesitation or any preconceived thought, Killian takes her hand in his and leads her into the ladies' room, locking the door behind them. He backs her against the sink and draws her into his arms, a wave of desire so profound sweeping through her, it leaves her trembling in his muscular arms, clinging to his body like a lifeline. When he lifts her up and sets her on the edge of the sink, their mouths find each other, their lips moving with a need that burns like a fire inside them both. She slides her arms around his neck, her lips fused to his, her tongue swirling and exploring his mouth as her breasts are pressed deliciously against his chest.

Killian holds her flush against him, his tongue mingling with hers in a sensual ballet of lips and flesh that leaves them both panting. She moans softly into his mouth as he rubs at her back, squeezing one of her ass cheeks in his free hand.

She can’t believe she’s actually kissing Killian. Her best friend. And he is every bit the kisser she knew he would be. His tongue flicks against hers so expertly and he’s groaning, his guttural sounds vibrating through her, shivers running down her spine, her skin tingling all over. Her stomach is coiled in anticipation at the thought of that same tongue on her pussy.

Oh God.

She needs that tongue on her like she needs air to breathe. As much alcohol as she’s had, the only thing fogging her mind is the lust and pleasure coursing through her veins. She’s now drunk on something else entirely. And it’s on the man who is currently breaking the kiss and leaving her a panting, breathless mess as he slides his lips over her jawline and down her neck, the scruff on his chin scratching her so deliciously.

As she’s still trying to recover from that kiss—as if she could—she’s so glad she wore a dress tonight. As he leaves a trail of kisses along her collarbone, he pulls the straps down her arms, yanks down the top of her dress and pushes her black, lacy bra cups out of the way, exposing her breasts. As he’s admiring her naked breasts in wonderment, as he's squeezing them in his firm hands, making her nipples harden, she's admiring him and blushing profusely.

Fuck.

When he caresses a hard bud with his lips, Emma moans, and when he draws the same nipple into his mouth, she runs her hands through his hair, enjoying how soft and warm his mouth is against her sensitive skin, a breath exploding between her lips. He kisses his way to her other breast, giving the same treatment. She can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and it’s making her so much wetter than she already was. To her relief, he’s grabbing her dress and hauling it up her legs, seeking access she’s definitely willing to grant him. She helps him move the hem of her dress to her stomach, exposing her black, lacy thong. He leaves bruising kisses on her lower belly and inner thighs as he slides her panties off.

When he’s on his knees and his gorgeous face is between her thighs, he looks up at her, those intense blue eyes stealing her breath as he gently slides his lips up her leg, giving her time to push him away if she desired. A completely unnecessary precaution.

She leans back, gripping the edge of the sink as she drapes one leg over his shoulder and pushes him to her.

The soft, warm air of his chuckles hits her glistening folds and sends a shiver up her spine. “Patience, love.” He presses gentle kisses to her nub, her folds, and noses her slit, breathing in slowly, taking in her unique scent. Emma’s incapable of being patient, though; she can almost feel his tongue on her as he wraps his arms around her, urging her to lean back a little more so he has full access to her.

Finally, his tongue hits her flesh, taking a thorough exploration between her folds until he finds exactly what he’s searching for. She dips her head back, hitting the back of it against the mirror, her hands clutching at the top of his head for purchase. Her eyelids fall shut, soft moans pouring from her mouth as his tongue works so skillfully on her bundle of nerves. She opens her eyes so she can watch him as he licks her good and hard, and she lifts one of her legs to the edge of the counter so she’s spread out like a feast before him. She tugs gently on his hair, urging him closer and she can tell he doesn’t mind, because he's growling and puckering his lips, drawing her clit into his soft, warm mouth, making her tremble. It’s the most erotic thing she’s ever witnessed, and she’s wondering who’s enjoying this more, him or her.

When he glances up, his eyes are boring into hers, and she can feel him smiling against her folds when he sees how wrecked she is with her best friend’s tongue between her legs. Those sparkling blue eyes are piercing through her soul and she can’t find the strength to tear her gaze from his. It’s so fucking hot watching him eating her out. Watching him take his sweet time bringing her close to the very edge before pulling away and then bringing her back. It’s like watching the waves of the ocean moving in and lapping the shoreline before ebbing away. His tongue lapping her up and then withdrawing. In and out, in and out, over and over, increasing in intensity and speed each time, until she’s a complete mess, until she’s arching her back and fisting tufts of his hair and tugging him closer, begging for him to finish her off.

“Killian… please…” she moans breathlessly, helpless against the mirror and completely at his mercy.

The alcohol certainly doesn’t help; it had made her incredibly more horny. Meaning every inch of her is more sensitive. So, Killian suckling on her clit and lapping her up as if his life depends on it is bound to push her over the edge and make her crumble into a million pieces very soon.

And he does so effortlessly.

God, he does.

“Killian!” Emma screams, hoping the loud music and chatter of the bar are drowning out her sounds of ecstasy as she falls apart. She falls so hard, she’s thankful Killian’s hands are gripping her thighs, holding her in place, because otherwise she’d be on the floor right now. Literally.

When she comes back to reality, her body is still twitching. Killian is pressing soft, wet kisses to her nub and each of her thighs, and there’s fire in his eyes as he rises and sucks her essence off his fingers.

She can taste herself on his lips when he kisses her. And she melts again, arousal shooting through her once more. But as airy as she feels, she somehow musters the strength to push him back, fumble for his belt, tug down his pants and sink to her knees.

Holy hell.

His cock is glorious.

Thick and throbbing, pointing at her, almost beckoning her forward.

“Snap your fingers,” she says, smirking up at him.

He manages a grin and doesn’t argue.

When he snaps his fingers, she wraps her hand around his stiff length and strokes him slowly, a deep, soft moan escaping her lips. He feels fucking amazing in her hand.

He draws in a sharp breath when she kisses his velvety tip. Then she leans in and licks up his entire length, making him gasp.

“Good… Gods… Emma.”

His thick shaft is glistening with her saliva, and Killian bites his lower lip as he looks at her, trying to hold back the urge to lose himself too soon. She smiles, encouraged by his palpable excitement, and wraps her wet lips around his cock. The tip of him slides easily into her mouth, and she sucks on him greedily, bobbing her head a few times before removing her hand, grabbing his hips and taking him in deeper. Killian lets out a deep, guttural groan, reaching down to cup her cheeks in his hands. Emma hums gently around him while allowing his cock to slide back and forth past her lips, not enough to escape her mouth, but enough to build up some friction.

“Fu-uck! That feels incredible, love…” he groans, his voice completely wrecked.

The sounds of his breathing grow louder with each passing minute. Her arousal builds inside her again while she takes him deep, letting his belled tip almost slip free from her mouth before taking him in again. She can’t refrain from smiling around his cock, knowing she’s subjecting him to the same torture he put her through.

Emma massages his balls in her fingers and increases her speed, taking him into her mouth deeper and faster and harder. Killian’s hands are threading through her hair and he’s groaning loudly, thrusting his hips, seeking release. And she’s finally ready to give it to him. She moans around him and takes his perfect buttcheek in her free hand, taking him roughly, letting him fuck her mouth until his hot seed is spurting down her throat and he’s gripping her hair tightly and his legs are shaking.

“Gods, Emma… that was…”

The knock on the bathroom door pulls them both back to reality. Emma quickly swallows his cum down her throat and licks her lips as she rises. They reassemble themselves quicker than they would’ve preferred. They right their clothes, tame their hair and walk out of the restroom like everything’s perfectly normal, ignoring the looks they’re getting from the female patron who’s outside the door waiting to use the restroom.

Killian and Emma are laughing as he pays their tab and they’re still giggling as they stumble out of the bar.

They take an uber to Killian’s apartment and the keys he drops on the floor is only the beginning of the trail they leave behind as they make their way to his bedroom. A jacket, one shoe, Killian’s sweater, another shoe, another jacket, her bra, her dress, her wet panties… they don’t even break the kiss to fling their clothes to the floor, and their lips are still connected when they make it to the room and fall into Killian’s bed.

Emma can’t believe that after five years she’s finally making love to this man, making love several times in several different positions, and when they’re both completely sapped, their heads are falling against the pillows and he’s kissing the back of her hand and asking her on a date.

~*~

Once they're not both in bed or out on their first official date (they wait until they go back to her place to begin any more enjoyable activities this time), Emma finally gets to watch the video of Killian’s reaction to the dirty text she’d sent him two days prior.

And what she sees fills her with so much happiness, she can’t stop smiling.

And when she uploads the video on Tik Tok, it goes viral.

~*~

Killian sighs heavily into his hands. He’s such an idiot. He needs to just man up and tell Emma how he feels. But if it were really that easy, then he would’ve done it five years ago, right?

The sound of his phone vibrating against the table drags him from his reverie and he lifts his face from his hands and picks up his phone.

It’s a text message from Emma.

Emma: I have a confession. I didn’t actually have to pee. All that talk of licking your cock made me so wet. Made it difficult to sit across from you instead of crawling underneath the table and licking your cock.

Killian groans, his cock actually twitching when he reads her text.

Fuck.

He’s completely stunned. He doesn’t even know how to react or feel about her text. Is she serious? Is she joking? Is it the alcohol?

A million questions race through his mind and when he’s finally able to peel his eyes from his phone screen, he looks across the bar toward the restrooms. He’s half expecting to find her watching him from a distance to catch his reaction but she’s nowhere in sight. He looks at his phone again and reads her text again. A slow smile creeps across his lips at the thought of Emma crawling underneath the table to suck him off.

Bloody hell.

Suddenly he feels very warm and grabs the drink menu to fan himself. Did they turn on the heat in here?

He blows out a laden breath and slips the phone into his pocket, trying to recover from how turned on he is. The thought of Emma’s sweet, pink lips wrapped around his hard, aching cock makes him painfully hard. And he’s pretty sure his arousal is written all over his face. But he also wonders what this means.

Was she sending him an invitation?

Does she want him to take action? Is she wanting him to meet her in the restroom?

He’s not sure, but he’s not about to let this opportunity slip from his fingers. Killian sets down the menu, drags a hand through his hair and gets up before he can talk himself out of it.

Fuck.

Is he actually going to the ladies’ room to get his dick sucked?

Nah, while the thought of having Emma’s mouth on his cock is awfully enticing, he has other ideas in mind.

As he approaches the hallway, he can see Emma on her phone. He suddenly becomes nervous and completely terrified.

Holy hell.

Is he actually doing this?

He keeps moving his feet, breaking through his stubborn wall of fear that’s held him back all this time. He breaks through the wall of anxiety and nerves that have weighed him down.

He takes another deep breath, steps into her space and snatches the phone from her hand, hoping and praying this isn’t a huge mistake.

If it was a mistake, then it was the best mistake he’s ever made. Because not only does he get to be with his best friend—the woman of his dreams—but her brother doesn’t completely hate him. David wasn't happy at first, but he’s slowly getting used to the idea of his best buddy dating his sister.

And Mary Margaret is overjoyed. But she's been acting very peculiar ever since he began dating Emma. Every time they meet Mary Margaret and David for lunch, the petite brunette always says without fail, “Guess what time it is?” After Emma shakes her head and rolls her eyes, Mary Margaret always has the same answer to her own question: “It’s time for you to buy your own grilled cheese sandwich and onion rings.”

Which is strange because, being the gentleman his mum raised him to be, he always foots the bill whenever he takes Emma out to eat.

What's even more puzzling is that Mary Margaret suddenly stops saying it after a year.

David's wife sure is an odd one.

Tagging: @itsfabianadocarmo @ilovemesomekillianjones @onceuponaprincessworld @teamhook @resident-of-storybrooke @searchingwardrobes @gingerchangeling @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @artistic-writer @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @superchocovian

Sorry if I missed anyone, I’m very sleepy at the moment and have a long, early day tommorrow, so I’m posting this before I sleep.

#captain swan #cs ff #onceuponaprincessworld #dirty text challenge #cs smut #my fic

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ourimpavidheroine · 4 years ago

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You've given us your favorite records, so how about your favorite movies?

Okay, sure! Under a cut though, because it’s long.

In no particular order!

Strictly Ballroom (1992)

Oh my god, one of the funniest movies ever made. Every single thing about this movie makes me laugh out loud - in fact, I laughed so loud in the theater when I saw it the first time I’m surprised they didn’t kick my ass out. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched and re-watched it. My late wife and I used to quote this film back and forth to each other all the time.

“Arms, Clary!”

“That was unexpected.”

“I’ve got my happy face on today!”

There’s a lovely little romance going on and a quote that I live by:

A life lived in fear is a life half lived.

Thank you, Baz Luhrmann.

Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Screwball comedy romance with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn. Still funny, over 80 years later. Mistaken identities, a harrassed archeologist and a clueless rich girl, so on and so forth. If you watch it, you will see shades of Wu and Sayuri in Susan, for sure. (And some Zu in David.) The comedic timing of this movie is sheer and utter perfection. Not a single beat wasted. Brilliant, the entire thing.

Moonstruck (1987)

God, what isn’t there to love about this movie? CHER. A woman coming up on middle age who has settled into widowhood without a whimper decides to marry a man she’s fond of for no other reason than she thinks she should meets the fiance’s younger brother and her entire life goes, as her Italian Catholic mother says in the middle of church, “...down the toilet.” This movie was handled with so much love and care, it deserved its Oscars. If you’ve never seen it, you should.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

I saw this movie the one and only time I visited the States after I moved to Finland. I had left my wife here in Finland but had my 20 month old autistic twins along and my mother was being beyond horrible to me and I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. There was one afternoon where my favorite uncle came to me, gave me his car, and told me he was going to watch the kids and for me to go out and have a breather. I decided to see a movie - I can’t remember which one - but the paper had gotten the time wrong and it had already started by the time I got there. I asked the woman selling tickets what she recommended that was coming up and she very fervently told me to go and see this one.

Still one of the best movies I have ever seen. The acting is so subtle, so beautiful, and the scenery! The ending broke me, just shattered me into a million pieces. Years later, when my wife died, I knew exactly that feeling of desperately wanting to go back in time and somehow do it all right and all I can say is, both Michelle Yeoh and Zhang Ziyi get all of my love forever for doing it the way they did.

I bought it when it finally came out on DVD with English subtitles and I made my late wife watch it with me and she sobbed at the end and told me I was cruel for making her watch it. (Guess what, babe? You were crueler for making me live it.)

The Handmaiden (2016)

Normally I am not all that keen on books being made into movies. I fucking loved Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith and wasn’t sure about it being taken out of its Victorian England setting into 1930′s Korea but oh my god I have never been happier to have been proved wrong in my life. THIS FILM. Listen, it is one of those rare times when a book and an adaptation can stand next to each other, equally as good, equally as strong, despite the differences. There is so much to unpack about women’s experiences with sex and how that compares to how men dictate those experiences to them and the movie never drops the ball with this. Frankly, I had seen Oldboy and Snowpiercer (among others) and I really did not think Park Chan-wook had it in him and shame on me for that.

Warning: this movie is HOT.

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

This is a damn good movie. Charlize Theron elevates anything she is in, and as Furiosa - dirty, grim, disabled, clinging on to tattered hope with desperation - she just takes this film to another level. Plenty of other good performances - including Tom Hardy, who’s never afraid to drop himself into a role - and some frankly astonishing editing work by Margaret Sixel as well as a male director who understands, deeply, how to film women without subjecting them to the male gaze. This is not a schlock film, despite the franchise it belongs in. It’s good.

I saw this film the night before my wife died; the last time I spoke to her on the phone I told her that I’d take her with me to see it again, I knew she’d like it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to separate this film from that loss, but that’s how it goes sometimes. Still wish you could have seen it, babe. You would have loved it.

The Great Race (1965)

Is this a great movie? Not critically speaking, although Jack Lemmon is brilliant, as he almost always is. Rather, it was a movie my father and I loved together, and I have so many good memories of watching it with him whenever it would play on TV (these were the years before VHS even, never mind Netflix) and eating popcorn and laughing together.

We loved the huge pie fight scene so much that on my 16th birthday my father bought 3 dozen store bought pies, defrosted them and/or baked them (with the help of our neighbor, who was in on the secret) and he woke me up that morning, told me to get dressed and come outside, and he got me with a pie to the face right as I walked out the door and the two of us chased each other, throwing and dodging pies, making an unholy mess, slipping and sliding all over our deck and driveway, stumbling and laughing hysterically.

It is one of the best memories in my life. How many other girls can say their fathers gave them a pie fight for their sweet sixteen? This movie makes me laugh and, more importantly, remember my father with so much love.

The Fellowship of the Ring (2001)

I did love all three of these films. Were they perfect? No. (I am still salty about Faramir’s entire movie arc and the fact that Merry was just Pippin 2.0 instead of the distinct character he was in the books.) But they were made with so much love and heart by people who loved and cared deeply for the source material. And they were astonishing in scope as well. Just glorious to see in the theater.

I first read those books when my father lent me his copies when I was eight and they were a vital part of my growing up; to see Peter Jackson and his entire cast and crew love them as much as I did was genuinely special for me.

The other two films are just as good with some astonishing moments (Billy Boy’s last minute song in The Return of the King still gives me goosebumps) but this was the first one, and just remembering holding my wife’s hand as we both gasped together over the scope of it was a memory I will keep with me always.

When my wife and I went to see this one here in Finland I was pregnant with my twins and I was like, oh my god, please die already Boromir because were twins on my bladder and I knew if I didn’t get to a toilet soon it was going to be all over. (It was a long movie without a pee break for a pregnant person, let me just say.) I was never happier for a tragic end to a movie in my life, LOL.

The Matrix (1999)

Dude. Dude. Just the concept of this movie. The Wachowski sisters have never limited themselves and that’s what makes them so different and so exciting. One of the greats of Sci Fi and, as far as I am concerned, one of the greats bar none. Yeah sure, I know it isn’t a critical darling but lord, I am not a film critic, just someone who loves movies. And I love this one.

(And excuse you, Elon and the rest of you alt-right men’s groups, you dicks, for appropriating the whole blue/red pill thing: it’s a concept from two trans sisters, so fuck right off with that.)

My best friend, who saw it with me the first time (I took my late wife to see it later in the year when she arrived in the States) laughed at the whole little kid with spoon scene. That’s like listening to you, she said. I never know what is going to come out of your mouth or whether I’ll understand it in the moment but it will eventually make sense to me. Which pretty well sums me up, I think. And this movie as well.

The Piano (1993)

There is a moment, in this gorgeous, deeply beautiful, aching film, where Harvey Keitel fingers a small hole in Holly Hunter’s stocking and it is the most erotic heterosexual thing I have ever seen. Trust a woman director to understand why women would love this. There’s Harvey Keitel’s character: older, soft around the middle, barely literate, covered with traditional facial tattoos. He’s nobody’s idea of hot. But he understands what this woman in particular needs, understands what she is telling him without words, and that’s what he gives her and it is erotic beyond measure. It’s not about what he looks like; it’s about how he understands her.

Holly Hunter does this movie without speaking a single word or getting any subtitles and short of a few brief translations by Anna Paquin playing her young daughter still manages to express herself. It’s brilliant acting. (And look, I know - today we’d look for an actress who was mute to play the role, and rightfully so. It still doesn’t take away from Hunter’s performance.)

Ada drowned in the original script but Jane Campion changed it at the last minute when filming and it was the right choice. The absolute right choice. Ada deserves her freedom and her chance to pursue her own happiness.

#my favorite movies #personal #Anonymous

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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“...In the efforts of girls to be good and repress self, diaries seem to have had a moderating effect. Certainly keeping a diary which recorded successes and failures along the road to virtue was an additional incentive to be good. A success could be recorded and celebrated. At the same time, an always-listening, never-judging diary was something of a tonic. Girls who talked enough about their efforts to be good availed themselves of a simplified version of the ‘‘talking cure’’ which would soon be used by Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer with middle-class Viennese girls. (The disproportionate number of adolescent or late-adolescent females in Freud and Breuer’s early work, and indeed the role of hysteria in their formulation of psychoanalysis, corroborates the special salience of language therapy for Victorian girls.)

