#no curse renaissance

[ohmightydevviepuu]

imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [1/6]

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said.  But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him.  Like it was just a fact. But Emma’s life was a story, too.  A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up.  She wasn’t that kid anymore.  Confidence could be learned.  And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either. Not if she picked up the pieces.  Not if she told herself a new story.  About who she was.  About what she wanted.  Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. "You owe it to yourself," Mary Margaret said. "Happy endings always start with hope."

--

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

to @wistfulcynic and @thisonesatellite who sat with me while we daydreamed on a hilltop in cornwall on the summer-iest summer day england has ever seen. it took me eight months but i got there in the end.

thank you to @shireness-says for time and feedback and kindness to the IAS @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @idoltina @initiala @thejollyroger-writer for always giving me a cheer when i needed it (including--in B's case--occasionally getting random, context-free paragraphs dumped into her DMs)

--

one. 'when you leave, you just miss it'

The sun was shining.

Almost a week since they’d seen real daylight—maybe more, maybe less.  No one was sure.  Time, like light, did not work properly in Neverland.  That’s what Hook had said, and Neal had agreed, an uneasy peace between them; Regina grumbled and Gold snickered but it had been a week or a lifetime and the sun was shining and she had slept last night, for the first time in a week.

Or a lifetime.

She heard the wind rustling around her through the open portholes.  Tasted the salt on the air, sweet and slightly cool.  Emma sat up and the chill danced around her skin as the sheet fell.  She felt good; rested, refreshed.  Free.

Her clothes were were on the floor where she’d left them.  She slipped from the bunk and picked them up, one by one and hanging from her fingertips. Because time might not have been real in Neverland but everything definitely smelled like she’d been wearing it for a week.  When they got back to Storybrooke she wasn’t just going to wash the clothes.  She was going to burn them.  Just thinking about it made the power well up inside her.  It wasn’t anger or darkness or the unrelenting terror of the Dark Hollow.  It was something else—warm, gentle flames that tickled.

Or maybe she just really needed a shower.

God, a shower.

She dressed quickly and found her way above deck, stumbling over a dozen dozing Lost Boys and one wide-awake former fairy.  Neal and Wendy leaned up against the bulkhead, their legs sprawled out in front of them.  Wendy had curled herself against Neal like she wouldn’t let him go.  

Emma wrapped her arms around herself and glanced up.  The sail billowed, but the Shadow cast no shadow here.  Tink turned and spotted her.  The way her eyes lit up made Emma’s breath catch.  They were going home.

“We’re nearly there,” Tink said.  “I almost can’t believe it.  Where’s Hook?”

Emma shrugged.  “I thought he needed to be here.  Steering.”  Behind them, the giant wheel turned on its own.

“Magic,” Tink said.  “The ship, it has magic.  Not my kind—I’ve no idea how it works.”

“And I’ll never tell.”  His hair was mussed by the wind but his coat hung heavy over him.  Weighing him down.  The words were heavy, too, weighted with meaning—something in his eyes before he cleared his throat.  Then Captain Hook inclined his head and it was gone, replaced with twinkles like tiny blue gems in his eyes.  “Tinker Bell.”

“Hook.”  A speculative syllable as the fairy stared intently and he blushed.  Emma looked from one of them to the other until Hook’s eyes caught hers and held.  He raised his eyebrow, just the one.

Emma raised hers.  Both of them.

“Swan,” he said.

“Hook,” she said.

“Mom!”  Henry ran across the deck, leaving Regina behind in the companionway with a genuine smile on her face.  Neal’s eyes opened immediately at the sound of his son’s voice and he scrambled to his feet, catching Henry in his arms but barely slowing him before he angled back toward Emma.  She nearly fell over as she absorbed the fullness of his hug.  Her son’s arms around her, finally.

Six days.  Not even a week.  But her life had changed in less time before:  The time it took to steal a car, to open a locker.  Sixteen hours to give birth.  Ten hours on a beanstalk.

The kiss it took to break a curse.

A week was plenty of time for her world to turn itself upside down.  Again.

“The sun is fully up,” Hook said.  “We’ll be arriving shortly in Storybrooke.”  A fairy-tale land full of fairy-tale people encased in a magic shield that they were going to pierce with a magic boat piloted by a pirate and guided by a demon’s Shadow.  Hook spoke and the ship turned on a dime, the wheel spinning, the Shadow-filled sail briefly flashing white, and there it was.

The harbor.  The clock tower.  The neon sign of the B&B.

“Home,” Mary Margaret whispered, coming to stand next to Emma.

David rested his hand on her arm and Emma tensed.  His smile gentled and he moved, stepping back to pull Mary Margaret closer.  “Together.  Heroes, villains—pirates.”  Pride glowed briefly in his eyes.  “Just like you said.”

Heroes, villains, pirates.  Parents.

Storybrooke.

Home.

The rest of the fairy-tale folk rushed to the rails, hanging over the sides for a closer look at their heroes’ welcome.  A faint sound carried on the breeze—laughter.  Cheers.

They were in the water.  They were in the harbor.  The gangplank lowered.  Henry was practically trembling with excitement as he hurled himself onto the dock, zooming between his father and his grandparents and Granny and—and—and—

But it was Neal Emma was watching.  Hugging his father.  Hugging Belle.  Escorting Wendy.  No longer a Lost Boy but a found one.