…Within their diaries, girls assiduously recorded their efforts to be better— echoing, internalizing, and ultimately softening parental imperatives. Just as diaries moderated parental dictates, they mediated parental identifications. As the critic and analyst Katherine Dalsimer suggests, diaries proved to be revisited ‘‘transitional objects’’ useful in the processes of adolescent separation. No other metaphor quite captures the depth of attachment which girls sometimes demonstrated to their ‘‘darling’’ diaries than that analogy to the anthropomorphic blanket or teddy bear of early childhood.

Within vessels chartered and christened by parents, Victorian girls embarked on imaginative journeys which did not threaten to take them too far from home. Though often received from parents as gifts, diaries nonetheless granted more freedom than parents did. In diaries, girls could take on new attachments without abandoning old reliances. Thus when Margaret Tileston went away to boarding school and developed a crush on an older girl, she recorded it in her diary—as well as the news that she had just written a twelve-page letter to her mother, ‘‘the longest letter I ever wrote.’’

And when Helen Hart fell in love with her cousin, she confessed to her diary the prolonged anguish. Such confessions to diaries replaced those to parents—but with parents’ informal acquiescence. The diary was thus a tool for legitimating the ongoing reorientation of girls from parents to peers. Often the diary’s role in this transition was not symbolic at all, but quite concrete. Like rolling hoops, diary keeping was a late-Victorian recreation which girls sometimes shared with friends. Mary Boit and her cousins hid secrets in each other’s diaries, sometimes simply for the fun of the surprise alone.

In fact, the playful fabrication of different personae in diaries was an engrossing amusement within Victorian friendships. Girls described writing diaries together in their rooms, on New Year’s Eve, at boarding school, and even in the park. Shared diary keeping, of course, carried more possibilities than rolling hoops for emotional experimentation, and diaries often became actors in the friendships themselves. Girls frequently wrote about each other, producing provocative documents that became the stuff of suspicion and intimacy. Writing diaries became a way of confessing, protecting, or creating secrets too private for speech.

…For the same reasons that parents might encourage their daughters to write to them—as a way of communicating without the embarrassment of face-to-face expression—girls might use their diaries among themselves. Writing channeled unseemly emotions. That seemed sometimes to be the point of girls’ diaries. Self-governance was expected in feeling no less than conduct, and the diary could prove both a convenient receptacle for—and an incitement to—emotional spillover. In addition to moderating harsh norms and mediating new allegiances, a girl’s diary could inspire and then compartmentalize confusing emotions.

Almost all diaries contained at least one moment of a confessional nature—sometimes crossed out, sometimes written down the spine in minute handwriting, sometimes just left dangerously on the page. For some the diary’s primary purpose seemed to be to provide a safe ground for documenting, exploring, and disciplining nascent sexuality. Victorians strictly limited open expressions of sexuality, but as Michel Foucault persuasively argues, diaries dramatically encouraged discourse about sexuality.

Precocious sexuality was both most censured and most discussed—an adult secret imperfectly kept from adolescents themselves. Harriet Burton’s diary, written between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, is a document ‘‘saturated’’ with desire. Initially, when she embarked on her diary at the age of thirteen in 1887, she was reticent: ‘‘I find it rather hard to confide all my ‘inmost soul’ to a journal for my ‘inmost soul’ is— very inmost!’’ But before long, she had discovered the purpose for which she came to rely on her diary—what she would later call her ‘‘de-praving—deep raving.’’

Although she felt that her passion could not be ‘‘natural’’ for anyone her age and imagined ‘‘how anyone would laugh, how greatly amused they would be at the mere idea of a ‘mere-child’ of fourteen—loving,’’ she found her feelings ‘‘sweet’’ and despaired at the difficulty of doing them justice— of keeping them from seeming ‘‘small and weak.’’ Such self-descriptions as this passage after her arrival for a summer visit in Oneonta, New York, are as of one crazed:

‘‘I am in a very hilarious frame of mind today, and can hardly curb my prancing spirits enough to ‘wright’ as this scrawl bears witness. My silvery voice has been heard at all hours of the day rolling forth in diabolical waves of laughter, and striking terror into the souls of the inhabitants of the house. My mind is so filled with plans which wont come true that I’m nearly crazy. My emotions for other people . . . become so conflicting that they brake from the narrow bounds of my inner man and find vent in a mad race around the house.’’

Despite her descriptions elsewhere of complete freedom for outdoor escapades of all kinds, Harriet Burton described herself here as a confined hysteric, very much within the mode of the ‘‘madwoman in the attic’’ of gothic romances. Her confinement was clearly metaphoric, a fictive imprisonment of impulse within fragile shell. As in much of women’s gothic literature, Burton saw herself as really two people—a passionate inner self and an outer mask, ‘‘a placid calm expression of contentment on my face.’’ And she lamented ‘‘how dreadful has [providence] been in giving no times of solitude times which the soul may assert itself and the face throw off the mask, and break out and away from conformity and be itself.’’

In this context, Burton equated her authentic self and her sexuality. For Harriet Burton, the only place where her passion could be confessed—with all its inadequacies—was in her diary. ‘‘It seems so ridiculous and sentimental to think of writing in a journal, and I would not for anything have anyone know that I keep one,’’ she wrote. ‘‘But I will confess it to myself it is a sort of comfort to sit and write, although it is only talking to myself, and it is often putting down in black and white the things I most despise myself for.’’

…After a many-paged reverie of unfocused fantasy, Harriet Burton checked herself with her own ‘‘will and good sense’’: ‘‘The wisest thing that I can do is to go and duck my head into cold water, eat something then go downtown where I can see plenty of faces, real ones, then come home study my latin—real latin, then go to bed, a real bed,—to real sleep, get up in the morning eat a real breakfast, go to school make some real recitations, by that time I may be in the realms of reality and common sense!’’”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Writing and Self-Culture: The Contest Over the Meaning of Literacy.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #sexuality #american #gender #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls

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lady-plantagenet · 4 years ago

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What hasn’t already been said: The Spanish Princess 2

Episode 3: GOOD Grief! (we finally have a good episode on our hands)

To all those of you keen enough to have come back for another segment of ‘what hasn’t already been said: TSP’, as opposed to have just been scrolling when you see this - welcome back! (Scrollers you too <3)

Drawing of Thomas More’s Son AKA who Margaret Pole at this point wants to be the step baby momma of ;).

To anyone who’s seeing this for the first time: what this is a list of observations, jokes, reactions and criticism which occur to me upon a rewatch. I wait every week until Saturday to do this so that I have had my fill of scrolling through the tag and aggregating what has already been said. I tried doing a whole spoof (here where I gave up 10% in) but tbh a) I don’t know the history well enough b) it’s more time consuming than I thought and c) this series is just not as funny or as crazy as TWQ, so it’s untenable. Having said that: This is not a hatepost. I’m not hatewatching this series and nitpicking on purpose but expressing my honest views and trying to find the good in it as well as the bad.

Without further ado...

First Scenes:

LMAO the way Wolsey suggests they break their alliance with Spain is freaking hilarious because the actor delivers the lines as if he were a high school girl making a personal attack by suggesting the prom change its theme to 70s disco to the chagrin of the peppy up-and-coming rival.

Also @ Henry VIII looking like the peppy up-and-comer’s bff and shy stan with that pencil bite and small smirk when Catherine loses her cool against Wolsey.

I’m sorry... who is Henry married to again?

Also what is Margaret Pole doing at the council meeting?? I’m not saying I don’t like it.

Margaret Pole warning against certain repetitive thinking creating madness :(((

Attempted Naked Twister:

Oh Catherine, what is with you and all the other STARZ protagonists and that weird politcky bedroom talk? Who actually finds this sexy?

‘Catherine you are unnatural’ ooof that line delivery was somehow haunting.

Was the whole ‘I can’t be rushed you are off-putting with your overpowering’ a callback to Arthur and Catherine? Apparently there’s another writer for this episode so I won’t put all subtly past them.

Scotland:

‘Shitey men’ asdkjashd

Look I’m tired of all this ‘my children won’t be safe’ line getting repeated. Look mate, murder of royal infants and children was not exactly a common occurence, even in cases of deposition. The Princes in the Tower are an exception to this but a very infamous case for that reason. Child murder was extremely taboo. In situations like this with an infant kid, no one is going to bother murdering the babies and taking their thrones, the lords will just vie for power and make themselves de facto rulers and oust the queen. It’s not a question of safety but a question of holding power. Stop giving all women characters perma mummy brains.

Maggie being all caring:

‘Barnaby’ *scoffs* ‘Such an English name’ - OH MAN 0_0 is Catherine mocking them for trying to adapt ? Like I know it’s meant to show her envy for Lina, but it’s coming out all messed up.

Our girl Maggie’s smile screams I’m beating your ass in chess.

Anyhow this is the least histrionic we’ve seen Catherine so far.

Chaplain vs Catherine:

I’m interested how Catherine will feel at Stafford’s execution given that I have noticed this show build up to a friendship between them.

Why is everyone laughing at the whole ‘will you delight us with new schemes’ line was not that funny?

LMAO at Thomas Boleyn’s attempted brown-nosing.

You know what? Ruairi is a decent actor. When he says ‘so you admit it? you lost the child because you tried to be a man?” the actor conveys Henry’s troubled mind, lowkey scare towards Catherine and bewilderment all in one. The way his eyes do not move but just widen emotionlessly also gives this sense that he is being manipulated (which I guess they are going for with Wolsey). Then the whole choir music in the background.. I don’t know.. I’m liking this, it’s creating a vibe of a king of haunted and increasingly paranoid Henry. I’m sure they are going for that, so good.

Ursula Pole and Mama:

Maggie Pole say ‘riches don’t keep you safe’ with tears in her eyes :’(. Please tell me how this is not her thinking on her parents and granddad Warwick and what befell them ;’(.

I find Ursula refreshing actually, don’t get those types of heroines often. But they are making her similar to a gold-digger, an exhalted marriage was first and foremost considered a thing of honour. Noblepeople wouldn’t speak in such mercenary terms regarding their marriages.

Post Mary Defiance:

I love the ‘horse’ nickname from Brandon n’awwww

Also just realised what made TWQ so atmospheric - that wierd ‘oooo’ sound effect in the background when a character was being paranoid or worrying. They are using it during Henry’s ‘How is it that I have no sons?’ and it is just... so effective.

Catherine calling them ordinary children... she just keeps striking me as more and more classist. Like ok, I know every royal was... but still, I thought she was meant to see Lina as a friend and equal despite her race and status. To add the race element, this kind of rubs me the wrong way.

Also it is so clear by the end when Catherine states how the king is upset with her, she expects Maggie to ask her about it.. but she doesn’t lmao.

Back to Scotland until Sexy boy fencing:

I love me this soft boi. Angus <3 <3

I like how they address that some men don’t really like killing and that violence isn’t inherent in a man’s nature.

Oh man, are we supposed to look at Lina’s house and deplore the impoverished conditions? It would go for at least 3,000,000 pounds in today’s property market?

Is Catherine being particularly classist again with ‘Why u not becoming a butcher Wolsey, ey?’.

Though I will admit the ‘but giving meat to the poor is also good’ was one of her only smart comebacks.

Just realised, Catherine’s pink dress pretty as it is, looks straight out of the 1570s... why?

Montage and After:

You guys are right, there is this weird longing between Henry and Wolsey lmao. It is actually insane.

So basically Catherine is officially depressed

OOOFF we have Stafford as regent instead of Catherine. (edit: I suppose it’s cause they go to France which they didn’t historically? Also if Stafford is at home then what is his son later doing in France, why would he be there without his father. This show didn’t think this through)

Meg Singing:

An impassionate speech is not too anachronistic. But despite the title of this post (what hasn’t been said) I will reiterate that 16th century and Medieval people’s problem wasn’t that they were ashamed of their grief and didn’t cry. In fact, crying was somewhat more socially acceptable then than it even is now! Even manly men like Arthur were written as crying in literature such as Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Obviously you couldn’t go overboard, but in truth crying was indeed often too performative rather than hidden too much behind doors.

Pole and More UWUWU in France and after:

I LIKE THIS INTELLECTUAL FLIRTING

It’s nice to see a depiction of romantic feelings between mature and level-headed subjects.

God Mary Tudor is so beautiful in this scene jesus. and the music when she was being presented was also very beautiful.

Maggie Pole getting given ‘a modest income’ yeah... she was one of the wealthiest peers of her day.

Also Maggie’s lady cousin not lady aunt Frost!

‘shaking of the sheets’ lmaoooo

William Compton cracks the hell out of me. I love this guy. He is just so creepy and twisted yet super keen and friendly. ahaha He looks like a riot, I hope we see him more. lmao tiles.

Also this palace feels very anachronistic almost 18th century-ish.

I like the Louis and Mary sequence, it’s nice seeing him trying to make her feel less scared, but OMFG when he lay on that chair.. for one second I thought they were trying to kill him off already.

Scotland: ‘Love is an open doooooorrrrr’ + Last Scene:

I ship Meg and Douglas ahhhh this soft boi x strong woman match is everything Henry and Catherine could have been.

I wonder... why is Lina speaking in Spanish more than Catherine. hmmm Are they trying to foreshadow Lina’s eventual return home and how Catherine become a true englishwoman?

Conclusion:

7.5/10

I cannot in all fairness believe it. This was actually decent. I’ve given up on historical accuracy long ago so by this point I’m focusing more on how it stands as as drama. I mean, TWQ was also a flop when it came to grasping the complex issues of that era but why do I feel compelled to rewatch it every year? Because it had atmosphere when it came to acting, music, certain aesthetics (though the costumes let me down often). It felt adequately gothic and dark, yet bright and jewel-lish when it had to be, sometimes both at the same time. Some one-liners were also memorable etc...

So far TSP 2 did not have any of this. Everything felt way too off and anachronistic. But not even consistently anachronistic. The music was also often very meh (though I just noted the absence of the spanish stringy theme that kept playing in season 1 - I guess I understand why), the dialogue very clichéd (‘alright lads let’s throw in the words: king, crown, power, fight, battle + other buzzwords and we have ourselves Shakespeare’) and so on... but I saw a change in this episode and I couldn’t initially point out what it was.

Upon rewatch, I identified some of the improvements (noted above) but above all: The producer was different! Boy does it show. Unfortunately, I think she is only for this one episode which really sucks. Come back! There is more chemistry between the couples, less predictable interactions, pervy Compton, cinnamonroll Douglas, better music, more scenic shots (e.g Douglas and Margaret in church) e.t.c. I hope it will match the rest of the STARZ productions in getting better towards the end.

Look it’s no masterpiece. But I’ll give credit where it’s due because at least this time it didn’t leave me feeling wanting and unsatisfied (if that makes sense).

#the spanish princess #the spanish princess 2 #lady plantagenet's series reviews #catherine of aragon #henry viii #mary tudor queen of france #margaret tudor #charles brandon #margaret pole

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symbolismsandmotifs20 · 4 years ago

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The power of nature in Mina Loy’s Songs to Joannes. A force to be reckoned with.

(Reading time: 3 minutes)

What does it mean to be a modern, liberated woman in contemporary society?

There is a vast ocean of different definitions which try to capture the essence of a liberated woman but there is one which sticks out for me, and that is by Mina Loy.

Alex Goody perceived Loy as an 'modernist icon' , as she is one of the most prominent female rights activists of the 20th century. Loy famously rebukes the traditional stance of what women’s true identity is through her works, yet her writing style is complex and sometimes difficult to decipher. However, what is apparent is Loy’s symbolism of nature that reinstates female liberation within her collection of poems, Songs to Joannes published in 1917.

According to Loy, women have been conditioned throughout history into believing that to live a worthy life they must be loved by a man. She writes in her stunningly empowering 1914 Feminist Manifesto that ‘Women must destroy in themselves, the desire to be loved’. So, is this the answer for women’s liberation? That we should deny ourselves a seemingly natural wish to be loved?

This appears a little hasty and radical in some respect. But once I read the collection of poems, Loy satirically criticises conventional romantic relationships. From the lessons she learned from her failed relationship with futuristGiovanni Papini, Loy re-orientates women-hood and self-determination by steering women’s worth away from male-validation and empowers them through mother nature. According to Margaret Konkol, Loy establishes an alternate ‘female response to heterosexual romance through a new vision of nature’.

Poem XIX is a perfect example of how nature can re-establish female independence and identity. In the first stanza, the ‘Pollen smelling/ Space’ allows the woman to use the environment as her own and create her own identity within it.

(Photo by Yves Sinoir on Unsplash)

By being in her own space, she can detach herself from the social constructs which have been imposed on her, leaving her with only her natural senses. The senses that Loy references in the second stanza, ‘Of slaking/ Drinkable/ Through fingers’, permits the woman to adopt an ‘identification with the nonhuman world’ and establishes a new form of self-knowledge.

In the fourth stanza, the speaker addresses a lover; ‘You too/ Had something/ At that time’. Here shows how the lover once had control over the woman’s identity, seen in poem VIII as Loy refers to the man as a God-like figure; ‘Behind God’s eyes’, but then lost it after her rekindled relationship with the natural world. This is further emphasised by the dashes after the fourth stanza, where the lover’s control was ‘slowly drenched’ by the natural forces of the rain.

Loy’s free verse structure within her poems doesn’t follow the traditional rules of poetry as she experiments with marginalised women’s writing. Loy expressively throws in her own disruptive style by denying the conventional Georgian style of poetry which at the time would be written predominantly by men.

For example, we see in XXVI Loy emphases ‘to nature/ ---that irate pornographist’ by the bold use of dashes. She compares woman to nature as being viewed by a ‘pornographist’. In other words, Loy exposes the objectifying ‘gaze’ of the lover as he deems women, with these ‘slit eyes’, as passive and as commodities.

For Loy, in the existing patriarchy, the male ‘gaze’ is a function of desire women seek from men. Within her poems she emphasises that women should instead strive for their natural state, which is being authentic and true to themselves, irrespective of men’s approval. In section XXX, Loy writes ‘For the blind eye/ That Nature knows us with’, here shows that nature is the only space that is wholly unjudgmental and unconfining. This space of nature that ‘is green’ promises freedom and individuality, where women can feel fully liberated.

So, back to our original question. What does it mean to be a modern, liberated woman? It seems that, according to Loy, we must separate ourselves, as women, from the material world that is plagued by misogyny and unrealistic expectations. By shedding these confining pressures, we can return to our own identity through the lens of nature.

#mina loy #poetry #symbolism #nature #feminism #mother nature #women's empowerment #liberation

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slippinmickeys · 5 years ago

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Fairies, Skip Hence

This is my pic for the 2019 X-Files Secret Santa fic exchange. It was written for @msrafterdark, who’s prompt was “Soft early MSR, maybe a small gathering at the Scullys in which Mulder is invited. I'm a sucker for where Mulder and Scully are trying to find equlibrium in their new relationship.”

Observing her from the passenger seat, she looked nervous, tense, eyes focused on the road like high beams. Her sharp little bob was perfectly coiffed, and she was wearing the bra and panty set (he’d been there when she put them on) that made her walk more upright. He thought of them as her Confidence Boosters, though it wouldn’t do to tell her that--she’d roll her eyes at the double meaning and never wear them again.

Hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, knuckles almost white.

He’d loved her for years, and knew she felt the same. They’d been Pyramus and Thisbe, speaking words of love through walls of their own making. It was only recently that those walls had come down, and he knew she felt unsteady, was still finding her footing. He didn’t know how the next few days would go, but he did know one thing: she still wasn’t sure about this.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She still wasn’t sure about this. Mulder was coming to Christmas at her mother’s house.

She wouldn’t even be dealing with it if they’d been slightly more discreet and a lot more awake--he’d accidentally answered her phone at 8am on Thanksgiving when Maggie had called to asked Dana to bring an ingredient she’d forgotten. When Mulder had handed her the phone (they really needed to figure out what side of the bed they were each going to take, and leave phones ONLY on their own side), he’d looked both chagrined and pleased, and her irritation had given way to mortification when she’d heard the tone of her mother’s voice.

“Good morning, Dana. Was that… Fox?” she’d asked, her voice full of hope and barely concealed delight.

For all his foibles and for as much as her older brother hated him, her mother had

always had a soft spot for Mulder. “Fox and I have been through a lot together, Dana,” she would always say.