“Home.  The place that when you leave, you just miss it.”  He’d told her that the night they’d met.  Her lifetime had been a series of moves from place to place to place and every time, she’d only known one thing for certain:  She wasn’t home.  Not yet.  She’d been seventeen and Neal Cassidy had kneeled in the dirt and picked the lock and when he turned the amusement park lights on and smiled at her, knowing and full of confidence, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said.  But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him.  Like it was just a fact.  Or maybe it was a secret he was sharing.  With her.

Home.  Neal wrapped Wendy and her brothers in a group hug with an expression Emma had never seen before.  But Emma’s life was a story, too.  A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up.  She wasn’t that kid anymore.  Confidence could be learned.  And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either.  

Not if she picked up the pieces.  Not if she told herself a new story.  About who she was.  About what she wanted.  Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales.  The flame warmed inside her again, as if the idea of wanting—of knowing what she wanted—was its own kind of magic.  Maybe it was.

Possibilities.  Hope.

In her.  In the magic.  In this town.  It wasn’t a home—yet—but for the first time Emma felt like it could be.  If she let it.  If she wanted it.  If she chose it.

Henry turned back to her, waiting.  An impatient gesture.  She took one last long look around the decks of the ship.  Hook stood at the helm, tracing the scratch marks in the wood.

Home.

With a deep breath, Emma stepped onto the dock.

two. 'i quite fancy you'

The realization hit at approximately the same time Emma Swan hit the water, the waves enveloping her and dragging her down, though he didn’t think about it.  Not then.  Not in the midst of the magically-intensified storm and the maelstrom wrought by his own frustrations:  Baelfire’s death, his son missing, the Dark One on his ship and Prince-bloody-Charming up in arms and in Killian’s face, so certain it was he who was the captain here—an uncomfortable thought all on its own, and similarly ignored.

But then she’d hit the water and it was all hands on deck.

Nothing else mattered as they retrieved her from the deep and lowered her to the deck and waited.  Waited for her to breathe, to move, to cough out the water, her body wracked by the effort but alive.  The storm vanished as quickly as it appeared but the weight lingered.

Killian did not like to think about the last time he had seen a woman laid out before him on his ship.  About how it had ended.  So he ignored it.  Ignored it with the patience and practice of a man accustomed to counting time in centuries rather than minutes and it was easy enough.  In Neverland the only thing real was the here and the now; their horrific, indeterminate trek across the island was more than enough to occupy his mind.

Until it wasn’t.

He set himself up a good bit away from the others as they made their camp.  He refused to watch the undisturbed slumber of the Charmings.  Even Regina slept, but not Killian.  Never Killian, never on Neverland.  Whether it was better or worse to be alone and surrounded by the haunted cries of the Lost, Killian did not know.  He’d thought and hoped never to hear them again no matter how unnaturally prolonged his life might be.  But he knew this—it was too easy for Pan to grab on to a person in the netherworld of Neverland at night and it was darker now than Killian remembered it being, unless it was just the effect of the rum. 

He almost wished it was.

Either way, there wasn’t enough of the bloody stuff to soothe the ragged edges of his soul.

He’d said it as a joke.  Or a feint.  An instinctive push in their ongoing tug-of-war.  “I quite fancy you sometimes,” he’d said.  But here in the dark surrounded by the cries he had no choice but to admit to himself that he’d meant it.

Horrific thought.

Idly, he wondered if Tinker Bell was still here.  Their tactics for sleep--and mutual exhaustion--had always proved more then satisfactory in the past.  Pleasurable, even; some of the only good memories Killian had of this place.  Only that felt somehow…disloyal.  A betrayal to an idea that his heart was apparently already committed to.  Killian took another pull from the flask and reminded himself that villains didn’t get happy endings and if Captain Hook had been anything in his life, it was that.  

After all, if he had been a better man, perhaps Baelfire wouldn’t have left.

It was with that happy thought that the cacophony of cries reached its crescendo—midnight, then, or near enough on this cursed island where the night felt endless.  Perhaps it was endless, now.  The days seemed shorter—nonexistent—the darkness constant.  The island was changing.  Dying.  Killian knew only too well there was nothing Pan would not do to prevent that happening.  Every instinct told him that Henry was the answer Pan sought.

Killian had not been lying when he told Emma that on this island, he was not the villain.  Perhaps that was why he waited.  Waited to hear the whisper of movement and the moment she finally gave up.  When she finally got up.  He had never wondered if she might hear the cries.  It had been very nearly his first thought upon meeting her.  She’d had the Look and few knew it better than he.  Maybe Baelfire—Neal—had recognized it, too.

He could hear the muttered imprecations under her breath and was only gratified that she had sense enough to take the cutlass with her as she began to roam the surroundings of their camp.  And then he heard something else.

Not words.  A voice.  A voice that taunted him still, lurking on the edges of his nightmares.  Even worse, he knew what it meant.  To be approached by Pan was to have a quest assigned, a task given.  When Emma stumbled out of the woods clutching a scrap of parchment, he stood to meet her, already on alert.