One grandchild was all Margaret Scully had, and the prospect of more--however they might come into the world--would sustain her. A man--any man, really, but this one in particular (Scully had reluctantly told her mother about the IVF failure earlier in the summer)--answering her daughter’s phone at dawn on a holiday was surely cause for celebration and hope.

Scully had steadfastly refused to bring him along that day, their relationship being so new, so she really ought not to have been surprised when Mulder told her a week or two later that Maggie Scully had called him herself to invite him to join the family at Christmas.

She’d pinched the bridge of her nose when he’d asked her what she thought he should bring.

And that was how they’d found themselves bright and early on Christmas Eve, driving north through quickly accumulating snow with a backseat full of gifts, a half case of wine and increasingly jangly nerves.

“We do stockings on Christmas Eve,” Scully said out of nowhere, her fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” Mulder said, clearly wondering where she was going with this.

“Just a warning,” she went on.

“Okay,” Mulder repeated.

“Bill is going to be there.”

“You’ve mentioned that several times.”

“And Tara and Matthew, and Charlie is home on leave,” she went on.

“Right.”

“I’m not sure where Mom will want us to sleep. She might put us in separate rooms.”

“So sex only clandestinely in the bathroom,” Mulder joked.

“Mulder!”

“Scully, I’m kidding. Relax, it’s going to be fine.”

She gave him an extremely skeptical look.

“Please no sex jokes in front of my family.”

“Noted,” he said, and then, “I grew up with a full Emily Post upbringing, Scully, I promise I can comport myself.”

Her mother knew she and Mulder were together now, which meant that so did everyone else. She worried she’d be treated differently. She worried Mulder would be treated differently. She and Mulder weren’t exactly “public,” so she worried she’d treat him differently. Everything was so new. God, would he kiss her in front of her family? Would she want him to? What if she wanted him to? Seven years of saying we’re just friends to her family was a hard habit to break. She’d rather do Christmas with the Gunmen, she thought, as she took her mother’s exit off 95. She’d rather see Frohike in nothing but a Santa hat.

She sighed dramatically.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she said.

She thought, it’s everyone else. It’s Bill. It’s me.

Mulder reached over the console and tried to rub the tension out of her neck.

His touch fortified her as it always did. Maybe it would all be okay. Maybe.

XxXxXxXxXxX

They made it through the lekking ground of the entryway, Bill and Charlie gathered to alternately dole out hugs and stiff handshakes laced with polite menace. Charlie winked at her as he shook Mulder’s hand.

Tara met them at the threshold with glasses of spiked eggnog, which Scully downed half of instantly, gratefully.

They made small talk in the kitchen with Tara and her mother, while Matthew scooted around on the floor, running a Brio train over everyone’s shoes. Mulder offered to make his legs a tunnel for the boy, and she saw both other Scully women’s eyes crinkle at the corners, charmed.

The man could charm anything but bees, she thought.

Scully couldn’t help but be thrown by his presence amongst her family, his dark minky hair and his Fortean job, all out of context amidst the buttoned up Naval fortitude of the Scullys, with their fair hair and their strict adherence to protocol.

He looked and sounded relaxed, as did the rest of her family, but she couldn’t unclench. He reached for her several times and she didn’t reach back.

Her mom caught her eye from across the room and gave her a questioning look.

She ducked into her mother’s quiet den not long after that, pulling Mulder rather reluctantly behind her. The room was much the same as it had been when it had been her dad’s office: still smelled of leather and old books. Naval charts hung on the walls. She took a moment to center herself.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked her.

She turned to him.

“I was going to ask you the same,” she said.

He cocked her a half-grin.

“This is not my first too-hard handshake, Scully. I can handle myself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.

“I’m the prince of subtlety,” he said, “I plan to challenge Bill to a game of one-on-one and throw an elbow.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose again. She’d been doing it a lot lately.

“The guy plays like Bill Lambeer, Scully,” he said, continuing to push her, “you can just tell. It’ll be completely justified.”

She didn’t rise to the bait and instead stepped into him, close.

“Everything is different now,” she said, nervously, and he sobered.

“Nothing is different now,” he replied as he moved in to kiss her forehead, then leaned down to catch her eye, “absolutely nothing is.”

She knew he meant that they had always had love between them, fierce and unconditional.

She nodded at him, her face softening, “but everything is all out of context here and it’s already throwing me for a loop.”

It was probably as honest and forthright as she had ever been with him. He decided right then to be on his best behavior.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose as he backed out of the room, “come on, let’s go be social.”

She glanced at her watch as she followed him. It was not yet noon.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Lunch was a simple spread of cheeses and meats, laid out on the dining room table for casual grazing -- Mrs. Scully had a big dinner planned.

Mulder helped himself, but Scully seemed too preoccupied to eat, and he watched her interact with her family as he sat on the couch in Maggie’s living room, a paper plate perched on his knee.

It was fascinating watching her comportment shift from Agent Scully to Dana, to watch how she joked with her brothers, slouched like a teenager against her mom in the kitchen. The Scullys were a tactile, affectionate bunch, prone to sarcastic comments about one another, but always with the understanding of love under each gentle jibe. Hers had been a very different upbringing from his own. He was held rapt.

The star of the show of course was Matthew, who was happy to be the center of attention, taking time to engage with each adult to gauge their suitability as playmate and co-star. Mulder appeared to pass muster with his ability to realistically die when poked with a small plastic lightsaber.

Mulder caught Scully staring during one such encounter with the boy, her expression guarded and unreadable.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully watched Charlie watch Mulder surreptitiously from where he sat in the living room. Her brother was obviously intrigued by him, having heard the stories from other members of her family, having never met the man himself.

Each of the Scully children had very different personalities. Charlie had always been the prankster, the lighthearted sarcastic kid that could bring a smile to anyone’s face. He’d also been the kindest, and Scully thought, behind his extroverted, jovial exterior, the most observant. He never missed a moment.

As if on cue, he shifted his gaze to her and smiled. Pointed to Mulder and gave her an exaggerated thumbs up.

Charlie’s approval was almost antithetical to high spirits and she found her mood turning sour, which she knew was ridiculous. She operated better when it was just her and Mulder against the world, when her love for him was a closely guarded secret. They had only just started sleeping together, and she was afraid of how much she already needed him. She found she wanted to go to a corner and lick at nonexistent wounds, to snarl at anyone who came near. She was mad at herself for getting mad.

When her mother asked if anyone wanted to decorate the Christmas cookies she and Matthew had made the day before, Scully surprised everyone by volunteering and drifting off toward the kitchen with Tara and Bill, leaving the room with an apologetic glance at Mulder. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Enjoying ‘The Very Best Sacred Christmas Carols?’” Charlie said, handing Mulder a cold bottle of beer and dropping heavily onto the couch beside him.

“Of course,” Mulder said, nodding his thanks.

Charlie took a swig from the bottle he was holding. “You don’t have to lie,” he said, “there’s only so many times a man can hear a choir singing the word ‘holy’ before he wants to get hung from a yardarm.”

“Depends on the choir, I guess,” Mulder said, smiling.

A stiff, staid chorus sang from the speakers in Maggie’s entertainment center.

“I think this one is from King’s College, Cambridge,” Charlie said thoughtfully, “I’ve only heard it every Christmas since 1979. Mom is militant that the Christmas music be as Jesus-y as possible, and Bill is militant about Mom being militant.”

Mulder took another swig. “Always been more of an Oxford guy, myself,” he said, noncommittally.

Charlie regarded him for a long moment.

“Bill isn’t a big fan of yours,” he said levelly. Mulder quirked a shoulder—a ‘what are you gonna do?’ gesture. “But you seem to make my sister happy,” the man went on.

Mulder sat up straighter and chuffed a self-conscious laugh.

“I wouldn’t have drawn that conclusion by the way she’s been today, myself,” he said, still smiling, catching his thumbnail on the edge of the beer label.

Charlie laughed brightly.

“That’s actually how I can tell,” he said. “She cares so much about making a good impression, she’s getting in her own way. And you haven’t seen the way she’s been looking at you when you’re not looking at her.”

Mulder looked to the younger man.

“You do the same thing, by the way,” Charlie went on, laughing. “My aunt Mabel would have used the word ‘besotted.’”

Mulder flashed on something he’d said a year or so before, I do not gaze at Scully.

“You guys are hopeless,” Charlie laughed. “But… I’m not my brother,” Charlie went on, “and to be honest, I’d like you on the off chance it would piss Bill off-“ Mulder quirked a grin at that “-but couple that with Dana’s obvious and utter devotion to you, and I’ve decided to like you because she does.”

Mulder felt he’d just earned something hard-given. He looked at the youngest Scully with gratitude.

“Now cover me,” Charlie said, and suddenly stood, the earnest moment forgotten as the young redhead pulled a CD case out of his back pocket. He handed Mulder his beer.

“What?” Mulder said, confused.

Charlie nodded towards the room’s entrance.

“Cover me,” he said, and Mulder stood, holding a cold beer in each hand, moving to the edge of the room, a precipitate look-out man. “Nobody fucks with Mom’s carols,” Charlie went on, kneeling in front of the CD player in the middle of the room. He pushed a button and the music suddenly stopped, the changer slowly giving up the ghost and ejecting the disc that had been in the player. “So let’s see what happens, shall we?” He pressed a mischievous grin in Mulder’s direction and pushed a new CD in.

It took about ten seconds before a new song started playing, more loudly than the carols had been, a drum beat followed by piano—Elton John’s bizarre holiday song ‘Who’d Be A Turkey At Christmas.’

From the direction of the kitchen, Bill’s voice came with an approaching “Now what the hell?” and Charlie ran toward Mulder, a roguish smile on his face.

“Run,” he said, coming right at Mulder, who braced himself.

“What?!” Mulder said, amused, but unnerved.

“Run!” Charlie said, darting past Mulder and grabbing his beer out of Mulder’s hand in the process.

Mulder felt he had no choice but to run up the stairs after him, laughing—a sudden but willing accomplice—while Elton drawled on drunkenly about having ‘a few too many,’ loudly from the speakers just as Bill barged into the room on a wind of blustering confusion.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully narrowed her eyes at Mulder, as they deposited overnight bags in the corner of her adolescent bedroom.

“What?” Mulder asked.

“Charlie took full responsibility for the music kerfuffle,” she said, and Mulder looked at her innocently. He would not implicate himself. Charlie had hit a setting on the CD player, whether on purpose or not remained to be seen, but Bill couldn’t get the player to stop until it was halfway through ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’

Peace had been restored and the choir of Cambridge was once again singing its way through the Wassail Song though Scully had used the temporary chaos to steal out to the car and grab their luggage. She still wasn’t entirely sure Mulder wouldn’t be relegated to the foldout couch in the basement, being both the other half of an unmarried couple and now party to the playing of non-sanctioned Christmas music.

He sat on her childhood bed, bouncing on it experimentally.

“Not too creaky,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her.

She ignored him, hands on her hips.

“You seem to be getting along with everyone okay,” she said, half questioning.

“I’m not without my charms,” he shrugged. She seemed tense and still hadn’t sat down. “Your family is great, Scully,” he said, “even the ones who don’t like me have been very polite.”

That at least elicited a reluctant smile, and she finally sat down next to him.

“We’re halfway through,” she said.

“Halfway through what?” he asked.

“The day,” she said, and he shot her a sympathetic smile. “Next up we’ve got stockings, dinner, then midnight mass…”

“And then?” he said, swaying into her.

“And then we take a Benadryl with the family Sauterne and wait for sleep to save us,” she said, standing and offering a hand up.

He laughed as she had meant him to and took her proffered hand.

“You okay with going to mass?” she asked him soberly as she pulled him up.

“If you go, I go,” he said, and gave her hand a quick peck before dropping it. “Tara’s been trying to get me alone for the last three hours, I’m going to go give her a chance.”

She smiled at him.

“Want some backup?” she said.

“Always,” he said, backing out of the room.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Bill started coming up the steps as Mulder was headed down, and Scully waited on the landing so as not to crowd him.

He passed her and started to head down the hallway, but as he walked by, he gave her a look which brought her up short.

“Something you want to say, Bill?” she said to his back. He stopped and turned toward her slowly.

“He’s staying in your room, I see,” he said.

“And Tara is staying in yours,” she said, a statement of fact.

He gave her a long look.

“Why him, Dana?” he finally asked.

“Because he loves me,” she said, feeling as though she really needn’t justify herself.

“Any man would love you,” he said, “look at you. You could have anyone you wanted.”

“But I want him.” She didn’t need to convolute it any. When it came right down to it, it really was as simple as that.

Bill looked at her for another long moment and then, seeming to come to some kind of internal decision, nodded at her and turned away.

XxXxXxXxXxX

After a few minutes he watched as Scully came into the living room to find him perched casually on the couch next to her sister in law. She sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room and picked up a nearby paperback. Good old Scully, watching his back as always. The music in the room was still extolling the glory of the season and it afforded he and Tara a fair bit of privacy.

“Have you done Yankee Swap before, Fox?” Tara asked him brightly.

“Don’t know. Sounds vaguely punitive.”

She smiled at him.

“It’s a fun gifting thing we started doing a few years back where you can take someone else’s present or swap it out for a new one.”

“That’s a relief,” he said, deadpan, “I was afraid you were coming onto me.”

Tara laughed as he had hoped she would, then leaned into him confidentially, her breath smelling sweetly of pinot grigio. She had a smudge of flour on the left side of her chin.

“You know, Dana has never brought over a boyfriend before,” she said, probably a bit louder than she meant to.

Scully looked up sharply from where she sat curled up in her chair, and Mulder gave her a significant look which was completely lost on Tara as he leaned in to talk to her.

“We’ve been worried about her,” Tara said, “with that job of yours. It seems dangerous and all-consuming. We didn’t think she’d ever meet anyone.”

“I, for one, am glad she didn’t,” Mulder said and darted a look at Scully who was pretending not to eavesdrop.

Tara giggled good naturedly.

“Maggie’s been telling us about the change in her these last few weeks. How happy she seems. I guess falling in love with each other was inevitable,” she said wistfully.

Mulder nodded softly.

“Fate,” he said, and Scully’s eyes bobbed to his.

“Sweet,” Tara sighed girlishly, “well, we’re glad you’re here, Fox.” She patted his knee. “You’ll make Dana a wonderful husband, I’m sure,” she went on, clearly meaning it as the highest of compliments.

“Well,” Mulder said, holding Scully’s eyes across the room, “it’s an honor just to be nominated.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

Afternoon rolled into evening, and the weak sun laid long shadows through Margaret Scully’s neighborhood before it was blotted out completely in a blast of swirling snow.

He had drifted into the den and had been looking at the Naval map of the Carribean when Scully found him.

“Please tell me you’re not considering another trip to the Bermuda Triangle,” she said.

He turned to her and smiled, reached out to her. He saw her look at his outstretched hand and she walked around it, moving to look out the window.

“Looks like you’re getting out of midnight mass,” she said, one finger pulling down a slat on the room’s Venetian blinds, “it’s really coming down out there.”

The wind was gusting, pushing snow and ice past the glass; visibility was limited to about ten feet. The family had agreed to keep an eye on the weather and bow out of attending the midnight service if driving conditions became too dangerous.

Mulder came up behind her and bent down to look outside as well, her back pressed into him. When she straightened, he didn’t move, and he felt a frisson of energy run along the skin where he was pressed to her. He brought his hand to her hip and pressed his lips to her ear.

“Don’t,” she said, stepping away, and Mulder looked at her, hurt and confused. Immediately, she reached out a conciliatory hand and looked to the heavens as if for help. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave her a long look.

“If you didn’t want me to come, you should have told me,” he said gently.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it? Because honestly, Scully, you are the only one making things weird. Even Bill is acting like an adult, which is, frankly, almost as surprising as your attitude.”

She sighed.

She was prickly and self-conscious, beautiful and unapproachable. Even when she was pissed off with him--even when he was pissed off with her too--he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

“We’re still trying to figure out what this is, Mulder,” she said a little desperately, gesturing between the two of them, “I still don’t know how to be with you. How to work with you. How any of this is going to play out. And having to figure that out while surrounded by my family of all people is just… a lot.”

He sighed himself and stepped back into her space, reaching out to rub a hand up and down her back.

She was tense under his hand.

“Tara keeps staring at my ring finger,” she said, and Mulder couldn’t help but chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“It’s kind of funny,” he said.

“Mulder-”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, pressed his lips to her neck. One of his hands started creeping under the hem of her blouse.

“Scully—“ he started, when Matthew toddled into the room on a delighted shriek, the only one in the house who wouldn’t have picked up on the blatant frottage before him.

Scully took a step away from Mulder as Bill popped his head through the door.

“I think we’re going to to do stockings now,” Bill said, nodding toward his son, “some of us are getting a little antsy.”

“Sure,” Scully said to him, and then knelt down in front of the boy. “Matty, will you show me where the stockings are?” she asked him, and he happily took her by the hand and pulled her out of the room. She glanced behind her at Mulder as she left, who was still standing by the window, backlit by the snow.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Her mother found her outside just before dinner, wrapped in a tatty old afghan and leaning over the railing on the back porch, watching chickadees dart in and out of the feeder in the day’s fading light. The wind had stopped blowing, but the snow was still coming down, fat white flakes drifting down out of the silent heavens.

“Everything all right?” Margaret Scully asked from the doorway. She turned to look at her mother, who was hugging her sweater around herself tightly, her feet shoved into an old pair of fleecy slippers.

“Mm,” she hummed, smiling at her.

Her mother closed the door behind her and walked out slowly to join her daughter, the snow squeaking under her feet as she moved.

Scully had gone outside to get a little fresh air, and, she hoped, a clearer head. She was avoiding Mulder’s touch like he was some secret teenaged boyfriend she wasn’t allowed to see and her head was running in such circles about the whole damn weekend, she was wound up in her own thoughts and likely to fall face first.

“Is my absence conspicuous?” Scully asked her mother lightly, reaching out an arm and wrapping a corner of the afghan over Margaret’s shoulder.

“Only to me,” her mom said, leaning into her. Her mother’s intuition was flawless, and sometimes all it took was Maggie flashing her a compassionate look for Scully to crumple back into a pre-teen mess and spill all her fears and secrets. “And to Fox.”

She turned to look at her mother. She’d inherited her insubstantial height, and being eye to eye with her always seemed to buck up Scully’s morale.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” her mother answered with a small smile, “currently building a fairly intricate train track with your nephew.” Then, after a long moment, “how long?” Have you been together didn’t need to be said.

Scully breathed out, a column of vapor dissipating into the air.

“Not very,” she answered.

Maggie Scully smiled and looked out onto her small white yard.

“I’m glad,” she said.

“Bill’s not,” Scully said softly.

“Bill doesn’t understand what you have,” her mother said, looking at her significantly. “I don’t know if anyone really can, other than the two of you,” she went on. Scully tucked her chin to her chest, not able to meet her mother’s eye. “That man loves you, Dana. With the kind of unquestionable, forever love any of my kids would be lucky to see in the world, much less experience. I’m glad Fox is here with us for the holiday,” she reached out and ran a hand up and down her daughter’s arm, “I hope you are, too.”

She looked up and saw her mother’s wistful expression, the way she rubbed her thumb over her wedding ring like a talisman. Maggie smiled at her and headed back into the house.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“You feeling any better?” Mulder asked her. He had volunteered to do dishes after the meal, so she volunteered to help him, drying as he washed and putting the dishes away.

He had one of her mother’s aprons on and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, suds halfway up his forearms.

��A bit,” she said.

He’d been the consummate guest at dinner, regaling the table with stories from his college days at Oxford, full of vulpine charm and Vineyard decorum. At one point she’d even seen Bill chuckling at one of his stories.

She felt guilty for laying her own discomfort at his feet when he was the outsider, the guest at her mother’s table. She told him so, while she wiped a casserole dish dry.

“Hey,” he said, bumping her gently with his hip, “you know I know you, right?”

She smiled at him.

A siren approached outside the house and they both stilled, a Pavlovian anticipation building until the emergency vehicle passed, the siren fading into the night. Water dripped from Mulder’s hands and they both slowly unclenched.

“Go be with your family, Scully, I’ll finish up here.”

She regarded him, took the glass he was holding and dried it slowly.

A round of laughter came in from the dining room, where the rest of the Scully clan were sipping Sauterne, Matthew playing troll under the table.