Pan always did like his games.

three. 'you owe it to yourself'

The shower felt incredible.  One after Granny’s; one before bed; one when she woke up.  Part of her felt like she might never not be covered in dirt and sweat again.  Part of her just wanted the warmth and the solitude.  Even in a loft built for one and sleeping four, the shower was a one-person-at-a-time activity.

She hoped.

Exhausted but too restless to sleep, Emma had lain in her bed and stared at the exposed beams, counting the wood scratches and feeling it every time someone in the apartment breathed.  Henry’s little snores made her smile with every exhalation and though here Mary Margaret and David were only—breathing—it was hard not to think about the other things they could be doing in the bed they shared at the bottom of the ladder.

Ew.

Emma really needed to get her own place.

Henry would want to go back to spending nights at Regina’s again, anyway.  As he should.  She was his mother.

Emma couldn’t help but think of Regina at the Tree.  Regina with ‘no regrets’.  She wasn’t sure if she believed any of it, but she couldn’t argue with the result—all of them, still standing, at the end of something horrible.  Even if Emma thought Regina should have a few regrets—surely some of the murders had been unwarranted—maybe it was time to follow Regina’s example.  Leave the past behind and focus on what she had.

What would it be like, to live with no regrets?

A new beginning.

A steam cloud followed her as she opened the frosted glass sliding door and followed the sweet smell of coffee to the kitchen island—a little pot, in an honest-to-goodness tea cozy, left in the blessedly quiet loft.  Mary Margaret hadn’t done that in—she hadn’t done that since—

Before.

The texts had accumulated on her phone while she showered.  She recognized most, but not all, of the phone numbers—David, Mary Margaret, Henry, Ruby—and remembered suddenly that she didn’t know which one might be Neal’s.  Being presumed dead made that easy enough to excuse.

She was glad he wasn’t dead.

Emma sighed.  Maybe it would have been easier if she’d set a time, or maybe it just would have been funnier:  An hour to process Felix into the cells.  Another at the pawnshop to watch Pan sealed beneath the floor—a tiny box to hold so many nightmares, but both of her parents standing next to her in spite of the dreamshade.  Henry flanked by his mothers, his father, three of his grandparents.

Of course Neal had approached her—exactly down to the minute on the timer she had not set—cornering her at Granny’s.  The beer was flowing, the food was hot, the noise was crushing her skull.  Tick, tock.

“Emma, can we make some time to talk?”

She hadn’t even gotten her coat off, and it was weird to suddenly need it again after six days and a lifetime sweating in an otherworldly jungle.  She saw Hook at the bar with Tink, a glass mug of amber liquid in each of their hands as they toasted.  Mary Margaret and David pushed in behind and around her to head for a table.  Regina and Henry were tucked in together at a booth.  

Tick, tock.

She forced her attention back to Neal.  “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” she said.  “Unless—are you trying to ask me on a date?”

Yes.

Yes, he was and yes, she would make time—because they needed to know what would happen.  Emma had a few ideas and as Mary Margaret always said happy endings start with hope.  It was the look on Mary Margaret’s face as Neal settled himself back into his booth that had her worried.  The big eyes, the bright smile.  It was a look she wasn’t totally used to seeing on her friend’s face because it was such a Snow White look.

“You owe it to yourself,” Mary Margaret had said.

Tick, tock. 

A motherly look.  She wasn’t used to that yet, either.  Six days or a lifetime hadn’t quite given her enough time to digest the shift from best friend to parent and almost every minute since the curse had broken had been one unrelenting nightmare after another.   Ogres, giants, beanstalks.  Cora.  Hook.  Neal.  It didn’t help that even while Mary Margaret was urging her to take the chance—“You owe it to yourself”—Emma kept thinking about the chances Mary Margaret and David wanted to take.

Tick, tock.

They were home now, the three of them—four—five—six—or maybe eight—one big modern fairytale family—and that mattered, even if Mary Margaret had looked her in the eyes and promised that she wouldn’t be an orphan anymore and then decided that she would stay in Neverland forever if she had to.  The thin leather strap of the waterskin crossed over David’s shoulder didn’t feel like much against that, but it was everything.

The water.  From Hook.  And every time she’d turned Emma had seen Hook watching, his eyes tightening slightly every time David moved.  Like he was waiting for something.  Tick, tock.

Shaking herself, Emma finished her cup of coffee and hauled herself back up the ladder.  The curling iron felt comfortable in her hand; it was a relief to look in the mirror and see someone she recognized, from Before.  Her blue leather jacket because it was warmer, her favorite tank top layered underneath, and she was going to go to Granny’s and have a goddamn normal day.  Whatever that meant now—now that it wasn’t Before, but After.  After the curse.  After the Enchanted Forest.  After Neverland.  

After—everything.  

She wasn’t a tiny princess under a mobile of glass unicorns; none of them knew what to do with a goddamn adult with a past.  A history, a trauma, that was not part of their storybook fantasy, and more than a missed opportunity that they could recreate.  

She refused to just be that.  She was a mother, too.  A sheriff.  A Savior.  

An orphan.