“You don’t know where anything goes,” she said.

“I’ll figure it out.”

She kissed his cheek, lingering there for a moment, and hooked the damp dishtowel over his shoulder, then left to join her family.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She offered to help Matthew put out cookies and milk for Santa, and Mulder followed them into the living room, charmed by the boy’s enthusiasm.

Once the goodies had been strategically placed just-so, she let Matthew talk her into reading him a small Christmas book he’d gotten in his stocking. She barely made it halfway through before Matthew ran out of steam and slumped against Scully’s leg, half a cookie clutched loosely in his damp hand, leaving a trail of crumbs on her knee. His eyes slid closed.

Scully ducked her head down to look at him, sweeping soft curls from his forehead. She closed the book and set it down next to her.

Mulder cocked his chin toward the boy.

“I had a roommate once, was the same way,” he said quietly.

Scully smiled and resisted the urge to smell the boy’s head. His little body had pinned her arm to her side.

Another round of cheerful laughter came in from the direction of the kitchen, the rest of the adults in the house all loosened up from a good meal and a round of wassail, the proximity of family.

Mulder rose from where he sat, and kneeled down in front of Scully, scooping the child up in his arms from where he’d been pressed to her. Her side felt suddenly cold.

“Where does he sleep?” Mulder whispered, and Scully rose, silently beckoning him to follow her.

Up the stairs and down the hallway they crept like thieves, Mulder and the child behind her a sleepy votary.

She opened the door to Missy’s old bedroom, which her mom had converted to a sewing room. It had a large crib set up in one corner and a Fisher Price nightlight projecting a jungle scene onto the ceiling. The door creaked as it swung open, but the boy didn’t awaken, and Mulder crept to the crib and deposited the child gently onto the mattress. He snuffled once and turned onto his side.

“Should we change him into PJ’s or anything?” Mulder whispered, keeping his eyes on the boy’s sleeping form.

She shook her head and took in the scene before her, Mulder watching over a sleeping Scully child. Whatever emotion threatened then, she refused it.

“I’ll go let Tara know we put him down,” she whispered back and turned from the room, drifting down the hallway like Marley’s ghost.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When it was confirmed that Matthew was finally asleep, Bill and Charlie set about bringing in gifts from the trunks of various cars, and Mulder had to jump in and help when they tumbled in through the front door, overloaded with gifts and stamping snow onto the mat.

Several toys needed assembling and the unlikely trio headed into the garage and went about it in the usual male fashion; with several strong opinions and more tools than necessary.

When they finished, they found that Tara and Maggie had gone up to bed, and Bill and Charlie followed suit.

Mulder searched the house until he found Scully.

Bubbles floated like dust motes silently through the living room, catching the color from the lights on the Christmas tree and turning the room kaleidoscopic. She sat in front of the fireplace amongst Matthew’s scattered stocking stuffers, looking young and small. She held a small Santa-shaped bottle, blowing bubbles quietly into the room from a wand protruding from Santa’s hat. She looked like a fairy in the festive space, and his heart clutched at the sight of her.

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” he said softly.

She looked up with a smile.

“What, jealous Oberon?” she said.

“Never,” he said, and lowered himself cross-legged next to her. The fire gave off a radiating heat that pushed into one side of his face.

“I’m sorry--” she started, but he cut her off with a finger to her lips.

“Don’t,” he said, “this is a lot for you--all of it--I get it. You don’t have to apologize.” She smiled at him in relief. “So long as you don’t forswear my bed and company,” he went on.

She looked at him, her eyes watery, but bright.

“Never,” she whispered.

A bubble landed on her hair and refused to pop. He could hardly blame it.

XxXxXxXxXxX

A log gave a sharp snap in the fireplace and she turned her head to look at it.

She had realized she was in love with him when she was sick, writing to him in a journal she didn’t want him to read. Back then it was too late to do anything about it. Then she was granted a reprieve, death’s scythe pulled back, and regret was replaced with cowardice.

She looked back at him, the glow of the fire turing his face chimeric, and thought of Matthew’s crumby, damp hand, the glint of Charlie’s hair by the light of the sun. Her mother’s worn, papery skin, Bill linking his hand with Tara’s under the dining room table at dinner. She thought of the thump and swish of Mulder’s heart when her ear was pressed to his chest. It all felt like family. It all felt like home.

He was her partner, her fidus Achates, the love of her life.

“Take me to bed,” she said softly, reaching out for him.

“Look, I don’t know what the secretarial pool has been saying, but I’m not that kind of g-“

Scully silenced him with a kiss to the lips.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a basket case today,” she said, catching his eyes in the warm light of the fire. “Take me to bed, Mulder,” she said again, coyly arching an eyebrow at him.

He nodded at her earnestly and took her by the hand.

They padded lightly up the steps as Handel’s “Messiah” began to play on the stereo in the living room behind them.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She closed the door after he followed her in and the room took on a sudden quiet, the music from downstairs pushing gently at the outside of the door.

It was an odd contrast to see Mulder, an adult man, standing in her adolescent bedroom looking at her in anticipation, his eyes hooded with lust. She stepped into him, her toes on the tops of his--he flexed them even as he reached out and pulled her to him by the hips.

Sex between them had been surprising, incredible, but it was still new, and they had not yet settled on an easy rhythm, a give and take on the act’s initiation.

“Come here,” he said softly, though she couldn’t get much closer, and he pulled her flush up against him, his breath fanning her face.

He slowly took her arms one at a time and propped them up over his shoulders until they were encircling his neck, then he grabbed her firmly by the ass and lifted until her face was more or less even with his. She wrapped her legs around his waist reflexively.

“Better?” she whispered, smiling at him, their faces only an inch or so apart.

“Better,” he answered, and then leaned in slowly to kiss her.

His lips were framed by the rasp of his five o’clock shadow, which scraped against her skin, her teeth, as she opened her mouth to him. She hummed into him, relaxing into his embrace.

The stresses of the day seemed to peel back--her fears, expectations, pressures from her family whether real or merely perceived, all seemed to coalesce into one sharp feeling that melded somewhere in her chest and slowly sunk until it was an exquisite yearning pressure in her womb.

She threaded her fingers through his silky hair and she felt him turn and start walking them to the small double bed of her youth. Mulder sank slowly until he was sitting on it, Scully perched earnestly on his lap. He finally broke the kiss and leaned back to look at her.

“So I’m the first boyfriend you’ve brought home, huh?” he said, an obnoxious grin spreading across his face.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she said on a smile of her own, and reached down to grab the hem of his sweater, pulling it up and over his head, effectively erasing his insufferable expression.

She brought her hands to the spongy hair on his chest, running light fingers over his pectoral muscles, then slowly lower down over his abdominals, naming his anatomy in her head as her fingers explored. Rectus abdominis, external oblique, transversus abdominis. When her fingers reached the area of the linea alba, he hissed in a breath and she felt his body react to her touch, swelling under her right thigh.

He grabbed her hands and pulled them gently away from his body, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Turnabout is fair play, Ms. Scully,” he said, lifting up the shirt she was wearing and pulling it up and over her head.

She leaned in as his hands once again found her waist, and darted her tongue into his ear.

“That’s Dr. Scully to you,” she said, and clamped her mouth around the delicate flesh of his earlobe.

His hips responded to her, surging up as his hands held her steady--the pressure where their bodies met sharpening to an exquisite point.

The alarm clock next to the bed was an hour ahead, passed over when Daylight Savings ended. It glowed cherry red over Mulder’s left shoulder. Her mouth drifted down his neck, her tongue following the long line of tendon as his hands migrated toward her front, cupping her breasts over her bra.

The wind had once again picked up, blowing snow in soft tinks against the glass of the window. He pinched her nipple gently through the fabric and she let out an involuntary moan. She heard him laugh quietly and then he pressed his lips into her ear.

“Shhh” he shushed, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh even as sweet wine sloshed in her stomach. She felt warm and concupiscent, lusty and clear. She wanted to feel his skin on hers.

She leaned back, stood, stepped out of her pants and rid herself of her underthings. Mulder did the same, standing before her--his skin a golden bronze, his gaze intense--ithyphallic and unashamed. She laid on the bed and reached out a hand for him.

He joined her, kneeling onto the bed above her, knees pressed into the mattress between her legs. He took a moment to run his tongue slowly from beneath her navel to the point of her chin, painting her skin with his cooling breath.

His skin felt fevered on hers, but his eyes were clear and bright. He pushed into her slowly and her own eyes slammed shut, her teeth digging into her lip. He stretched her out, filled her up, and she took a moment to adjust, to enjoy.

Time seemed to stretch out, sand in the hourglass slowed to a honey drip. The bed was silent beneath them, for which she was thankful.

Seven years she had waited for this—a hymnal in the air, his overbite on her skin. What time she had wasted, what pleasure they had denied themselves. She pulled him to her, bit his shoulder, licked the teeth marks she had left. She wanted to consume him, take everything he was and absorb it like light.

She felt love-drunk, parched, caught up in chasing the high of their frenzy. He had his arms bracketed on either side of her face, and the hollow of his throat was at eye level. She darted her tongue out to taste it.

Suddenly, he reached down, grabbed her by the hips and flipped them and she found herself perched atop him, wild and wanton, his own Lady Godiva. Time caught back up to them and she gave him a wicked smile.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He still had trouble believing he had unlimited access to her compact, tight little body; she seemed all angles and edges these days with the exception of her center which was all soft, lush, wet heat--the sweet brine of her anointing him like a sacrament.

A car turned somewhere on the street, its headlights sweeping once over her, catching a freeze frame of her above him, back arched, head thrown back, mouth open.

He licked his thumb, reached between them and swept it over the tight bud at her center; she made a breathy noise in the back of her throat.

When they had finally gotten together there had never even been talk of a condom; the only thing left between them was for one of them to say “now, no more waiting.” He thought of his seed inside of her, thought of putting a baby there, an impossible gift he almost believed he could give her from sheer wanting. He’d read once that it was theorized female orgasm--unnecessary from a scientific, purely reproductive standpoint--helped by perhaps moving sperm further up into the womb, and he thought of it as he applied himself to her with a renewed vigor.

She started breathing that quick, shimmery breath that he’d only recently come to understand meant she was close, and he drove up into her as he pressed her with his thumb, encouraging her in a quiet, whispering voice. She clutched at him, fingernails digging into his hips on a hiss.

He followed her into oblivion, cresting just as the Hallelujah chorus reached the height of its crescendo in the living room below them, the sound both tinny and muffled. Mulder would associate the song with sex for the rest of his life.

The French call orgasm “the little death” and that felt right to him, proper and precise; he felt struck down and reborn in the cradle of her hips.

She rolled off of him, to the scant empty space on the bed, and laid face down, a small smile cracking slowly up her cheek from the pillow below.

He propped himself up on an elbow and considered her naked back, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the dim light, her hot slip cooling on his thighs. He leaned over to kiss the dimple above her ass cheek, and he heard her chuff a laugh.

Emboldened, he ran his tongue along the ouroboros upon her back, dared not tell her that it was an ancient symbol of alchemy. Dared not tell her how fitting it was that it was branded upon her skin, that he believed she was the elixir of his immortality, that she alone gave him life.

Outside, the world was cold, tilted away from the sun. Dust collected on the nicotine tainted pages of their files, and monsters walked the earth.

Inside, she was dreamy hot skin pressed to his side. She was his cover--the alert, sharp eyes that watched his six, the love of his life.

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he said quietly, could already tell she was on the edge of sleep.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she mumbled back, and he reached for the blanket, pulled it up and over them both.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When he woke, her head was near him on the pillow, she had a crease in her cheek and she smelled of sleep. Unable to help it, he reached out and tucked a feather of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” she said on a breathy smile.

“Hey,” he lobbed back.

The bed dipped in the middle under their weight and had pitched them together; her whole side was pressed to his, his own personal hot water bottle. He threw a leg over her.

The house had come to life below them, he heard cabinet doors swung closed, the soft chunk of coffee mugs on granite, gentle murmuring.

He could stay in this little bed with her all day, he thought, reading books pulled from her childhood shelves—Black Beauty, Moby Dick, A Brief History of Time. They would lock the door, make love, take sustenance only from each other.

She had an eye cracked on the pillow next to him, regarded him warmly with her cool blue stare.

“I love you,” he said, apropos of nothing.

She smiled, slowly blinked.

“They say ‘if you love something, let it go,’” she said, her voice rough from a night’s disuse.

He considered her, the peach fuzz of her skin in the early morning light.

“I don’t want to let you go. I want to hold on forever.”

To prove his point, he reached out and looped a pinky through one of her own, her hand lying close to her face on the pillow. He felt her breath puff against the hairs on the backs of his fingers, humid and warm, a humectant tropic in the tiny bed.

“It’s supposed to be a test, to see if what you love comes back to you.”

He squeezed her finger with his.

“You do always come back,” he said.

“So do you.”

They were thinking of the same things—her abduction, him lying in a hogan in New Mexico, her cancer.

It was Christmas morning, he remembered. The day already felt like a gift.

“I suppose we should get up,” Scully said, “put Matthew out of his misery.”

Mulder let go of her and stretched in the tiny bed, his feet lopping out over the end.

“How long do you think he’s been awake?” he asked, then reached for a pair of jeans.

“Oh, hours,” Scully said with a smile, and she pulled on the pair of pajama bottoms she’d brought with her. After a moment’s hesitation, she swiped the undershirt he’d worn the day before out of the sweater she’d tossed to the floor and pulled it up and over her head.

“Your family’s going to start getting ideas about us, Scully,” he joked, pleased.

“Let them,” she said, and went for the door.

They padded down the steps hand in hand, and when they reached the bottom, instead of letting go, her grip on his hand became more firm.

He followed her into the kitchen where they found everyone else milling about, all the adults wearing the pre-caffeinated shell-shocked look of a pre-dawn awakening.

Matthew cheered gleefully at their arrival, which had clearly been a pre-negotiated stipulation of gift-opening.

Bill, after giving their joined hands a long look, thrust his chin towards the counter and said “Coffee’s in the pot.”

Maggie caught her daughter’s eye before smiling into her own steaming mug like Emma of Hartfield. Charlie and Tara shared a knowing look and an arch smile.

Breakfast was eschewed in lieu of gift-opening, and Matthew ran to the tree, the adults a slow shuffling procession behind him. Gifts were passed out, opened, fawned over, played with. Thanks were shared and coffee was drunk.

There amongst her family, he felt content, happy, accepted. Scully looked at him warmly over her shoulder, and separated as they were by mounds of torn wrapping paper, he felt connected to her in a way he’d never felt connected to anyone.

She was his favorite gift. Sent to the basement to punish and dissuade him, she’d done the opposite. She was everything they hadn’t planned, antipodal to their strategy of turmoil and distrust.

She was the dawn in the night of his life.

He was glad he’d come. And so was she.

#The X-Files #fanfic #fanfiction #msr #christmas fic #holiday fic #xfsecretsanta2019 #my fic #for Meg

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merakiaes · 5 years ago

Text

Halloween - Xavier Plympton

Pairing: Xavier Plympton x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: Part two? Comment if that’s something you would want. If the interest is there, I’ll make a part two where they get to know each other a bit better. This isn’t proofread so sorry in advance for any mistakes and sorry if it’s bad. I didn’t really know what to write for this one, hopefully my future Xavier pieces will be better😅 Send in more requests!

Wordcount: 2485

Summary: Halloween, the only time of the year when the spirits can leave Camp Redwood. Bobby takes the squad with him to a college party, where you’re one of the hostesses.

Halloween. The only time of the year when the trapped spirits of Camp Redwood could step over the border and wander off into the world.

Granted, they couldn’t really get much further than Los Angeles, the very place they had been trying to escape by signing up as camp counselors in the first place, as they had to be back by midnight. But after being stuck in that wretched place, constantly surrounded by death for over thirty long years, anything was better than there.

The first times they discovered this loophole, they had, of course, tried to stay outside camp after midnight, but every time, they would pass out and wake up inside the border again. They were really stuck, and Halloween was the only time the curse was lifted.

Most years, Benjamin, his mother and brother would go off with Bobby as the camp wasn’t safe for him and he couldn’t visit them there, while the other spirits went off on their own.

But this year was different. This year, the Richters were on Ramirez guard duty, and Bobby’s college just so happened to be throwing a Halloween party with an 80s theme. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Bobby brought his car up to the camp early that morning, waited right by the border and called out for the spirits, letting them know of the festivities they were going to be participating in that evening and no one made any protests to it.

On the contrary, Montana and Xavier practically fought their way to the front seat, Xavier coming out on top at the end of it and forcing Montana to take her place in Trevor’s lap in the backseat. Not that she was complaining.

You went to the same college as Bobby and had made yourself acquainted with him as you shared more than a few classes. You would say you were good friends, but you didn’t really hang out other than in an academic purpose.

You were a sorority girl and a popular one at that, and he had always been kind of an outcast. Probably not very surprising, as his dad was the infamous Mr. Jingles.

He had told you the entire truth about what really happened at Camp Redwood, about Margaret Booth being the real villain and how she had framed his father to get away with fulfilling her twisted needs.

But he hadn’t told you about the way they were ghosts at camp and that he regularly went up to see them.

Even though you were pretty much the only one who believed the story about his dad and Margaret Booth, it seemed a bit too farfetched that you would also believe in ghost stories, and even though you didn’t hang out on a regular basis, he wasn’t ready to lose the only living friend he had.

It was your sorority that was hosting the costume party, and you were… not too thrilled about it. You may have been a sorority girl, but you were in it all for the friendships and sisterhood, and less so for the parties and boys.

Majority of the men of the 21st century were pigs, especially the frat-boys. To them, everything was theirs, objects and women alike. Although really, to them, there was no distinction between the two.

And their rich dads feeding their massive egos and toxic masculinity with ideas and promises that they were going to be at the top of the world one day didn’t make things better, either.

The sexual revolution had been even more intense during the 20th century, but at least then they’d had some manners about it. When finding out the theme of the annual party, you had found yourself wishing you were actually in the 80s.

But unfortunately, time travel had yet to be discovered, so all you could do was put on a smile, get dressed in some skimpy outfit consisting of a bright purple bralette, a black mesh top and a skintight leather skirt, and go around the party greeting everyone like the good host that you were.

Only half an hour into the party, you had been hit on by more guys than you could count, of which none had made a courteous approach.

It was always the same. They would slide up next to you with a smug, self-righteous smirk, touch your hair or your face while ogling your chest or legs, and ask in a voice they probably intended to be seductive but came out as anything but, “Wanna get out of here?”.

Every time, you would smile and politely turn them down with the excuse that your sisters were counting on you to looking over the order at the party, and every time you got the same response.

“Whatever, you’re not that hot, anyway.”

At this point, you were so used to it you didn’t even bat an eye, which was actually really sad, because it shouldn’t have to be that way.

Eventually, you just retreated to the back of the living-room, leaning against a wall with an untouched drink in your hand as your friends and enemies danced along to ‘You Spin Me Round’ by Dead Or Alive in all their drunken glory, all dressed in neon, mesh and headbands and behaving as if they wouldn’t have to go back to studying early the next morning.

By the time Bobby walked into the house with everyone else in tow, the party was raging on, the entire house feeling as if it was shaking with life.

After having had to adjust themselves to the new century the previous years they had gone out during Halloween, they were all astonished at the familiarity of it all.

The costumes looked just like their actual clothes, and the music blasting from the speakers was the very same music that had been the latest hits during the time they were still alive.

“Oh, Bobby, this is tubular!” Montana gasped excitedly as she looked around the room, holding on to Trevor’s arm tightly.

Chet nodded, looking around with equally as much fascination. “Toooh-tally tubular!” He agreed.

Bobby chuckled, but before anyone could say anything else, Xavier had grabbed a hold of the human boy’s sleeve and tugged on it, looking rather distraught as he stared at something at the other side of the room.

“Bobby. Who’s that?” He asked, eyes not once blinking.

Bobby and the other’s followed his line of sight and instantly caught sight of you where you stood, looking over the room in a bored manner with your arms crossed over your chest.

Your hair was styled in wild curls, your hips hugged beautifully by a black leather skirt and your stomach and arms on display underneath the black mesh, your chest barely covered by the lilac bralette.