If what they had was unique, to use Mary Margaret’s words from the Echo Cave, then they had to be able to make their own definitions.  Their own rules and wants and needs and hopes.  Their own story.  And what Emma wanted, more than anything, was to carve out her own space in this world—parents, children, magic, exes, and evil queens—and know that it was hers.  That she belonged.  Emma wanted to know that when Henry came for her he wasn’t just looking for her to break a curse.  He was bringing her home.

How did Snow White, of all people, not understand that?

She glanced at her phone, at the time and at the last text message.  Pulled on her shitkicker black boots and closed the door behind her.

She had a date to get to.

[housesofmouses]

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN THE CURSE OF THE BLACK PEARL

[art]

Welcome to day 4 in our Curséd Costumes dressing room! Today, we’re going on tour. Use the character templates above or create your own skeleton or ghost character. Here’s today’s prompt:

Tour costume.  What would Hewie or Bones wear to sing their show-stopping anthem? Do they pick from Beyoncé’s Renaissance Tour wardrobe, Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour looks, or perhaps a My Chemical Romance Reunion Tour moment? Don’t like any of these for your character? Design your own!

Remember to tag your creations #cursed costumes for a chance to be featured. Here’s to manifesting a nice, friendly masquerade ball of pallid pals to dance across our dashboards!

[ndostairlyrium]

Behold the cursed baby Kieran <3

[fuckmeyer]

Jasper as a character is so interesting because he ends up a Confederate because he can't actually empathise with the slaves and because he simply accepts cruelty around him, and then when he becomes a vampire he literally can't ignore others suffering because it hurts him, but even decades after he becomes a Vegetarian he still can't get a hang of it partially because he still can't see humans as *people*. Idk there's smth to be said about him becoming a vampire because of his own cruelty and then being eternally in horrific pain because of said cruelty that fucks.

Jasper's whole life is a curse & i love to see it

here we have a Confederate supposedly so empathetic that he acquired a "gift"... yet not so empathetic as to recognize he was fighting for the enslavement of an entire race. despite seeing the consequences of slavery literally every day. now, the man who spent his last human days denying the humanity in others is forced to spend his immortal life being slapped in the face with their emotions. forever. hueeueueueu-

yeah, i would call that "gift" a curse, actually.

if Twilight weren't a horror story, we might see a discussion between Jasper/Bella about how immortality forces you to confront the darker side of your nature (e.g. "there will come a day when the societal beliefs imbued unto you leaves you standing on the wrong side of history"), & Jasper's journey with finding love & humanity. OR, y'know, he could've just had ONE (1) line where he says "yeah i'm not proud of my service." simply, if Twilight weren't a horror, Jasper could see the error of his ways & change for the better.

HOWEVER. Twilight vampires are "mentally frozen" when they turn, so Jasper is likely still a racist who does not regret his service. no matter how many times he is confronted with his cruelty, he won't change. meaning whatever life he chooses, his gift dooms him.

wow! eternal curse!

we see evidence of this frozen mental state in his decision to go vegetarian. he doesn't switch bc he feels bad about killing humans:

"I could feel everything my prey was feeling. And I lived their emotions as I killed them. [...] You've experienced the way I can manipulate the emotions around myself, Bella, but I wonder if you realize how the feelings in a room affect me." (Eclipse, Ch 13)

note the dehumanizing term "prey" & the focus on himself. he laments not that the human lives he's taking have value but that their dying moments harsh his vibe.

the irony! trapped as an empath while never possessing the ability to be an empath! CURSE CURSE C-

herein lies a bigger, juicier curse: Jasper is, himself, (hot take) enslaved in the sense that he will never know freedom, philosophically speaking, due to the choices he made in life. the series tries to paint him as a master tactician & competent leader; fanon often paints him as a free-thinking amoral black sheep. in reality, he simply obeys the commands of higher authorities & abides by their worldview regardless of how toxic it is to himself or others.

in the beginning, he had María.

he entered the Southern Vampire Wars not by his own volition but stayed because he was content not having a choice. however one feels about María, the fact of the matter is 1) as a newborn he was stronger, bigger, & faster than her & could have run away or overpowered her, 2) had the "gift" to identify emotions & could KNOW when/if she was malicious or manipulating him, & 3) could have escaped by influencing her emotions to make her disinterested in him. at any time in the 100 years they were together, he could have left. he talks about never knowing a life outside the war & discovering "options I'd never dreamed I had." ok???? run 100 miles in any direction & you would have seen a life outside of war. BOI-

instead, he took comfort in being submissive & adopting someone else's ideology. not only did it remind him of his past, but it meant he had no need to reflect on his actions or beliefs. he prefers others dictate his worldview & order him around even if it means being unhappy. he only left because he was going to be assassinated, & even then, it wasn't until someone else told him another life was possible that he "realized" another life was possible.

notably, the period where he's most free— living with Peter & Charlotte— is his rock-bottom where "the depression got worse." but, again, not because he realized the value of human life: "I was so wearied by killing [...] even mere humans."

then he meets Alice.