You were unlike anything Xavier had ever seen, and he had seen a lot of lightly-dressed girls during his time as an aerobics instructor. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, his head spinning at sight of your smile.

“She’s hot.” Montana was quick to comment, to which Bobby chuckled once again.

“Yeah, she is.” He agreed. “And she’s totally out of our league. Out of anyone’s league, really.”

Xavier finally tore his eyes away from you, turning to look at the human beside him. “You know her?”

He shrugged. “We’re in the same classes.” He informed. “She’s the only one I’ve told about my dad.”

“She knows about us?” Ray spoke up for the first time.

“No…” Bobby hesitated, watching as yet another guy approached you, having to hold in the snort when seeing the annoyed and disgusted look overcoming your face. “I kind of left out the whole… ghost part.”

“Introduce me.”

Bobby averted his gaze to the blonde boy beside him, eyebrows raising in surprise at the demanding tone in his voice. “What?” He inquired, to which Xavier yet again let his eyes leave your form to look at him.

“Introduce me. To her.” He demanded, eyes flickering over to you for a brief moment before looking back to Bobby, adding in a more hesitant voice. “Please.”

Bobby hesitated, looking between the two of you. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Xavier.” He admitted but having felt their stares burning into the side of your face, you had already spotted them, and wasted no time in heading over in their direction, eager to get away from the conversation you were currently forced into.

“Oh, thank God, you’re here.” Was the first thing you said to Bobby as you got close enough for him to hear you over the music, dumping the drink in your hand at a table on your way. “I’m at the brink of going crazy.”

You came to a stop before him, your arms crossing over your chest, which only made it even harder for Xavier to tear his eyes away from your… assets.

“I take it you’re not having a very good time, then.” Bobby smirked, amused.

You met his eyes with a playful glare, before looking around sourly. “I would’ve rather stayed at my dorm, watching a movie or something, but oh well.” You snorted, turning back to look at him. “What to do, right?” You asked, attempting a small smile.

He returned it with one of his own, and you suddenly became very aware of the stares from the people he was with, direction your eyes to them. Your eyebrow raised slightly at the sight of them. All of them looked like they were pulled straight out of the 80s.

You hummed, giving them all a once-over before turning back to Bobby. “So, are you going to introduce me to your friends?” You asked, and Bobby quickly snapped into it.

“Oh, right.” He realized. “Guys, this is (Y/N). (Y/N), this is-“

“I’m Montana.” The only girl in the company stepped forward, holding her hand out to shake with a big smile on her lips. “I just have to say, your bod is like, rad. Do you take aerobics?”

“I-“ You were at loss for words at the sudden compliment, your eyes widening slightly. But nonetheless, you took her hand in yours, shaking it.

“I do actually.” You answered, chuckling. “I haven’t met anyone who’s into aerobics around here before. It’s not really a thing anymore. Where did you say you were from?”

She smiled proudly. “Los Angeles, born and raised.”

You hummed, narrowing your eyes slightly at her, trying to process her face in your head, but came out with a blank. “Weird.” You said. “I haven’t seen you around before, and there’s only one aerobics studio left here.”

She only shrugged and smiled, and Bobby took the wheel from then on, beginning to introduce everyone else.

“This is Ray, Chet, Trevor, aaand… Xavier.” He introduced them. All of them gave you a smile and a small ‘hello’ accompanied by a wave each, and you kindly returned it all, until your eyes finally met with the last person to be introduced.

You had never been one to believe in the clichés always used in chick flicks about love at first sight, but as you met his eyes, you could’ve sworn you felt the rest of the room just… melt away.

He was absolutely gorgeous, looking as if he was pulled straight out of a magazine.

A feeling resembling a high came over you and your body moved on its own as you held his gaze, your hand coming out in front of you. “I’m (Y/N). It’s nice to meet you.” You said, smiling, and he wasted no time in taking your hand in his, giving it a squeeze.

“I’m Xavier.” He introduced himself, even though Bobby had just introduced him a second ago.

You smiled and nodded, holding his gaze for a moment longer before turning to look at Bobby again. “Well, you know the drill by now.” You told him. “Drinks are in the kitchen where they always are, and if there’s anything else you need, I won’t be far away.”

Bobby smiled, leaning in to hug you quickly, an act of friendly affection that you accepted with open arms.

“Thanks, (Y/N).” He told you, letting you go and turning to his friends. “Let’s go get some drinks.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, all of them heading in the direction of the kitchen without a second thought, weaving their way through the people crowding the room. But Xavier didn’t move from his spot, his eyes staring down at you.

For some reason, however, you didn’t mind, simply looking up to meet his eyes with a small smile.

Your head tilted to the side slightly as you inspected his face, eyes narrowing as your smile widened. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” You asked carefully, finding him awfully familiar.

A nervous smile overcame his features, but you thought nothing of it as he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” He answered.

You hummed, analyzing his face for another moment before shaking yourself free of your thoughts, chuckling. “Sorry, you just look so familiar.” You confessed.

The sound of your laugh instantly caused his smile to widen, and his confidence quickly rose when you let the subject go. “I guess I just have one of those faces.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess.” You chuckled again, smiling. You were quiet for a few seconds, your eyes leaving his to gaze around the room.

In one of the corners, you could spot your sorority sisters playing beer pong with some guys from one of the fraternities, and by the looks of it as Savannah had her tits out, they were playing the hit-or-strip version.

The sight brought a slight sigh from your lips, and you shook your head. You could only comfort yourself with the knowledge that your other sisters would look after her and keep her out of harm’s way. God knows she wouldn’t be able to do so herself in the state she was in; she had never been able to hold her alcohol very well.

“Look…” You began, finally tearing your eyes away from the scene and turning back to the blonde boy in front of you. “I know this is kind of sudden and that we don’t know each other very well but… would you want to get out of here?”

You smiled sheepishly, fiddling with the large bracelets on your wrists. “I’m not much of a party person and I’ve been desperate for an excuse to bounce since this thing started.” You confessed.

But rather than finding your sudden and bold request strange, he only smirked, holding his hand out for you to take. “I go where you go.” He told you without as much as a second thought.

You raised an eyebrow at that, but smirked at him and put your hand in his, and wasted no time in leading him towards your dorms.

#xavier plympton #xavier plympton x reader #ahs xavier #xavier plympton imagine #ahs 1984 #ahs x reader #cody fern #michael langdon #american horror story #american horror story imagine

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

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Catch Me If You Can (29/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: You all remain the best! If you celebrate any holidays this week, all the best to you! This will probably be the only chapter this week because I’ll be traveling, so I hope you enjoy!

Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke for her awesome work as my beta! ❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

“Isn’t that your second hot dog of the day?”

Emma stops in the middle of her bite of what is frankly one of the most delicious hot dogs she’s ever eaten – apologies to all of the vendors at Yankee Stadium because Fenway Park might have them all beat today – to look over at Robin and roll her eyes. At least it wasn’t Will who said it. He hates hot dogs, and while that’s probably good for the health of his heart, she is fully enjoying the fact that she’s devouring this thing even if it does mean that she’ll end up on the Jumbotron at some point.

That sick joke is never going to end. Being shown eating ballpark food is going to be her legacy. Maybe one day she’ll write a book about it.

It’ll be a horrible book, and the synopsis will probably read something about her being the woman who was asked out live on television by a baseball player and said no so that people will recognize her. .

But with very good food mentioned.

A segment on TV where she tries out all of the stadium food would probably be better.

“And what of it?” she mumbles to Robin, covering her mouth with her hand as she chews. “I’m hungry because I didn’t eat breakfast, and this game is going on forever. I want to go back to the hotel and sleep, and you guys are keeping me from it.”

“I’ll try to play faster for you, lass.”

“That’s all I ask. Throw your strikes in quicker succession. Allow a few less hits.”

Silence settles back between the two of them as they watch Will hit his third foul in a row. She should probably be writing that down or doing something with it, but honestly, Emma’s only really hiding out in the dugout because there’s shade and close access to air-conditioning. She already did all of her pre-game coverage and can pretty much chill to the end despite the fact that this the final Red Sox series of the season. A part of her wishes that she was up in a booth commentating, but she knows that she’s not going to get to do that too often. She’s mostly going to be the on-field girl for the rest of this season.

There’s always next year, though. David said it went over really well, especially considering what happened with Killian during the game, and all Emma can do is take a deep breath and let things play out. She can’t control any of it.

Easier said than done.

“Did he really not tell you?” Robin asks. She nearly chokes on her food. Maybe she shouldn’t be eating this. “Killian, I mean.”

Emma quickly glances around and sees that no one is paying attention, nearly everyone leaning up over the railing to watch the game, but it doesn’t keep her from leaning back into the bench and making herself smaller so that she’s as far away from everyone as possible.

“He really didn’t tell me,” she whispers, her fingers fumbling with the chain around her neck. “About any of it.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Robin is shaking the conversation off, but she’s curious. “What? You have to tell me now.”

He sighs, and Emma kind of gets the feeling that Robin sees Killian more like a younger brother than a friend sometimes. He and Liam should really make a club or something. They’d probably stress themselves out too much. She knows that she does, and she’s only been worrying about Killian’s overall well-being for five months. They’ve been worrying about it for decades.

“It really is nothing. I just – I’ve been around Killian for a long time. I was there when he cut his dad off, when he and Milah broke up, when all of the women happened after her. And I have so many vivid memories of taking Roland over to Killian’s apartment after the accident just so we could cheer him up, you know? Killian was there for me after my wife passed, and I always wanted to be there for him. So, I guess, it’s simply a bit difficult for me to understand how he couldn’t tell any of us this.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

In all of her own hurt, Emma never actually seriously thought about Robin or Will or Ariel and how this was affecting all of them. She knew that it was, but she was so caught up in her own mind that thinking about this giant support system that Killian has wasn’t really her biggest priority.

Her biggest priority was that bag of salt and vinegar chips.

“I think he was scared.” Emma shrugs her shoulders, trying to play off the little bit of lingering hurt that she still has. “I think that it doesn’t matter how much he trusts all of us because his fear was taking over him. He’s always so worried about being a disappointment, and he probably couldn’t bear to disappoint you again.”

A loud cheer erupts around the stadium, and Emma looks at the monitor inside the dugout to see Will’s ball being caught in the outfield just as he runs over first base. Damn. Five more feet, and he could have scored.

“How is he?”

“Hmm?”

“Killian,” Robin continues. “How is he? Actually?”

“I think,” Emma sighs, stretching out her legs, “that he’d feel a lot better if he got a call from you instead of the two of us talking about him when there’s baseball to be played.”

“Oi,” Will mutters as he walks down the steps to the dugout, everyone slapping his shoulders and his ass, “I hate Boston.”

“You’re from here, Scarlet.”

“Yeah, well, playing here makes me feel like the damn Joker.”

“To be fair,” Emma sighs as she gets up from the bench so that she can stand to watch the game, “the Joker is one of the best characters, and you do have that creepy smile going on.”

“And for that, I’m telling Belle to not serve you dessert at our wedding.”

“You can’t take dessert privileges away from me.”

“I’m the groom.”

“Yeah, but I’m friends with the bride, and that’s all that matters.”

“Scarlet,” Al yells over at them, “stop trying to get Ms. Swan to give you a better exclusive and figure out how to hit a better ball.”

“Geesh,” Will moans, dropping his helmet to the ground and wiping off the sweat from his buzzed hair, “I guess his date didn’t go well yesterday.”

Emma’s head quickly snaps around, and she steps down from her position next to Eric to walk back over to Will and Robin before whispering, “Al had a date last night?”

Will’s brow arches. “You didn’t know?”

“How the hell would I know that Al had a date?”

“Because it was with a teacher from your sister-in-law’s school. His nephew apparently goes there, and they met at some event. Jasmine something.”

A lightbulb goes off in Emma’s head, a slight memory of meeting a Jasmine at David’s birthday party back in March. What a small world. She’s going to have to text Mary Margaret after this because there is no way Mary Margaret didn’t know about that.

“Huh,” Emma breathes out, crossing her arms over her chest and looking down at Al as he paces back and forth looking down at his phone. “Well, maybe it did go well, and he’s just in a bad mood because you guys are getting your asses beat.”

“Go back to your reporting,” Will mutters under his breath. Robin barks out a laugh at that, and even though it’s really weird not having Killian here, a little bit of the world rights itself then having the two of them teasing her like they seem to like to do.

Even if they do lose 1- 6.

It doesn’t matter. They’re 92-50 for the season with only a handful of games left. They’ll probably officially qualify for the play-offs next week even if everyone has known for a while now. Everything from here on out is basically a bonus.

A really damn good bonus.

-/-

They end up winning the next three games in the Red Sox series in what turns out to be some pretty boring games that have Emma struggling to come up with any more interesting questions to ask everyone. It’s easy to talk to the guys that she’s close to because of Killian, but sometimes it’s a struggle to talk to the others without feeling like she’s simply being repetitive. But August and Phillip smile and charm their way through their interviews, as they always do, and the three minutes that she spends talking to Arthur after he hits a grand slam are pretty much three of the most torturous minutes of her life.

There have been no more incidents with him, at least that she knows of, but a shiver still runs down her spine when she thinks of the words he said about her back in London.

Things like that change the way a person feels in their workspace, and even though she’s done a pretty damn good job at pushing the niggling fears down, sometimes they do come back to haunt her and make her worry about what other kind of disaster is lurking around the corner and waiting for her to get comfortable before it attacks.

But , despite missing having Killian to travel with even if the hotel beds are surprisingly very comfortable with just her in it, Emma would definitely count Boston as a success.

After all, their hot dogs were really good.

-/-

David: MM and I are going to Mom’s this weekend, and I know that you have the weekend off. Why don’t you come with us and ask Killian to join?

Emma’s phone dinged with that text five hours ago, before the game against the Tigers even started, and while it initially made her heart beat a little quicker than usual, she forgot about it as she got engrossed in work and trying to help Jeff with the camera issues they were having. It was pretty much a disaster, one that took about five years off of her life, and she ended up having to work next to one of the network’s cameras that films the game for the few times they went to her.

Jeff simply muttered a few curses under his breath and then said he was glad for the day off.

But the game is over now, the Tigers winning by one run in the bottom of the ninth, and even though the game didn’t really matter, it still stings a bit. Now she’s staring at this text, and even though she and Killian have talked about going to Portland so he can meet Ruth, it was supposed to be when the season was over. It wasn’t supposed to be this soon.

She wants to go, and she wants to take Killian. But the nerves over the whole thing are definitely still there. She’s no longer mad at Killian or worried about making future-type plans (okay, well, overly worried), but having him meet Ruth in three days is a bit overwhelming.

What if she doesn’t like him?

That’s a ridiculous thought. Emma knows that it is. But the demons in her mind stay active even if their presence is a little less obvious than it used to be.

Life is weird. Seriously.

And she should really bite the bullet and text David back that she’ll talk to Killian about it.

Everything will be just fine, and a weekend away full of home cooked meals and a place with a backyard sounds really damn nice even if her bed at home will have to wait for her return a little longer.

Emma: I’ll call Killian and ask him if he’s free this weekend.

David: You’ve been away for a week, and those are the days you’re coming home. He’ll be free.

Emma: How could you possibly know that?

David: Because I am a man who knows what it’s like to be away from the woman I love for a few days.

Emma: Ew, gross. Don’t go there.

David: How do you know I was going somewhere gross?

Emma: I had a feeling.

Emma closes out her messages and swipes over on her phone so that she can call Killian, pressing the option to FaceTime him since she’s apparently sappily in love and sentimental and wants to see that handsome face of his.

It’s a very handsome face. Seriously. She’s very happy with her life choices right now.

Killian answers the call, and when he comes into view, she can see that handsome face as well as the faces of approximately thirty stuffed animals surrounding him in what can only be described as a weird pop music video.

“Hello, my love,” Killian greets with an absolutely gigantic smile that has the lines around his eyes crinkling. Her heart is definitely doing that thing where it stutters whenever he calls her by that particular endearment.

“Hey.” Emma smiles into the phone and ignores how lopsided her bun looks in her little picture in the corner. “Who are all of your friends?”

“Ah, well, they all have names, but I’m remiss to say that I can’t actually remember them all right now. But I’ve been sequestered into Addy and Lucy’s playroom.”

“And where are they?”

“Elsa just came and got them for dinner. I meant to go join them, but then you called.”

“That seems like a pretty flimsy excuse. I think you just wanted to hang out with all of the stuffed animals.”

“You’ve bested me there, Swan.” He smiles again, and instead of her heart doing that stuttering thing, it aches a little bit. That’s ridiculous. She shouldn’t actually miss him like that. It’s only been a few days even if it feels so much longer since they barely got anytime to be back together before she was hopping on a plane to Boston. “What are you up to tonight?”

Emma shrugs her shoulders. “You’re looking at it. I think I might do a face mask because my skin feels gross. I also might paint my nails. Real exciting stuff over here.”

“I might help with Addy’s spelling homework, so it’s even more exciting over here.”

She laughs and shakes her head a bit before getting up from the bed and taking her phone with her to the bathroom. She might as well wash her face while she’s thinking about it instead of inevitably forgetting whenever it’s time to go to bed. Emma props her phone up against the vanity so that Killian has a particularly nice view of the underside of her chin and starts her routine by wiping of the makeup from today. Most of it has already sweated itself off, but the remaining is all of the product that likes to be stubborn about coming off. Killian tells her about his day, which pretty much consisted of physical therapy and picking the girls up from school before taking them to Liam and Elsa’s townhome and being smothered in stuffed animals.

As awful as it is for Killian to have to sit on the sidelines, he looks so damn happy just to be able to spend more time with his family. She knows that he sees them a lot, much more than most people do, but he’s always got some place to go or somewhere to be during this time of the year that the visits usually aren’t long. And Emma swears that he gets a few months of his life back every time Killian gets to spend time with Addy or Lucy.

It’s like magic.

That’s kind of how she feels when she gets to spend time with her family too.

Emma opens up the jar of her face mask and dips her finger insider before spreading the green clay over her chin.

“I didn’t know my girlfriend was secretly Shrek.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I am not dignifying that with a response.”

“You look positively charming, love. I think the green is a very good color on you. Brings out your eyes.”

Emma scoffs and ignores the waggle of Killian’s eyebrows while she rubs the mask in the space between her own brows. “So, if you stop being an asshole for a second, I have something I wanted to ask you.”

“Is it how I stay devilishly handsome all the time?”

“No, I was saving that for our next conversation.”

“Ah, ah, gotcha,” he sighs, shifting against the stuffed animals until he’s sitting up and the hair that had been pushed behind him is falling in front of his face. “Go on then, Swan.”

Emma brings her bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it with a pop. “How do you feel about going to Portland this weekend with David, Mary Margaret, and Leo?”

“Are you not coming?”

“I was implied in that list.”

“Well, I don’t know, love. If it was just Dave, Mary Margaret, and Leo, I would of course go to spend some time with Ruth. Now that I know that you’re going to be there – ”

“Shut up. You’re lucky that you’re hundreds of miles away. I can’t slap you from all the way over here.”

“Kinky.”

Killian barks out a laugh at his own joke, his head thrown back with the joy of it all, and all Emma can do is shake her head at him. He’s in rare form tonight with his jokes and teasing and that ever-present smile on his face.

Well, no. He’s not in rare form. This is how he always is, but it’s been awhile since she’s seen him be carefree enough to actually feel this good.

It’s a beautiful sight.

“I will make it worth your while if you come.”

The downright dirty smirk that graces Killian’s face after she utters those words makes a shiver run down her spine and regret settle in her stomach for all of the things she just set him up for.

“Worth my while, then?” Killian prods, raising that brow a little further. “What does that entail, exactly? Are you going to come home early and immediately fall into bed to me? Or do you have a nice set of lingerie in that suitcase of yours that we’re about to put into good use despite the fact that you have a green face right now?” Killian gasps, something overdramatic and self-indulgent, and Emma can barely keep herself from laughing even if the tone of his voice is something close to sinful. “Are you going to seduce me in your childhood bedroom, Swan? Is that it? Is that what will make it worth my while?”

“I mean, I was kind of thinking we’d book a flight so we don’t have to spend seven hours cramped in a car together with the Nolans. They play very intense road trip games. Singing is involved.”