Alice, who has visions of being vegetarian & converts him so they can live with the Cullens. Alice, who dictates how her family should live their lives to the point where she manipulates them. Alice, who goes so far as to dress the Cullens, who orders Jasper to wait in the car while she & Bella go shopping, who Jasper refers to as "truly [...] one frightening little monster" because for all his experience she can still beat him in combat.

his eternal soulmate is authority.

despite being unhappy with his vegetarian life, as it makes him feel weak & coddled & a liability to everyone around him, he follows the lifestyle because Alice tells him to.

then there's the Volturi, another authoritative body. "We owe the Volturi for our present way of life," says acclaimed bootlicker Jasper Hale, who in the same moment shudders at the atrocities they committed, yet strangely sees no other way for a governing body to keep the peace... so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

but, since Carlisle outranks the Volturi as an authoritative figure in that he more closely aligns with Jasper's new worldview, Jasper sees no problem deposing the vampiric governing body if it means his sister-in-law of like 2 months can keep her demonic spawn. so i guess we don't really owe the Volturi that much

to his credit, we see glimmers of him questioning his leaders: 1) his decision to leave Maria, 2) his considering switching diets to defeat Victoria, & 3) going against the Volturi. but, again, these decisions are all just a result of his self-preservation & submitting to the higher authority du jour.

in the end, he has the perfect storm of conditions that would allow him to escape the prison he's created, to find freedom & to love humanity unconditionally... but he won't. Jasper's ultimate curse is that regardless of whether he realizes the enslavement of his own self, he will never leave his cage because it's cozy & easy & allows him to never think for himself.

AAAANYWAY Jasper's life sucks & he's trapped in an eternal prison of his own making. lol

[moonchild-in-blue]

Thinking about Vessel's ridiculous (affectionate) shoes and ridiculous (derogatory) leg wraps.

[erikkarlsson]

as a supporter of the florida panthers this is awful just horrific i’m gonna be sick. but as a sharks fan-

[factual-flittermouse]

Broke: Old-timey grave curses using “he” because that was the norm and expectation

Woke: Trans grave robbers intentionally triggering curses for validation because “it said “cursed be he” not “cursed be ye””

[junebugjo]

La Bella Morte, 2024

Linocut Reductive Print

Inspired by Pre-Raphaelite paintings and Ukiyo-e prints.

[thegildedflask]

[khruschevshoe]

Being a true galaxy-brained Doctor Who fan is hitting the epiphany that every showrunner had their strengths and their weaknesses and their own interpretations of the Doctor and you can like or dislike any aspect of any showrunner and acknowledge their genuine mistakes/bad choices/yikes decisions (such as racism, sexism, homophobia, questionable undertones, lack of agency for female characters, etc.) and it is COMPLETELY VALID to have that turn you off of a Doctor/showrunner but also acknowledge that some of the things that people have considered bad writing over the years are often personal preference (valid opinion, not always valid fact) and that just as there are clunkers in every season, there's something to appreciate about every showrunner and every Doctor.

After all, "The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don't always spoil the good things and make them unimportant."

[ohmightydevviepuu]

imperfect boys. perfect ploys. (this is a song about tragedy) [6/6]

“My ‘story’ is that I left a fucked-up situation and it kind of fucked me up,” he’d said.  But it was the way he’d said it, like it hadn’t broken him.  Like it was just a fact. But Emma’s life was a story, too.  A fucked-up situation that had kind of fucked her up.  She wasn’t that kid anymore.  Confidence could be learned.  And maybe—maybe—she wasn’t broken, either. Not if she picked up the pieces.  Not if she told herself a new story.  About who she was.  About what she wanted.  Roots, family, friends, a sense of the familiar—these did not have to be fairy tales. “You owe it to yourself,” Mary Margaret said. “Happy endings always start with hope.”

–

S3 post-neverland canon divergence. 20k of no-curse renaissance.

read it on AO3

to @wistfulcynic and @thisonesatellite who sat with me while we daydreamed on a hilltop in cornwall on the summer-iest summer day england has ever seen. it took me eight months but i got there in the end.

thank you to @shireness-says for time and feedback and kindness to the IAS @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @idoltina @initiala @thejollyroger-writer @phiralovesloki for always giving me a cheer when i needed it

--

seventeen. 'and straight on 'til morning'

The girl, Wendy, insisted on helping Neal to gather Henry’s belongings and stayed at his side for the entire walk to the Jolly Roger.  It was a race against a clock that was suddenly very real in this place where time did not exist, every second another precious tick against Henry’s life.

The boy looked very small in his father’s arms and smaller still once laid out on the deck to await the arrival of his mothers.  The Lost Boys were settled against the bulkheads and Killian had sent David below deck to sort out cabins and sleeping arrangements for himself and his family.

Any moment, the women would return; the Jolly Roger awaited her departure.

That left Killian and Neal standing side-by-side at the helm for the first time since Bae had left.  Neal’s fingers worried at the scratches in the wood.  “You sailed her well when you took the Jolly Roger from me in New York,” Killian said.  

“I learned from the best.  Isn’t that what you would say?”  Neal sighed.  “How did we get here, Hook?  How does this end?”

Killian glanced at Henry.  “Emma swore she would bring back Henry’s heart.  And I’m not sure any of those women know how to fail, especially her.”  

“Yeah, she’s—”  Neal sighed again.  “She’s really something.”

“She’s a hero,” Killian said.  “And an extraordinary woman.  She will return, and we will sail home.”

“We, huh?”  Neal’s eyebrow twitched.  “What’s it feel like, to be one of the good guys?”

“Am I?”

“I don’t know, Hook.  Are you?  You know I need to do this.  I need to fight for her.  A man who refuses to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

“Aye.”  Killian pinched the bridge of his nose.  “And Emma deserves someone who will fight for her.”

“So does that mean you’re gonna stand in my way?”

“I am in your way.  You and I, we’ve gotten caught up in so much nonsense—over a woman.  That’s not what I want for us.  Or her.  I won’t interfere in your fight, Neal.  I will let Emma make her own decision, and I will respect it.”

Neal held out his hand.  Killian took it.  They shook.

And then they heard the commotion.  Regina yelling at the top of her very commanding voice.  “Henry!”

And Emma:  “Henry?  Where is he?”

“He’s over here!” Neal and Killian met the mothers at Henry’s side.  David nearly tripped coming up the companionway.  

All they could do was watch as Regina pushed her son’s heart back into his body.  Watch, and wait.  Killian’s own breath felt like a weight in his chest as he watched for the boy’s.

“Are we too late?” Emma whispered.

With a sickening cough, Henry came awake.  His eyes opened and he tried to sit up—too quickly, which made him cough again.

“Whoa.  Whoa, whoa—take it easy, buddy.  Take a breath.  We’re here.  We’re all here.”  Neal’s voice wavered as if he was holding back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Henry said.  “I just wanted to save the magic.  I wanted to be a hero.”  He looked at Emma.  “Like you, mom.”

“It’s okay,” Emma said.  “It’s okay, Henry.”

“There’s plenty of time for that.” David gripped him on the shoulder. 

“Right now, it’s time to rest,” Snow White said.

Killian’s relief filled him.  His smile hurt.  “Welcome back, lad.  Only the best for our guest of honor.  Captain’s quarters, I think?”

“Come on.  I’ll tuck you in.”  Regina’s hand shook as she pulled Henry tightly against her and led him away.

--

Killian kept himself at the helm and away from the family dramas unfolding before him.  The ship was ready; there was little for him to do but wait.  And watch.  The Lost Boys were scattered on the forecastle but the poop was cluttered with Emma and the Charmings and a box containing the Dark One.

Would that he would stay so contained.

But Neal appeared nervous--eager.  Held the box tightly in his hand as he shuffled on his feet, preparing himself for the enormity of what he was about to do.  Killian saw him dart a glance at Emma—stock-still, her expression etched in stone.  Behind her the Charmings clutched at each other with the waterskin pressed between them and waited.

David turned, slightly, and caught Killian’s eye.  Nodded.  That was when Killian realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to expel it.  Released his grip on the wheel.

With a twist of his wrist Neal opened the box and for an instant the very air stopped moving.  The starlight dimmed.  Everything seemed to vibrate and there, on the deck of the Jolly Roger, stood the Dark One; Killian hated how grateful he was for it.

Neal pulled his father into his arms and Emma seemed to collapse.  Her shoulders sagged, her spine curved.  Her mouth moved for several seconds with no sound before she said, “He’s back.  That means—”

David could go home.  They could all go home—Emma’s entire family.

Killian grinned.  Emma Swan never failed.

The prince laughed.  “He can cure me.”

Snow White was nearly sobbing.  “We can go home?”  Emma flinched when her mother grabbed her , frozen, before collapsing again—further—into the embrace.  “A family.”  David’s hand gently cradled the back of Emma’s head.

Regina emerged from the companionway and took in the group hug with a roll of her eyes.  Emma extracted herself from her parents and looked at Killian—he tipped his head—then Neal, who straightened and removed the tied-up coconut from the strap of his cutlass.

“Can we get a move on?” Regina was as patient as ever.  “You—get over here.”  This was said to Neal.

“You think it will fly?” Emma said.

“It has no choice,” Regina said.  Grim satisfaction tinged her words as she held herself ready for the spell.  “Light it.”

Emma reached for the cannon fuse with her lighter—no magic—and Neal held the coconut steady.

“Now,” Regina commanded, and Neal obeyed; the Shadow was caught by the cannon and by the magic and trapped in the sail.  The fabric changed from white to black and filled with invisible wind and momentum as the Shadow strained to move.

“Let’s get the hell out of Neverland,” Emma said.

“As you wish,” Killian said.  “Prepare to weigh anchor!”  The magic of the ship responded to his order and shifted immediately with a tilt skyward.  Propelled by the Shadow, they were soon airborne.  Airborne, and free.  

David and Emma murmured to each other on the deck as Snow White dug into the remainder of their stores and began making a round of the Lost, offering them bits of food or sips of water.  Wendy pulled her dressing-gown more tightly around herself and made her way toward Tink.  When Bae—Neal joined them, the tiny girl wrapped herself around him.  Regina stood amidships along the starboard side—alone—until Tinker Bell moved to stand beside her.

Killian watched them.  He was alone at the helm and it stayed that way as, one by one, the assorted passengers of the Jolly Roger took themselves to the cabins assigned them by Prince Charming.  The Lost huddled together on the fo’c’s’le, sleeping in stunned silence.  The only sound aloft in the night air was the pleasing rush of fresh, cold wind as they sailed.