His face only falls a little bit. “Damn, okay. Yeah, I’m all for flying there, but I could also drive us. It wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“I’m pretty sure elevating your shoulder for that long is not what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“You make a good point.”

“I tend to.” There’s a knock at Emma’s hotel room door, and she tenses for a second before taking a step to the side and pressing up on her toes to look out the keyhole to find Ariel standing there in a pair of white pajamas with little red bows on them. Emma opens the door, forgetting about her face and Killian for a second. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

“A few of us are going to eat pizza in mine and Eric’s room, and I was trying to invite you but I couldn’t get you to answer your phone.”

“Oh,” Emma sighs, looking back into the bathroom to the direction of her phone. “Sorry about that. I was talking to Killian, and I – ”

Ariel’s shoulders perkperk s up, and she steps inside the room without asking, which Emma has learned is pretty par for the course when it comes to Ariel. Emma closes the door behind her and walks into the bathroom to grab her phone, where Killian is still waiting in the screen, and she hands the phone over to Ariel because she knows that’s what she wanted anyways.

Plus, her face mask is starting to crack, and she’s got to get this gunk off of her. The water drowns out the sound of the conversation happening in the bedroom, but as soon as she turns it off, she can hear Killian talking.

“No, A,” Killian sighs, “I am not overexerting myself. Yes, I have talked to Rob this week. No, I didn’t watch last night’s game. You know you can just text me, right? You didn’t have to steal Emma’s phone.”

“I didn’t steal her phone. She handed it to me.”

“You basically stole it.”

“I did not.”

Emma laughs under her breath before walking into the bedroom. Those two are ridiculous. Their friendship makes no sense, but Emma knows they wouldn’t survive without each other.

Seriously.

“Babe, Ariel did not steal my phone. You’re just complaining because I gave you away to her without warning.”

“I am not,” he scoffs, and when she can finally see his face again, the tips of his ears are noticeably red. “Where’d your green face go?”

“Washed it off.” Emma settles down on the bed next to Ariel who scoots over for her. “So, what is this I hear about you talking to Robin? Did you guys finally hash out all of your emotional issues about your penchant for keeping secrets?”

“I still can’t believe he did that,” Ariel tells her, an exasperated look on her face.

“I would say welcome to the club, but you’re already an established member.”

“I feel like I could be co-chair or vice president or something.”

“You might be able to be president.”

“No, you or someone from his family gets that role, I think.”

“Really, because – ”

“The two of you are never allowed to go anywhere without me ever again,” Killian interrupts, and they both turn from each other back down to the phone screen.

“It’s funny you say that because I have planned a vacation with all of the women in your life, and all we’re going to do is plot ways to make you miserable.”

“You are not funny, A.”

“I think you’re hysterical,” Emma combats, winking at Killian. “But seriously. You talked to Robin? Did you tell him the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ spiel?”

“Yes, love, I used the cliché breakup line to explain to Robin that it had nothing to do with my trust in him and everything to do with me being a cowardly asshole.”

“And he accepted it?”

“Yep,” he murmurs. “He accepted it, and we’re all sunshine and roses now. Seriously. We probably talked for an hour or two this morning.”

“Good,” Emma breathes out, a smile on her face. She’s so relieved that they talked. She’s kind of been far too worried about it since she and Robin talked about it in the dugout a few days ago. “I’m going to text you later, okay? I’m going to go stuff my face with pizza with everybody.”

“Yeah, Swan, that sounds nice. Have fun. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Bye, Ariel,” Killian says, waving his hand. “Please don’t plot my death while you guys eat pizza.”

“I make no promises.”

The phone disconnects, and Emma places it on the bed next to her before scooting away from Ariel to give her some space since their bodies were pretty much aligned during that conversation.

“He’s happy today.”

“Hmm?” Emma asks, not really hearing Ariel’s words, her mind still replaying all of the craziness of her conversation with Killian.

“Killian,” Ariel says, smiling at Emma. “He’s happy. Like, he’s got that fresh glow of a man in love. It’s just nice to see is all. I like that you make him happy.”

“Oh no,” Emma protests with a shake of her head. She gets up from the bed, too flustered to stay still, and reaches down into her suitcase for her moisturizer simply to have something to do with her hands. “I don’t – that’s not on me. That’s on Killian and how he’s got a lot of really good people around him. I know I wasn’t around for the last lay-off, but I know it was rough. I think he’s in a better headspace now, even if it did have a rough start.”

Emma dips her finger into the container and swipes the cream across her forehead while she tries to regulate her breathing. She knows where this conversation is going. Ariel is very much like Mary Margaret in all of her love and hope for good in the world, and she likes to talk about these things like big emotional moments aren’t a difficult thing to talk about.

“You’re one of those people he’s got around him, though,” Ariel continues, and Emma keeps rubbing her hands in circles across her face. “Killian is one of my best friends in the world. I know him almost as well as I know my own husband, and I know that he’s so much happier now because of you. That’s a good thing.”

“I know. I’m just – ”

“Scared?” Ariel gets up from the bed and walks over to Emma so that Emma can see her face and see the hopeful smile that resides there. “Does it make you feel better that I’m still scared?”

“No,” Emma laughs, something that settles her stomach a bit. “How would that make me feel better? That sounds like a nightmare. You’ve been married for half a decade.”

“Love is always scary. You never know what’s going to happen when you wake up in the morning. Like, ever. I don’t know if Eric and I are going to have a day where it’s like we’re on our honeymoon again or a day where the sound of him chewing is going to get on my nerves. But I love him, and I love getting to have him be by my side every day. He’s not the sole reason I’m happy, but he’s a big part of it. I think it’s the same with you and Killian. That’s a good thing.”

“Have you ordered a really nasty pizza? Is that why you’re trying to butter me up?”

Ariel laughs and walks toward Emma but seems to step back from giving her a hug. “No, I’m trying to butter you up because I hear you can do all kinds of braids, and I’ve never quite been able to figure out the Dutch braid.”

“Luckily for you, I am an expert in that.”

“Good. Now, come on. We’ve got to go before the boys eat all of the pizza.”

“Who all is in there?”

“Just Will, Robin, and Eric.”

“Well, shit,” Emma laughs as she grabs her phone and her hotel key. “You’re right. They are going to eat it all before we get there.”

Emma follows Ariel out into the hall and follows her down the hallway to the stairwell so they can walk up the two flights of stairs to everyone else’s floor. Before they even enter the room, Emma can hear the three of them laughing. Sure enough, once the door is open, they’re each spread out across the room – Will on the couch, Eric on the bed, and Robin sitting in the desk chair – and pizza boxes litter the room along with beer bottles. Emma has been around professional athletes for most of her adult life, and she’s never seen a group of them so consistently break their nutrition plan like this team.

Not that it bothers her. Though, tomorrow she is eating a hell of a lot of fruit and vegetables to make up for it.

She says that a lot. It usually works.

“Emma,” Will yells as she walks into the room. He holds up his half-eaten slice as a greeting. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I was almost afraid I was going to forget what you looked like.”

“Am I still as beautiful as you remember?”

“Eh, you’re looking a little rough right now.”

“Asshole,” Emma laughs, walking toward the desk and opening a box to grab a piece of pizza. “What about you, Robin?”

He points to himself. “Are you asking if I’m still as beautiful as you remember since I saw you last? Because I personally think I’ve become more attractive.”

Emma snorts, actually snorts, and she doesn’t bother trying to cover it up before plopping herself down on the bed next to Ariel and Eric, squishing herself down on the mattress. It’s not the best pizza in the world, not even close, but the company is top notch and not something Emma would like to ever trade for anything.

In the past, she’s never gained friends from a relationship. Neal had all kinds of people in his life, but they were always temporary. She’d meet them once, ask about them two weeks later, and then Neal would claim to not know who she was talking about. He was always onto the next thing and the next group of people who could help him get what he wanted. Walsh had friends, a group of people he’d met through some kind of club for antique furniture, but they were all obnoxious and unfriendly. She didn’t want to be friends with them, and they certainly didn’t want to be friends with her.

And maybe it has helped Emma now that she already knew most of the people in Killian’s life because of her work, but they’re all so welcoming and supportive that she couldn’t imagine them not getting along.

Usually it helps that Killian is around, but this past week, it’s been kind of nice to get to talk to all of them simply because they want to talk to her. For someone who isn’t used to that, Emma thinks that it could become a familiar feeling.

She wants it to.

Emma pulls out her phone later that night and takes a video of everyone talking and laughing. Will is telling some insane story about a caterer who they interviewed for the wedding who wanted to serve all raw food, including meat, and it’s caused an uproar in the conversation. She sends the video to Killian, making sure that the last frame is her smiling at him.

Emma: Wish you were here.

Killian texts her back five minutes later. It’s a picture of him in Addy’s bed, his legs hanging over the end, with both Addy and Lucy draped over him asleep.

Killian: Same here. I don’t think I’ll be moving for the rest of the night. They’re not quite as good of a bedfellow as you.

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #captain swan

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cheermeupthankyou · 5 years ago

Text

Brie Larson vs. The World: A Letter for Humanity

So I’d like to share and say hmmm in terms of adoration mm yeah Chris Evans what a husband material hubba hubba Chris Hemsworth funny dude even Taika Waititi oh Jodie Comer- in lesbians for her Armie Hammer Jake Gyllenhaal oofers eye candy Margaret Qualley mah babies Mackenzie Davis Wynonna Ryder and Kristen Stewart of course all them Marvel girls from A for Angelina Jolie Blanchett Danai Debicki Saldana Evangeline Karen Scarlett etc etc etc to Z for Zendaya Star Wars gang Daisy Felicity Oscar Lupita um yes please all the heroines we love Gal Gadot Amber Heard les cheveux roux madmoiselles Chastain Amy Adams the veterans Patricia Clarke Bullock Paulson Weaver Gillian Anderson Moore Lawless Mirren what goddesses they are even the young’uns newcomers Diana Silvers Billie Lourd Hunter Schafer such gems Thrones crew Gwendoline Emilia Lena Kit Sophie Maisie err pretty much everyone of them yes even the Night King give me the shivurs Aubrey Plaza Anna Kendrick Sarah Carter yas yas yas even some voice actors Ashly Burch Elizabeth Maxwell Hannah Telle j’adore Fab Five queers heck even politicians like AOC or Kamala Harris or Brian Sims gets me giddy wonderful wonderful insanely talented amazing great people.

But

then

there’s

Brie Larson.

I was a music photographer and journalist for a while, I interviewed people and got the chance to meet some renowned humans (Feist, Au Revoir Simone, Kina Grannis, YYYs, Sean Lennon to name a few) it was my job to recognise their backgrounds and learn people’s personalities and identify situations.

While there are so much amazing people that I mentioned above who has done so many great things, I have never seen someone MOST relatable like Brie, so humble and hardworking in the harsh -no privacy- industry of entertainment, who just bases her life out of goodness and excitement of life and purity. She’s like most of us, she’s awkward and shy, loves pets, video games, Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Sailor Moon, fan girls towards other celebs, music nerd and an actual nerd, and just loving life in general.

So it does break my heart that people are targeting her as the subject of everything that’s negative just because she wanted to set a stigma that women can be powerful and is their own person, and she’s had it rough before (as I read/listened/watched her interviews) Here’s a narrowed down of her life:

- Her parents were constantly fighting when she was young, leaving her into a broken home, around 7 years old she moved to LA living in a studio apartment with her mom and sister with the 3 of them with only 1 murphy bed. She’s estranged with her dad until now.

- She’s definitely an introvert, type of girl who sits on the far upper left or right corner in the theatre thinking that she doesn’t block anyone’s view (she actually said this on an interview), had social anxiety attacks since she was young but she knows she loves acting and wants to entertain people, starting with singing in her early years. She prefers doing stuffs alone and creating arts just to keep her mind at ease.

- Because of her passion in acting and her social condition, she was home schooled and focused in acting schools more, thankfully her mother supported her to go to acting schools and just going on auditions. Her singing career didn’t go as much as she hoped, to make ends meet she started DJ-ing just to earn money. Keep in mind Brie did not come from a prestige family with access to Hollywood unlike some of her Marvel co-stars. She started from zero.

- She actually auditioned for Twilight and was told, “Don’t ever bring Brie Larson back here again” for whatever reason. Was also told she wasn’t “sexy enough” for some stuffs she auditioned.

- Even though she loves acting, knowing she’s an introvert, it is the only reason why Brie has never considered blockbuster movies because she was afraid of getting recognised worldwide that it would leave her having no privacy at life at all. Due to this, she accepted mostly indie movies (Most recognisably Short Term 12 or The Glass Castle) but even by doing indie movies she didn’t earn enough money that sometimes she would cry in her kitchen telling her mom that she doesn’t have any money just to buy food.

- She did the movie Room which won her first Oscar for best actress, but in the process in doing so it broke her in half because of her childhood past and trauma. Whilst doing The Glass Castle she also said it was rather personal that she played a character with a broken relationship with a father (Played by Woody Harrelson) is because she never had father-daughter relationship. All the stuffs she did were mostly personal because she felt connected to them. Even Captain Marvel, because she felt that it was a moment in her life where she needs the change to be stronger for herself and Carol has changed her for that.

- Her road into becoming Captain Marvel was almost like a brick to brick road built up for her, as she has acted in movies with most of the Marvel casts. In 13 Going On 30 with Mark Ruffalo, with Chris Evans in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, Scarlett Johansson in Don Jon, Tom Hiddleston and Samuel L. Jackson in Kong: Skull Island and Joe and Anthony Russo in Community. A few reasons she accepted the role of Captain Marvel; One being when she saw Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman, she admitted that even as the movie was just about a few minutes in, she couldn’t stop crying and she asks herself as to why that is, and she realised that this is the stuff I need, we don’t have this enough, where a powerful strong woman was depicted on screen; The other, for the most realistic reason that she did need the money while she was given the opportunity; The SIMPLEST reason is just to MAKE PEOPLE HAPPY that the character is going to be brought to life; The MOST important of them all is that she wants to break the barrier of herself. She wants to be more out there, spreading positivity and setting an example to people to be stronger for themselves, that people can change for the better, in which in this case: Brie was a completely non athletic person with asthma, she trained for 9 months, almost 3-5 hours a day for 5 days a week at the gym with constant crying because of her hard work and changes to herself, vomited mostly at the gym and also puked during her pilot training. She had bruises all over the place because she did most of her stunts and training (Per her saying, it was ignorance at first because she thought everyone on Marvel was doing their own stunts when they’re not, but she did most of them herself that she was allowed to).

- Now that she has recognition, she’s actually doing more activism and be a spokeswoman into helping people. She even promotes people’s brand and stuffs via her Instagram just to help out simple things.

Please remember, she’s human. She has flaws, but I have never seen her doing/saying anything fatal that depicts resent. Never. And no, Brie is not the first female ever trying to set examples for people, but she is the current one getting the most hate for it just because of Captain Marvel— a film about a female superhero, setting an example for people to be stronger, she did it just to make people happy and half the world is angry at her. WTF. Believe it or not, this is girl actually CARES about people, she would care about you if you actually DO CARE about all the good things that does matter. Being of who she is, Brie is capable of empathising with people, which is something most people don’t have.

Brie wanted to be a better person, SHE DID. When in fact Brie has successfully done that, now people are hating her even more because she’s just a “bigger easier target” because of her role and apparently it is easier to hate someone else than just to be nice or appreciative or grateful in general.

If you’re reading and you’re hating, can I just ask, what has Brie Larson done to your life? And maybe ask yourself what have you done that matters in your life? We can just be nicer to other people, it’s really not that hard to try, you know. Life is just about being kind to each other, there is no point in throwing hate because it’s not your cup of tea, having an opinion to your taste is fine, but giving hate comments about is just being an asshole. Imagine being in her shoes and dealing with all those that wasn’t necessary in the first place. It does take mentality of the size of the Jupiter with that amount of hate, and Brie Larson is still dealing them. Just think if that was you, could you be able to handle it as far as what she’s gone though? Really think about it. Not one human in the world wants to be hated for even the smallest reason, not even you.

As to those who feel like they wanted a change in their lives, if Brie can do it, SO CAN YOU. Stay calm, just be nice and kind to others— even to those who treated you unjustly. Let the action speaks louder than any words will ever do. And be happy of life.

My adoration for her is at the apex at the moment. She is IT.

So I’m just here spreading the love for Brie.

#brie larson

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mercurygray · 5 years ago

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Beecham House - Episode 4

Quelle scandale! Chandrika is in John's room in the dead of night! (My god, this man with literally every female he's not related to on this show. Chanchal likes him, Chandrika likes him, Violet is throwing herself at him, the Empress seems to approve of him, and Margaret perhaps has a tendresse for him?)

We meet the crown prince, Akbar - a character who seems to have his head on the right way (not always the case for crown princes). I don't suppose we can throw him and Roshanara in the same lane? (On second thought, they're second cousins. Perhaps not.)

For a man who apparently had a spendthrift and absent father, John certainly doesn't spend much time talking about it. I'd like to think this has informed his parenting style a little - he's certainly not a hands-off parent.

Daniel does some rapid character development in this scene - for a checked-out second son we met in a smoke-filled brothel, he's certainly now very much in the know about matters of state and business.

"I had a fiance who could not control himself." WHOA WAIT WHO NOW. Okay, so Margaret came out to India with her brother, met someone while here, her brother left, and then she broke with the fiance over the matter of a native mistress? (I really do like her speech here, though; is that cheap of me? I think it's Anne Coty who talks about the juxtaposition between English and Indian morals when it comes to things like sex. English women are really in a hard place because they're supposed to be the arbiters of respectability, so when their men stray into affairs with Indian women, it's their fault for letting them do so, but if they were allow themselves extramarital sex, then they're fault, too. Either way, they lose.)

"Margaret, this is a grotesque misunderstanding, and it must end." From where I'm sitting, these two don't have an understanding; they're friends and neighbors. I get a general sense of unease at not knowing someone, but how is John betraying her here?

Samuel Parker, you're a sneaky bastard and you're full of shit.

"Girl? I am to be your wife." Chanchal. Sweetie. At no point did he ever say anything to that effect. At all. We were listening. We all heard. We met this character in a brothel. We knew where this was going.

Ram Lal looks like he's going to do something terribly gallant, like deck Daniel (deservedly) across the face.

This flashback does not do NEARLY enough towards explaining John's defection. If Daniel at every turn is saying how much the Company owns him and his service, how was John just able to walk away into the unknown? I like the rags to riches story, and wish John had found...I dunno, a mentor, someone who picked him up out of the gutter, taught him a trade and then left him his business. It would provide a little bit of structure to what otherwise reads like an 18th century Eat Pray Love kind of deal.

Ah, they're the daughters of a maharaja. This makes more sense. And he's just kosher with his daughter marrying this dude?! Wow.

It seems to me if you were worried about bandits attacking your palace you would, I don't know, do something like double the palace guard or something. In addition to sending your children away.

Ah, so here is the source of the house and the staff and the fortune and the security issues. Still doesn't answer how his mother got back in touch with him after he'd been a hobo for several years.

#beecham house #can we just take all these characters and do something different with them?#this is all over the place

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stahlop · 5 years ago

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Winner Takes it All (1/1)

Must Love Dogs is not going to be ready today, hopefully it will be ready by tomorrow. But in the meantime, here is a little one shot I wrote.

So this was a prompt I had sent someone when I first got onto Tumblr and never had any intention of trying to write fanfic on my own. But now I am writing fanfic, so I decided to write the idea myself. Enjoy.

And as usual, thank you @profdanglaisstuff for being my beta and helping me make this fic come to life!

Ao3

Rated: G

It was ridiculous is what it was. Emma Swan and Killian Jones were most definitely dating. Ruby had seen them cuddling in a booth together at Granny’s. Mary Margaret had seen them sneaking away from one of the town meetings together. David said that Killian had brought Emma as his date for a work function, but Emma claimed they were just friends and she was only there for the free food. Duh! And that was the rub, Emma and Killian claimed they were just friends. Friends who did everything together, including sleeping over at each other’s apartments and (according to Emma’s roommate, Elsa) sharing a bed on most nights.