Emma was the last to take herself below.  For a while she stood there, only moving to tuck her hair behind her ears.  Over and again as the wind immediately whipped it into a tangle and she said nothing, did nothing, until finally she turned and looked up at him.  Taking him in from his brows to his boots.

Killian watched her and felt the hunger rise up inside him.  The need.  The desire.  It was unfamiliar and aching and it hit him with a force.  They had retrieved the boy and his promise, if there was such a thing, was fulfilled.  But with so much unresolved he held fast to what he had said to Neal—he would fight.  And he would let Emma make her decision.

He might as well have spoken the words out loud—Emma blinked, and turned away.  It was difficult not to take that as an answer but Killian turned his gaze skyward again as Emma made her way carefully through the companionway and down to the crew quarters.

Alone.

A shiver ran through him, right through the edge of his coat; it was a shock to feel the weather again.  A sign of his exhaustion, no doubt.  It was past time for sleeping.  Even Neal was sprawled on the deck, in between Tinker Bell and Wendy.  Killian locked the wheel on its course and left the magic to guide them through to the morning.  They’d nearly be home by then.

Home?  Killian chuckled unkindly to himself.  The Jolly Roger was his home, hell or high water.  He stifled a yawn and headed toward the cabin Dave had set aside for him—stopping at his usual quarters to check in on Henry, pleasantly surprised when Regina tolerated his intrusion.  Her hand was wrapped around her son’s as she mouthed the words to a story.

He hesitated outside the cabin assigned to Emma, his hook poised to knock on the door, but it was dead quiet and she hadn’t slept, either.  Killian took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose and took himself to his cabin.

Emma Swan was sitting in the candlelight—waiting—though she stood immediately when he entered.  He opened his mouth but no words came out.  He couldn’t even breathe.

She grabbed him.  She kissed him.  Again, again—all he could taste was her—until he was gasping for air, desperate, unmade.  She flicked her wrist, and the door slammed shut behind him.

--

For one shining second everything snapped into focus.

Like magic.

She could feel it.  Every nerve in her body was alive.  Dancing.  On fire.  Everywhere they touched hummed with power.  Emma wanted to laugh.  To scream.  To cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, pulling away.

“Wait, what?” What was he apologizing for?  She’d kissed him.  She’d wanted to.  God, she’d wanted to.  She just hadn’t wanted to let herself.  There had been too much on the line.

And Henry.

But they were on their way home.  Together.  A family.  And Henry was fine.  Alive, and whole.  Just like he’d said.  They hadn’t failed.  

They’d been a team.

“Hook?  Killian?”

He smiled—sort of.  His mouth moved, half-up at one corner.  It did not reach his eyes.  “I want this.  I want you,” he said.  “When you say my name—I want to make you scream it.”

“And I’m here to take you up on that,” Emma said, but she stepped back, too.  She wasn’t going to beg.  She wasn’t going to—

His grip on her wrist was soft, and sure, and gentle.  It centered her.  When was the last time someone had touched her like that?  So easily?  With such care?  When was the last time she’d let them?

“Emma.”  It was a whisper.  It was a caress.  His thumb slipped under the cords of leather wrapped around her wrist—right at her pulse point—she felt it everywhere.  Everywhere.  “My foolishness almost got us killed in the Dark Hollow,” he said.  “I don’t make a habit of this. I apologize, unreservedly.  My behavior with Neal was inexcusable.”

“Me and Neal—we’re not—”

“I know,” he said.  She liked the way he said it.  Like it was just that simple.  She also liked that he did not let go her wrist as he spoke.  “And that is not the kind of man I want to be.  But it was nonetheless an uncomfortable reminder.”

“Of what?”

His hand moved.  His thumb played with the ring on his first finger.  “Villains don’t get happy endings.  And I have been—I am—a villain.  Seeing you two together so soon after what we had shared—”

“It was just a kiss,” she said.  A lie, and he knew it.  He knew it as well and as easily as she knew that he spoke nothing but the truth. “Killian—” his hand stilled “—we wouldn’t be here now without you.  My father is alive because of you.  We saved Henry because you helped.”  

He blushed, and looked away.

“Thank you, Killian.  For coming back.”

“It was the right thing to do.”  He shifted.  “I just wish I had done it sooner.  I’m sorry.”

Emma leaned forward, slowly.  Forced him to look her in the eye.  “Trust me, you have a mark in the hero column.”  And then she kissed him.  Again.

Slowly.

Savoring it.

She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled herself closer.  Teased her tongue against his lips.  The sound he made was pure pleasure and he moved, his fingers threading through her hair.  Brushing against her cheek as one kiss became two.  Then three.  She stepped back, slightly, and smiled.  Killian’s fingers moved to trace her lips and he leaned forward, fusing their mouths together.

One kiss.  Another.  Three.

Then the kiss changed and she stopped counting.  His tongue slid into her mouth.  Greedy.  Heated.  His arms wrapped around her and she felt protected—precious—safe—as his mouth wandered, kissing a path across her jaw and down her neck.  Emma exhaled a noise that might have been his name.  The cool metal of his hook played at the hem of her top and his hand fingered the edge of her bra, pulling at the strap.  “May I remove this?”