Their friend group had been betting for months on when Emma and Killian would finally let them know they were dating. It had started small. Ruby claimed they were dating and David said they weren’t. She’d bet him 20 bucks that they’d be kissing in front of everyone by the end of the week. But it never happened. David wanted his 20 bucks. Ruby doubled down. Then Mary Margaret wanted in. She believed they were dating too. Eventually, everyone in their little group of friends became convinced it was true, even David. So now the bet wasn’t about whether they were dating or not, it was when the hell Emma and Killian were finally going to come clean about it.

It was Ruby who laid out the rules of the bet. Each person involved would pick out a date for the month. Whomever got the closest would win the money. And no one was allowed to try to manipulate Emma and Killian into revealing themselves or tell them about the bet to increase their chances. After five months, the pot was up to $2000.

Elsa was sure that she had it in the bag in February because of Valentine’s Day (month three of the bet). How could two people so obviously in love not share that with everyone? But no, they joined the group for the late night drinking binge they always went on after the couples in their group (David and Mary Margaret and Ruby and Mulan) had their obligatory dates and came to join the singletons. Emma bitched as usual about not needing a man and what a stupid, made up holiday it was, and Killian nodded in agreement and went home early to wallow. Emma and Elsa went back to their apartment, both as single women.

David really thought he’d had it in the bag with that work function Killian brought Emma to in month four, but Emma seemed to be flirting with Graham of all people. Graham who was most definitely dating August from accounting. And Killian seemed to be flirting with Tink, whom David was pretty sure also had a boyfriend. When David had asked Killian why he had brought Emma even though a) a date was not required at this event and b) they seemed to be ignoring each other the whole time, Killian had simply shrugged, run his fingers through his dark hair and said “Who better to ignore at a party than your best friend?”

“I think they know about the bet.” Elsa said once they started into month seven, sliding into the booth that contained David and Mary Margaret on the other side. Mary Margaret knocked her coffee mug over.

“Shoot, sorry.” Mary Margaret said grabbing some napkins from the dispenser to clean up the mess she’d just made on the table. “Why do you think she knows?” Mary Margaret continued.

“Because Liam made some comment to Killian about setting him up with Aurora, kind of as a thank you, and Killian said he wasn’t interested.” Elsa and Liam, Killian’s brother, had recently started seeing each other. It was still new, but they were already pretty obsessed with each other. Emma and Killian, of all people, had set them up.

“So why does that mean he knows about the bet?” David asked, taking a sip of his Coke. Liam was not part of the betting pool, having just learned about it from Elsa when they started dating.

“Because then Liam suggested that maybe Killian wasn’t interested because he was already seeing Emma, and Liam said his eyebrows almost flew off his face with how high he raised them, ‘quickly schooled his features’ --Liam’s words, not mine-- and told Liam he was being preposterous.” Elsa finished explaining.

“Again,” Mary Margaret began, grabbing the soiled paper napkins and throwing them into a garbage can near the entrance of the diner, “that doesn’t tell us they know about the bet. Just that someone else thinks that he and Emma are dating and they won’t admit it.”

“And then,” Elsa said, getting frustrated at Mary Margaret for all the interruptions, “Killian responded with, I bet you think you’re so clever.”

“They totally know about the bet.” David agreed.

“They totally know about the bet.” Elsa repeated.

They called an emergency group meeting at The Rabbit Hole after that revelation. David, Mary Margaret, Elsa, Ruby, Mulan, and Will (he was their regular bartender, but even he could tell they’d been shagging for months now).

“We need to force this out in the open. They know about the bet. Who knows how long they’ve known about it. I think they’re just messing with us now.” Elsa said.

“Did we just step into an episode of Friends, because I swear I’ve seen this one,” Ruby stated.

“Maybe we should just give everyone their money back and just let them be,” Mulan asserted.

“No way!” Elsa exclaimed, “We’ve been invested in this for too long now.”

“Well, what are you suggesting? Setting them up with other people? They’ll either say no or they’ll agree and flirt like crazy with the person. We’ve already seen it happen.” David said.

“What if we can get them to admit it to someone not associated with us at all, and then we can, I don’t know, catch them in the act,” Elsa proposed.

“And how, exactly, do we plan on doing that?” Mary Margaret asked, getting frustrated over this whole thing.

“Well, Liam is pretty sure that Killian and Emma go on dates out of town. If we can figure out where and get someone from the restaurant to get us pictures, then we have them!” Elsa concluded. She knew they were having sex. She shared a wall with Emma for crying out loud. And ever since she started dating Liam, Killian had been out of the apartment a lot more.

“I’m sorry, what?” Mary Margaret balked at the notion of spying on Emma and Killian, “When did we become private eyes? Isn’t that Emma’s department? Seriously, Elsa, this is getting way out of hand.” Emma was Mary Margaret’s best friend. She hated that Emma hadn’t told anyone about dating Killian, but it was still up to Emma to let them know on her own time, not when Elsa decided to out them by playing super sleuth.

“What do you suggest then, Mary Margaret?” Elsa said, turning on her with an annoyed glare.

“How ‘bout asking them why they’re holding hands right now.” Will butted in from the bar.

The group turned toward the entrance. There were Emma and Killian, casually walking in holding hands and mooning over each other as if no one else in the bar existed.

“Hey you two.” Elsa said trying to sound casual. The rest of the group also mumbled their hellos as if they hadn’t just been discussing the two obvious lovebirds.

“Look,” Emma began, “I know you all have suspected that Killian and I have been dating.” The group held their breath waiting for the excuse that they knew was coming. “And we are here to officially tell you that we are in fact dating.” Killian finished. He and Emma looked at each other, smiled, and then shared a chaste kiss on the lips for their group of friends to see.

Elsa’s mouth was agape. “You’re just admitting it? I mean,” she tried to recover gracefully, “how long has this been going on? We had no idea.” Ruby started cackling in the background. Mulan gave her a good elbow to the ribs to quiet her down.

“It’s been going on for a few months.” Emma said a little anxiously, “We just didn’t want to say anything right away because it was new, and if it didn’t work out we didn’t need you guys all up in our business.”

“Of course. Emma, Killian, we’re so happy for you.” Mary Margaret said, practically in tears. She went to hug both of them.

“Too bad Liam isn’t here.” Elsa stated, “He would love to know that you two were together. He’s been rooting for you.”

“Um, yeah, about that,” Killian said, scratching the back of his neck, a nervous tic they all knew about, “He does know, Elsa. We asked him not to tell you because we were keeping it to ourselves.” Once again, Elsa’s mouth dropped.

They decided drinks were in order for the newly-outed couple. No one said a word about the bet. Elsa claimed she’d be having some words with Liam when she saw him later that night, but she’d had quite a bit to drink, so by the time Liam came and joined them, she was in no position to even form a coherent sentence.

“I’m glad you two have finally decided to stop this nonsense and share your happiness with us all, little brother,” Liam said clapping Killian on the back and giving Emma a quick hug.

“Younger brother,” he said but with very little bite.

It was just Emma and Killian and Mary Margaret and David left by the time the bar closed. Will was in the back counting out the till and David, who had barely drunk anything, left to go get the car.

“So,” Killian said, quirking his eyebrow at Mary Margaret, “how much did you win?”

“I think the pot was up to $2500. So,” Mary Margaret calculated in her head, “$1250 is half. I’ll let you know when I get it from Ruby. She’s been in charge of the money,” she said as if this were an ordinary, everyday financial transaction.

“Good job on getting Liam to make Elsa suspect,” Mary Margaret said to the happy couple.

“She’d been driving me crazy!” Emma said, “Dropping hints left and right about Killian and me. But I knew we could hold off longer until the pot was more significant. Thanks for letting us in on it.” Emma grinned.

“Well, it’s not like I meant to. It was a simple slip up. Besides, you know how well I can keep a secret,” Mary Margaret said, trying to defend herself. Emma and Killian had told her and Liam after they’d been dating for two months, needing someone each of them could confide in. Telling them about the bet had been a complete accident.

“I’m so happy for you two.” Mary Margaret told them. And she was. They had basically been living a rom-com for the past year; one about best friends who were seriously pining for one another.

“Darn it, I guess Ruby gets the money.” Mary Margaret added absent-mindedly.

“What money?” Emma had asked. Mary Margaret turned bright red.

“Um….” She wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Did you have a wager with Ruby about us getting together?” Killian asked looking appalled.

“Not exactly.” Mary Margaret said looking down at her hands.

“Then what exactly?” Emma asked getting agitated.

“Um ...the whole group was betting on when you two would finally admit you were dating. Even Will was in on it.” Mary Margaret confessed.

But instead of getting angrier, Emma and Killian had turned to one another and laughed.

“Mary Margaret, how would you like to make some money?” Emma said, green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You ready to go, Mary Margaret?” David asked coming back in from outside startling Mary Margaret out of her reverie.

“Yep.” She said, scooting off the stool and walking over to her husband. They exited the bar leaving the happy couple behind.

“Well, that was exciting.” Killian said grabbing Emma’s hand. He took it to his lips to kiss the knuckles.

“We’re really going to need that money, considering.” Emma said taking her other hand and brushing her slightly rounded stomach. “I’m surprised no one noticed you drinking my shots tonight.”

She grinned at the new secret they were hiding.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics!

@profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @mariakov81 @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89

#cs au ff #cs secretly dating #friends betting on friends

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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“Jeanne Boydston’s study of housework suggests another possible explanation for the tendency of parents to withdraw their daughters from domestic employ: the devaluation of housework itself as an activity of any economic value. The introduction of a cash economy into the interstices of post revolutionary American life meant that activities that did not customarily generate cash—including those myriad duties of domestic maintenance—became ‘‘invisible,’’ defined as something other than work both by those who did housework and by those who did not.

Women themselves increasingly devalued the importance of their own work, as evidenced by Lydia Almy of Salem, Massachusetts, who ‘‘wove, attended to livestock, made cider, carted wood, tanned skins, took in boarders,’’ but nonetheless, recorded in her diary that she was disturbed to know that she was ‘‘in no way due any thing towards earning my living,’’ unlike her mariner husband. The increasing tendency to define housework as hardly work at all, because of its unwaged (or low-waged) character, influenced the calculations of parents as they made decisions about their daughters’ lives.

Mary Virginia Terhune’s advice explicitly attributed a cash calculation— and an invidious distinction—to the attitudes of both daughters and their fathers toward daughters’ work, especially when girls had received educations. Fathers, she felt, imagined that ‘‘the labor of an educated woman,—especially if that woman is his child, and her scholastic education has cost him thousands of dollars—should . . . command a better market-price than that of an illiterate Celt, whose schooling cost nothing.’’ Daughters themselves might have adopted a wage theory of value to assess the value of their own labor, Terhune speculated. A middle-class daughter’s ‘‘time and strength are worth more than a seamstress’s, or chambermaid’s or cook’s wages. The world teems with seamstresses, chambermaids, and cooks, clamoring for the very work she abhors.’’

Frances Willard’s book of advice to girls put a different spin on the situation, based on a similar hierarchy of class. She urged middle-class daughters to aspire to higher work than housekeeping, arguing that opening a place for a domestic servant in their homes created a place for a destitute young woman who otherwise ‘‘might be tempted into paths of sin.’’ (Prostitutes themselves often compared the two vocations, to the disadvantage of housework.) Writing in the 1880s,Willard and Terhune did not lament the graduation of middle-class girls from housework; they seemed to agree that middle-class girls either had priced or should price themselves out of the market for domestic labor.

…One of those who worked for her living was Ann Ware Winsor herself, who ran a school from their home and sought other ways to eke out the family’s subsistence. In a letter to her daughter the previous summer, she informed Annie of several schemes she had for making money; for one, the boys would raise chickens. ‘‘While they make money out of hens, I expect you girls to make it out of small fruits, and I have engaged a lot of plants to be delivered here in the Spring for you to cultivate!’’ Ann Ware Winsor assured her daughter that not only would it provide a welcome contribution to the family coffers, but ‘‘That’s the way out of head-aches and other ails. Read some books on the subject and you will grow enthusiastic.’’

Despite the economic worries of the Winsor family, however, only one child, a middle son, actually worked at a paid job outside the home in 1880: seventeen-year-old Paul was a clerk at the railroad office. The eldest, Robert, was in college, and all the rest were in school, including nineteen-year-old Mary and fifteen-year-old Annie. Presumably the ‘‘opportunity costs’’ of educating the girls were low enough that it weighed against sacrificing their education. Family calculations also suggested that the daughters’ extra energies would be better used in assisting in teaching in their mother’s school than in doing housework. For the 1880 census indicated that the Winsor family employed three female servants. (Annie’s private journal recorded cryptically, ‘‘Maids are an abomination for children.’’)

…The growth of the market economy during the course of the nineteenth century meant that girls as well as their parents felt the need of cash. Those without access to cash sought strategies to make some, whatever their attitudes toward women’s wage work as a social development. Away at school in the cash-poor South, and largely abandoned as well by her father, Mary Thomas fantasized about alternative lives. In one of them she sold things, ‘‘for I mean to work a patch next year and make some money, if I don’t have to come back to school; and then at Christmas, I will have a right good lot of money to do as I please with, I think I shall get a watch with it.’’ Despite her clear disdain elsewhere in her diary for the notion of working for a living, Mary Thomas was willing to countenance work for wages in order to be able to participate in a consumer economy.

A fourteen-year-old subscriber to the youth magazine Harper’s Young People reported that she had earned the money for her subscription herself ‘‘by sewing for the black people.’’ She reported that she had to sew ‘‘very cheaply, because they are so poor’’; presumably her low wages also reflected her low level of skill. A correspondent to St. Nicholas also reported that she and her brother had earned the money for their subscription themselves—in this case by selling hickory nuts and onions. Elite girls came late to money earning. Mary Virginia Terhune charged late Victorian parents with discriminating against girls in their differential training in the basics of money management.

‘‘Jack raises chickens and sells the eggs and ‘broilers’ to Mamma. Willy splits kindling-wood for the kitchenfire and draws his lawful wages from Papa as would any other laborer. Mamie comes down to breakfast, as gay as the morning, hair bound with a blue ribbon that matches her eyes, waltzes up to Papa, in a gale of affectionate glee, throws her arms around his neck and begs for a kiss. She gets two and a gold dollar, fished up from the vest-pocket nearest the paternal heart—‘because she looks so pretty today.’’’ Terhune’s charge that girls were not given experience managing money had some basis.

Women were not paid wages for housework; instead, their work was supposed to come ‘‘from the heart,’’ and to be inspired by devotion to the family good. To the extent that girls shared in their mothers’ lots, they too were encouraged to dust, to make beds, and to shell peas not as entrepreneurs but as part of their responsibilities to womanly service. However, just as housewives made some cash through the nineteenth century for a variety of home manufactures, girls too might learn to work for profit in performing those home tasks still considered ‘‘productive.’’

…Good parents saw to it that daughters had some skills in handling their own money—and because few urban girls had the money-making possibilities available to Margaret Tileston on her family’s farm, some of them began to receive small sums in the form of a regular allowance. An 1897 study on ‘‘Children’s Sense of Money’’ found that 7 percent of all girls were given a regular allowance. Jessie Wendover, the daughter of a prospering Newark grocer, was one. At the age of nine in 1881, she received ten cents a week allowance, which was raised to twenty-five cents by the time she was fourteen. She kept a careful account of every expenditure.

At fourteen, her expenditures included an occasional soda water (ten cents), ice cream, Sunday school donation (five cents), a variety of school supplies, carfare, ribbons, music. Although she was not usually responsible for buying her own clothes, she also recorded paying twenty-five cents several times for a bustle, perhaps because it was not encouraged by her mother, or more likely because it was one of the few ready-made items in her wardrobe. She paid for her own magazine subscription to St. Nicholas, $2.75, or nearly three months’ allowance. As befitted her regular habits, Jessie Wendover customarily carried a balance of $5 or so from month to month, except when depleted by the Christmas season.

By 1887, when Wendover was fifteen, she was receiving fifty cents a week, and recorded paying twenty-five cents ‘‘to see picture ‘Christ on Calvary.’’’ At sixteen, she developed a taste for milkshakes, a habit of occasionally eating lunch out, and a preference for having her bangs cut by a salon. Chewing gum, peanuts, and marshmallows made their appearance in her accounts in the summer of 1888, but so did regular contributions to the missionary box, and in the fall, a donation for yellow fever sufferers. The following year she noted frequent small outlays for hokeypoky—ice cream—and she once spent seventy-five cents to have her hair shampooed.

But in October of that year she was sufficiently ahead to deposit $3.00 in the bank, and in September of 1892, her twentieth year, $20.00. Clearly Jessie Wendover’s ample allowance and her own prudence allowed her early to learn not only how to spend money and account for it but also how to save it—all important lessons for bourgeois helpmates. Another pattern though seemed to be gaining currency at the same time. Increasingly, household chores began to creep in as part of the way that parents justified giving money to youth.

…Occasionally, and unevenly, girls’ diaries began to suggest that they themselves were beginning to expect and to receive wages for work done for their families. Marian Nichols reported receiving wages for family sewing. ‘‘Worked on some drawers for Margaret. Mamma is to pay 30 cts a pair for them.’’ The next year she reported that she was even getting paid for exercise. ‘‘Went to school. Walked in and out by myself. Rosy doesn’t like my getting money from walking out. I get 3 cts.’’ Jane Addams’s father paid her for every volume of Plutarch she read and reported on, as well as for every volume of such things as Irving’s Life of Washington, ‘‘after the manner of Victorian fathers,’’ according to Anne Scott.

The custom of paying daughters for their work in the bourgeois family suggested a new approach to girls as well as to family economics. The same study that tracked the development of the ‘‘allowance’’ also discovered that fully a quarter of all girls reported making money for doing housework. It is no wonder that girls increasingly began to resist doing housework as part of their womanly lot that others were getting paid to do. Giving girls allowances was good Victorian practice—encouraging regularity of habits, responsibility, careful accounting, and prudence.

Yet in its tendency to evolve into a quid pro quo for performing household and other kinds of chores it contributed to a radical new notion well expressed in the economic writings of Charlotte Perkins Gilman—the notion that daughters, if not their mothers, were autonomous economic beings in control of their own labor, and able to exchange it for currency. When Victorian fathers paid their daughters wages for housework, they were laying the seeds of turn-of-the-century rebellions against conventional notions of female self-sacrifice as woman’s natural lot.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Daughters’ Lives and the Work of the Middle-Class Home.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#jane h. hunter #history #american #victorian #class #how young ladies became girls

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donteattheappleshook · 5 years ago

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Just Human Volume 2 Part 1/5

Ao3

A continuation of last year’s CSSNS story Just Human. Now that Killian is a ghost and Mary Margaret knows everything, what does life have in store for a group of supernatural misfits? With the threat of Gold gone, Emma learns that sometimes just being human is the most complicated challenge of all.

Thank you to the ever patient and talented @djlbg for her beautiful artwork and to the wonderful @thejollyroger-writer "the comma queen" for all her work and support as an excellent beta!

PART ONE

“This is stupid.”

Emma sighs. “It’s not stupid, you’re just not trying.”

“I am too trying!” Killian practically whines. “The cup’s just stupid. It’s defective,” he says, glaring at the mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of them.

Emma practically rolls her eyes at his behaviour. They’ve been at it for an hour. So far, Killian has managed to pick up the cup a grand total of zero times - unless you count that one time where he accidentally sent it flying across the room in a moment of ghost rage. But he hadn’t actually touched it that time, so Emma said it didn’t count.

Killian groans and throws himself on the ground, sprawled out like a child having a tantrum. She’s pretty sure she hears him mutter some choice words about hot chocolate and where it can shove itself but she lets it slide.

“You just need to concentrate. Remember when you taught me? With the onion rings? Remember what it’s supposed to feel like in your hand. Ground yourself.” She takes one of his hands where it rests on the carpet they’re sitting on - well, she’s sitting; he’s lying there, like an idiot. She’s not sure if it will help but she knows that when she’d been trying to get the hang of the whole corporeal thing, human touch - or at least Killian’s touch - had done wonders to help her feel more real, more alive, and she hopes she has the same effect on him.

Killian looks down at their fingers, intertwines them. A look crosses his face that she can’t quite read. It’s somewhere between disbelief and awe and something else. She understands. She remembers that feeling - the touch of something warm and real and far less like a memory than anything else. Touching Killian always brought it. And now… well now, with both of them being ghosts or spirits or dead or whatever they are - now it’s tenfold.

He traces her fingers with his own and Emma can swear she feels it all the way down to her bones. It’s like a heat and a magnet tugging at her insides and warming them up in the most amazing way. She hasn’t been dead that long - barely over a year - but she knows it can’t just be her memory failing her - nothing has ever felt like this before. It’s almost… ethereal. That’s the only way she can think to describe it.

Emma clears her throat. “Focus on what feels real,” she tells him, trying to draw his attention back to the cup on the table. He doesn’t look away from his hand as it drops her own and begins to trace patterns on her knee and Emma’s breath catches in her throat. She sees him smile a little before he turns his eyes to her.

“You feel pretty real,” he says, fingers trailing down her calf to her ankle and back up again.

Emma tries to frown at him. “You’re supposed to be concentrating,” she tells him, but she knows she’s fighting a losing battle.

“I am concentrating!” he insists, brows shooting up in defense. “See, right here, you’re skin is soft, and warm,” he tells her, gliding his palm down her calf. “It’s like silk. But I know that if I keep going right up here,” he continues, his fingers crawling just past her knee on her inner thigh to where she has a little scar from a terrible attempt at the balance beam when she was seven. “Here, there’s a little spot that’s raised and -”

“Killian,” she warns, her breathing picking up embarrassingly.

“Hush, Swan, I’m concentrating. Look,” he tells her, shutting his eyes and tracing the scar with serious intent. “Hmm, yes, see, I feel it. It starts right here,” his fingers find the base of the scar and begin to trace up, “And continues all the way up here to where it curves off…” his hand doesn’t stop and Emma lets her head fall back against the couch behind her. Jesus - this man.

“The scar stopped a little ways back there, buddy,” she points out, offering him a raised eyebrow.

His eyes pop open as though shocked. “Did it?” he asks, his face the picture of innocence. “Ah, well,” he sighs, “practice makes perfect!”

Emma doesn’t have it in her to throw him a smart remark. Her heart is racing in her chest and her blood is singing in her veins and all she wants is for him to keep going. She bites her lip and he gives her a wicked smile.

“You know, I think I’ve gotten the hang of this touching thing,” he tells her. He brings his head down slowly, until his mouth hovers above her scar, the scratch of his chin and the heat of his breath doing unspeakable things to her ability to think clearly. “I think I’m ready to try tasting.”

He’s only just placed the faintest brush of a kiss on the same spot he’d been exploring earlier when a loud “For fucks sake!” causes them to jolt apart. Well, she jolts. Killian just shoots an annoyed glare at the voice.

“I don’t need to see that!” David groans, standing in the doorway with a hand covering his eyes. Mary Margaret enters after him and casts him a confused glance before she takes in the scene before them.

“Oh!” she exclaims, clearing her throat as Emma and Killian awkwardly part and resume a seating arrangement much more suited to polite company. “Maybe, um, maybe we should just come back later?” she suggests to David. She can’t make eye contact with Emma and both women’s cheeks are flaming bright red.

“No, no,” Emma insists earnestly, embarrassed and a little guilty as David dramatically mumbles something about ‘in my own damn home’ under his breath. “No, it’s fine!” Emma insists casting a glance at Killian who doesn’t look nearly as chastised as he should. She thinks she hears him mumble something about ‘my home too’ and ‘cockblock’ and she elbows him in the ribs. “We were just… practicing.” Her face grows even hotter at the look on Mary Margaret’s face, her brows nearly disappearing behind her short bangs. “Ghost stuff!” she nearly shouts. “We were practicing picking up mugs,” she finishes lamely.

“Pretty sure there aren’t any mugs in there,” David mutters under his breath and this time Mary Margaret’s the one to elbow her boyfriend.

The four stare at each other in an awkward silence. Emma feels kind of bad. She knows that she and Killian’s new found… passion has made living with them a little more difficult than it had been. They do their best to avoid blatant PDA when their friends are around but, well… they don’t need to sleep. And David’s made a comment once or twice that just because they don’t sleep doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to.

Emma had been worried that David’s head was going to explode when Killian gifted him earplugs (technically he’d made Emma gift them since he couldn’t actually hold them - she’d known it was a bad idea as she handed over the little box). Thankfully, Mary Margaret had been there to place a soothing hand on his shoulder and suggest they go to her place for the night. And a few nights after that. Emma can’t pretend she hasn’t enjoyed having the place to themselves but she’s glad her friends are back - the house doesn’t feel right without them.

That was a week ago, and Emma wishes she could say that they’ve gotten better, but here they are again. She can’t help it. She loves him. And it’s only been two weeks. Two weeks since everything went down. Two weeks since Gold happened and Killian died and then came back to her, since Mary Margaret found out David’s secret. She’s been handling it very well in Emma’s opinion. There were a lot of very long conversations and complicated answers to complicated questions, some of which they didn’t know the answer to, like what it meant now that David could change at will. Did that mean he didn’t have to change on the full moon? Would he always be in control? They wouldn’t know until the next full moon and Emma’s pretty sure that’s had a lot to do with David’s short temper these last couple of weeks. She’s tried to remind Killian of this, but he’s convinced that the last thing David would want is for them to walk on eggshells around him. ‘He wants things to be normal more than anything, Swan,’ he’d told her. ‘What’s more normal than me taking the piss out of him?’

“Why don’t David and I get breakfast started?” Mary Margaret suggests after several long moments of the boys giving each other dirty looks and she and Emma casting each other awkward glances.

“Breakfast?” Emma asks, confused.

“Yes, breakfast,” David repeats, still giving his best friend the stink eye. “Killian asked us to come over to celebrate - and cook for him since he’s absolutely useless - ghost or not.” Killian glares at David but she can see the hint of a smile behind it. Maybe he had a point about normalcy. “I guess he forgot,” David adds pointedly.

Emma is still confused though. “Celebrate?” She looks to her friends for an answer, hoping she didn’t forget someone’s birthday. David and Mary Margaret are looking at Killian with soft expressions and she follows their gazes.

“Aye, love,” he says, meeting her eyes and giving her a somewhat bashful smile. “It’s been one year. One year ago David and I moved in. It’s been one year since we met you - since I met you.”

Emma’s breath catches in her throat. She’s touched. Touched that he remembered, that he thought it was important enough a date to celebrate. And with breakfast - that one meal of the day that was always theirs, those early days where he would get home in the wee morning hours and do his best to stay awake long enough to hear all the mundane details of her day.

That day changed her life (or death, whatever). It meant everything to her. And to know that it meant as much to him… she loves him so much. She can feel her eyes water and she casts a glance at David and Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret looks like she’s about to cry and David’s bad temper has left him completely. He offers her one of his kind smiles, the kind that always makes her feel loved and safe and she gives him a watery one in return. She loves them both so much.

She turns back to Killian who is looking at her with an openness and an intensity that nearly bowls her over. “You changed my life that day,” he tells her and Emma couldn’t tear her gaze from his even if she wanted to. “I’d been so lost - for centuries just stuck, wandering around with no real purpose, no reason for existing. And then I met you. The moment I met you I just knew. I don’t know how to explain it but I just knew that nothing would ever be the same again - that I would never want it to be. I realise now that I’ve loved you from that first moment I caught you spying on me in the kitchen.”

Emma isn’t even bothering to try hold back her tears anymore. “You told me I didn’t have to be alone anymore,” Emma says, her voice small and quiet even in the silent room.

“Aye, I did. And I meant it. You never have to be alone ever again. His own eyes are watering now. He looks at her for a long moment before casting a glance over her shoulder at their friends. David gives him some kind of look and Killian lets out a small laugh. “Bugger. I had a whole thing planned. There was breakfast involved and I was supposed to be able to hold things by now but screw it, I don’t want to wait another second.”

Emma watches, her heart racing in her chest as Killian shifts to work a ring off his pinky finger. She’s noticed it before. He’d started wearing it a few days before his death but she hadn’t gotten around to asking him about it, sure that he would tell her when he was ready.

He manages to remove the ring and Emma’s breath stops all together as he holds it out between them. Emma wants to shout ‘yes!’ at him but she knows he has more to say so she settles for smiling while she cries and lets him speak.

“I’m not asking you to spend the rest of your life with me. I think we’ve both learned that a lifetime isn’t all it’s cracked up to be - not if you’re not with the right person. But you are that person, Emma. It took me three hundred years to find you and only seconds to know that I never wanted to be apart from you. Will you spend forever with me? Will you marry me?”

“Yes!” she practically shouts the moment he’s finished speaking, throwing herself into his arms. Killian lets out a chuckle that sounds almost relieved as he wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly to him, burying his nose in the crook of her neck.

“I love you,” she tells him, pulling back to look into his eyes again and she knows that he knows - that he knows how much she loves him, how much he means to her despite her lack of ability to say it as beautifully as he does. She brings his lips to hers and kisses him with all the love and joy and excitement that she possesses.

She’s vaguely aware of David and Mary Margaret cheering behind them as they pull apart. Killian has tears running down his cheeks and Emma reaches to wipe them away as he does the same for her. They’re a mess, both of them, and it’s perfect. The whole thing is perfect. The proposal, David and Mary Margaret being there, it happening on the living room floor next to the couch that so much of their relationship has centred around, it’s all just perfect.

“I don’t know if this will work,” he tells her, holding out the ring and taking her left hand. Emma laughs a bit. They’ve certainly discovered that they can take their clothes off. When Killian had been a vampire she’d always had to do it herself, something in the stupid post-death rule book seeming to decide that only a ghost could take off ghost clothes, but now that they’re both dead… well they’ve had a lot of fun finding new ways to undress one another. But putting on something new - that isn’t something they’ve tried before.

Emma tries not to let herself be too hopeful, reminding herself that it’s the thought that counts as Killian slides the ring onto her finger. It’s a little big, Killian’s hands being much larger than her own, but he lets go of the ring and it stays where it is, thin and silver with a small, dark stone in the middle and it’s perfect.

Killian looks down at the ring, running his finger over it before beaming up at her and placing a kiss on it, squeezing her hand tightly. They sit smiling at each other so brightly and with so much joy that Emma thinks she might just burst into rays of sunshine until Mary Margaret’s voice interrupts them from the doorway.

“Can we come over now?” she asks and when Emma looks over at her she looks like she’s about to jump out of her skin with excitement.

Emma laughs and says yes and she and Killian stand as Mary Margaret practically charges her, wrapping her in a giant hug as she bounces up and down in excitement. Killian and David reach to wrap their arms around one another but burst out laughing as David’s arms go right through his friend.

“Raincheck,” Emma hears David tell him before Mary Margaret releases her to grab her hand and look at the ring, gushing over how beautiful it is and how happy she is for her.

“You’re definitely going to want those earplugs tonight,” Killian tells David and Emma can hear the groan but there’s not much weight behind it. “Really, Dave, if you keep getting offended by... mature subject matter, I’m going to start feeling sorry for Mary Margaret.”

“You’re lucky I can’t punch you right now.”

Killian laughs. “Raincheck,” he tells him.

#CSSNS #captain swan ff #cs ff #just human #being human au #cs fanfic

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harry-leroy · 5 years ago

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Top 5 soliloquies? Could be from Shakespeare or whatever else :)

Thank you so much for this ask! I appreciate it! I’ll do some from Shakespeare (and probably some from Oscar Wilde let’s be real about ourselves tonight >-

1) I AM STRAIGHT UP NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME (The Tempest)

All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make himBy inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear meAnd yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,Fright me with urchin—shows, pitch me i’ the mire,Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the darkOut of my way, unless he bid ’em; butFor every trifle are they set upon me;Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at meAnd after bite me, then like hedgehogs whichLie tumbling in my barefoot way and mountTheir pricks at my footfall; sometime am IAll wound with adders who with cloven tonguesDo hiss me into madness.

- Caliban; The Tempest (2.2.)

Okay I love everything about the language in this play, but some of Caliban’s speeches are the best places to find these fantastic descriptions of the island that we’re on. Better yet, the way that he describes Ariel and the other spirits is so fascinating to me - it makes me wonder about where Ariel comes from, it makes me want to dive into the psychology (which is exactly what I’m doing for #ProjectTempest which is now #ProjectAriel). There’s a sense of militarism that comes from the spirits. They organize themselves into a hierarchy, with Ariel captaining the whole brigade, and not to mention, some of the things that they do are seen, at least in my eyes, as incredibly violent. In my project concerning Ariel, I am trying to dig into why we see Ariel as morally better than Caliban, even though he does some rather tortuous things, and this speech is full of them. I’m currently reading W.H. Auden’s The Sea and the Mirror, which is a poem that explores duality in The Tempest, using primarily Caliban (who represents the earth) and Ariel (who represents the sky). Auden made this incredible chart using these two ideas as ends of a spectrum, and he calls them both “HELL” (I’ll see if I can find the chart somewhere and upload it eventually because it is fascinating). Ahh, I just love this play so much.

2) #EXPOSED (Love’s Labour’s Lost)

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me!Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reproveThese worms for loving, that art most in love?Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tearsThere is no certain princess that appears;You’ll not be perjured, ‘tis a hateful thing;Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!But are you not ashamed? nay, are you not,All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?You found his mote; the king your mote did see;But I a beam do find in each of three.O, what a scene of foolery have I seen,Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen!O me, with what strict patience have I sat,To see a king transformed to a gnat!To see great Hercules whipping a gig,And profound Solomon to tune a jig,And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain?And gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?And where my liege’s? all about the breast:A caudle, ho!

- Berowne; Love’s Labour’s Lost (4.3.)

THIS SCENE. It will always make me laugh, and cry, and feel every human emotion in the book. God, I love it so much. Can we talk about how ridiculous these boys are? Berowne has such a superiority complex - he’s always off by himself, probably musing to himself, even when he isn’t trying to keep secrets from his three best friends. So when he’s found his chance to have a laugh, he takes it. And can we talk about the language in this play? So fun, absolute joy to read. It makes me cry sometimes I won’t lie. I adore these boys, and I adore how everyone gangs up on Dumaine because Dumaine is the baby (and of course he goes after Katharine because why shouldn’t he?) and I will die on this hill. I love this play so much.

3) DOUBT COMES IN (Lady Windermere’s Fan)

How horrible! I understand now what Lord Darlington meant by the imaginary instance of the couple not two years married. Oh! it can’t be true—she spoke of enormous sums of money paid to this woman. I know where Arthur keeps his bank book—in one of the drawers of that desk. I might find out by that. I will find out. [Opens drawer.] No, it is some hideous mistake. [Rises and goes C.] Some silly scandal! He loves me! He loves me! But why should I not look? I am his wife, I have a right to look! [Returns to bureau, takes out book and examines it page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of relief.] I knew it! there is not a word of truth in this stupid story. [Puts book back in drawer. As she does so, starts and takes out another book.] A second book—private—locked! [Tries to open it, but fails. Sees paper knife on bureau, and with it cuts cover from book. Begins to start at the first page.] ‘Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400.’ Oh! it is true! It is true! How horrible! [Throws book on floor.]

- Lady Windermere; Lady Windermere’s Fan (Act I)

“A wife should trust her husband” says Arthur, because it’s all he knows about marriage, that and that he would do anything for his wife. He would throw himself in front of the spear of society’s hatred for her, even though it is what he fears most. Arthur spends his entire life trying to be the model husband, the model son, the model father, the model man in society, he is so focused on perfection that Margaret can’t believe it when he’s fallen from grace. And it ruins Arthur just as much, maybe even more so. Everyone knows that Arthur is a perfectionist. He tries to match Margaret’s model, as Cecil would say “that is the worst of women. They always want one to be good. And if we are good, when they meet us, they don’t love us at all”. He feels like he needs someone to reform him, keep him from falling into the pit, but really he needs to relax. He needs to learn how to say “no”. And people have been waiting for him to slip up: Darlington because he wants Margaret, Cecil and George because they find it amusing. For Margaret, this is where the chips fall, where the imperfections finally come through. For the first time, she has reason to doubt him. And she lets it consume her.

Arthur finds himself in the same position at the end of Act III. He finds his wife’s fan in Darlington’s rooms, and you can feel the tension in his voice, he’s about ready to throw out his back and shoulders from how tense he gets. But he doesn’t blame his wife, he blames Darlington, or at least that’s what he couldn’t bring himself to say. “And if my wife’s here, I’ll -”: he can’t finish his sentence, because it can’t be true. She loves me! She loves me! Thank goodness for Darlington’s interruption. For the first time, he has reason to doubt her. And he can’t bring himself to do it.

4) HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF (Lady Windermere’s Fan)

Gone out of her house! A letter addressed to her husband! [Goes over to bureau and looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it down again with a shudder of fear.] No, no! It would be impossible! Life doesn’t repeat its tragedies like that! Oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me? Why do I remember now the one moment of my life I most wish to forget? Does life repeat its tragedies? [Tears letter open and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with a gesture of anguish.] Oh, how terrible! The same words that twenty years ago I wrote to her father! and how bitterly I have been punished for it! No; my punishment, my real punishment is to-night, is now!

- Mrs. Erlynne; Lady Windermere’s Fan (Act II)

- What did Margaret write on that fatal letter? “Arthur has never understood me” says Margaret, “but when he reads this, he will”. It’s a second-generation Nora, the woman who has never understood herself because she’s been smothered. That’s exactly what Margaret has been, losing her parents at a young age, she has been sheltered from every kind of horrible truth there is. She believes her mother died a saint, her father whose heart swelled too much in devotion for such a saintly figure. Lady Julia made sure of that. In reality, Mrs. Erlynne, while not a saint in any regard, threatens to outshine the golden girl of society, her own daughter. Mrs. Erlynne is the life of the party, not her daughter, and what is worse, her husband might love this woman, and now she thinks he has every reason to. “Cowards are always pale” - how can Margaret hope to compete with this woman? Darlington says ‘forget them, run away with me’ - she can’t bear to think that her husband has left her side. “Come back to me?” she asks the Duchess, hardly able to believe that her husband could have left, but it’s Arthur she wants. She tells Darlington, “my husband may return to me”. She would forgive him, because she loves him, but she can’t stand to think of herself as second rate in her husband’s eyes. It’s a feeling that Mrs. Erlynne knows far too well. There’s so much about motherhood in this play that I absolutely love. In my prequel play, The Selby Roses, I attempt to explore similar ideas about fatherhood. There is so much generational conflict in both plays - even seen in the men of this play. Look at Cecil Graham: there is nothing he holds in contempt more than the older generation, but he also fears them. He gets sheepish around Mrs. Erlynne, he loves to talk down to Lord Augustus. “You were never my age” he tells Augustus, almost as if to say “And I’ll never be yours”. Ah, it is such an interesting concept. Okay, stream-of-conscious rant over hehehe :’)

5) HE’S SOME KIND OF POET (King Lear)

When we our betters see bearing our woes,We scarcely think our miseries our foes.Who alone suffers suffers most i’ th’ mind,Leaving free things and happy shows behind.But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskipWhen grief hath mates and bearing fellowship.How light and portable my pain seems nowWhen that which makes me bend makes the Kingbow!He childed as I fathered. Tom, away.Mark the high noises, and thyself bewrayWhen false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defilethee,In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King!Lurk, lurk.

- Edgar; King Lear (3.6.)

Will I ever figure out why Edgar is speaking in rhyme here, even though he is alone? Probably not. Though, it does totally make me believe that Edgar knows he has an audience, and it haunts him to no end. There are so many elements to King Lear that make it absolutely absurd, which is why it’s (at least in my eyes) such a good play for 2019. Edgar is performing for self-preservation, but isn’t everyone? Up until this night, he’s refused such a thing. Honesty or I am nothing. The day he accepted playing the game was the day Cordelia refused and that will 5ever end me.

#thank you so much for this!#this was fun #i'm not as good at analysis as you are #i promise i'm way more articulate in papers #and of course i had to throw in some lady windermere's fan #am i like... the only person on tumblr who adores the heck out of that play?#probably #but it's fine #shakespeare #oscar wilde #theatre #enjoy some lwf analysis #and yes that ariel project is really vexing me #i gotta finish auden before i go any further #but it's all a work in progress #dustyprose #suits of woe #thank you so much!

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