Always a gentleman.

Emma unclasped it and tossed it aside, along with her top.  She watched him as he removed his coat and then it was her turn, her fingers working at the buttons of his vest and the laces of his shirt.  His eyes trailed every movement with searing intensity and then he lifted her.  “I would like to take you to bed.”

“And I would like to hear you scream,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“As you wish.”

--

 Sated.  Spent.  Fucking exhausted.  Emma cocooned herself in the blanket; nestled more deeply into the pillow.  “My parents want me to get back together with Neal,” she said.

His fingers, idly tracing patterns on her back, froze.

“They didn’t even ask me,” she said.  “They just assumed.  True Love.  Yadda yadda.”

“I see.”  She reached for him but he twisted away from her, maneuvering himself until he was sitting up, his feet squarely on the floor, his back to her—inked and muscled, and twitching when she ran her finger up his spine. 

“Killian?”

He shivered when she said his name but his words, when he spoke, were strained.  Almost formal.  “A one-time thing.  I quite understand.”

“No.  No, Killian, that’s not—” Emma sat up, pulling the blanket with her.  He was so beautiful and had a confidence in his body and his nakedness that she was not feeling.  Not when he said that.  “That’s not what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“About Neal?” She shrugged.  “Yes.  He broke my heart.”

Killian gave a hoarse chuckle.  He smoothed his hand down his face.  He did not look at her.   “He did.”  

“Neal left.  My parents left.  Graham—” she caught her breath.  “Everyone I’ve ever cared about.”

“Me.”

She nodded.  Took a deep breath and moved.  Touched him.  Let her hands roam and feel the warmth of his skin and the tension beneath.  Turned him to face her and dropped her head to his shoulder.  “I left you first,” she said.  “That’s what I do.  That’s what Neal taught me.  I don’t want to go back to that.  I want to be a part of something.  Aside from Henry, I don’t think I ever have.”

“But you could.”  His arm came around her.  She reached up and threaded her fingers through his.  “Is that what you want?  Or is that what you are afraid of?”

“Both,” she said.

“I would follow you to the end of the world, love.  And back again.  Which are you asking of me?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” Emma said.  Her body hummed as she said it—  focused.  Powerful.  “I want to try something new.  You’re not a villain, Killian.  You’re not a monster.  Your happy ending—”  

Killian smiled.  A breathtaking, beautiful, hopeful smile.  “It’s you,” he said.  “Don’t you know, Emma?  It’s you.”

Every candle in the cabin flared.  He laughed.  His arm hooked around her waist and in less than a second he had her on her back, crowding her, his nose  and his face buried against her neck until his breath tickled.  His hand went to her breasts and when she reached for him, his hook caught her wrists and brought her hands above her head.  His fingers danced along her stomach, her muscles tense. Killian’s forehead pressed against hers, his eyes lit up in the night as she shivered and shook under his slow, gentle caress—as his touch slipped between her legs—as he kissed her, teasing—“Please,” she gasped.

It was the ‘please’ that did it.  His fingers twisted and the world around her went white; she came down slowly, letting herself melt into the bed.  His arms.  She was in a haze, in a place between sleeping and awake.  She felt like she could say anything and be understood.

It was an entirely new feeling.

She liked it.

“I don’t want to tell my parents,” she said.  “My father and mo—Mary Margaret.  About this.  About us.”

“You needn’t protect me from your father, love,” he said, amused.  “He’s made his opinions clear.  Called me names.  Meant a lot of them, I think.  But Dave and I, we’ve arrived at an understanding.  I’m more worried about Snow White.  She’s a fair hand with that bow.”

“I don’t need their permission.  Neither do you.”

“You’re angry with them,” he said.  “Aye, you’ve a right to be.”

Emma shifted to face him head-on, resting herself on his chest.  Inked—like his back—muscled, strong.  Her hands made a pillow and she set her chin down; their eyes met.  “I’m tired,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, slowly.  “You’ve a right to be.”

“I’m so tired, Killian.  And if I tell them then they’re just gonna try to convince me how much they know better.  I don’t want to fight or explain.  I just want them to understand.  Just once.”  Emma laid her head down on her hand-pillow and listened to his heartbeat.  Closed her eyes.

“You have a plan,” he said.

“Maybe,” she murmured.  She was so drowsy.  So comfortable.  “Maybe I do.  Will you trust me?”

“Yes.”

One eye opened.  “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”  Killian leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  Her cheek.  The corner of her mouth.  “It will be daylight soon.  We’re nearly home.”  His hand smoothed her hair as he slid out from underneath her.  

She was asleep before he was gone, the word ringing in her dreams.

Home.

eighteen. 'happily ever after'

Mrs. Lucas greeted him with a very particular—knowing—look as he walked into the diner, the bell over the door heralding his arrival just a few minutes after the device in his pocket had made a noise. A text: They know. Granny’s.

Eloquent, Emma Swan was not.

He’d replaced the device—the phone—in his pocket and hurried, though he affected nonchalance as he pushed the door open. Mrs. Lucas was not fooled. Her face lit up in what could only be described as glee. “Leroy owes me ten bucks,” she said. “How did you pull it off?”

Killian carefully settled himself on a barstool before he leaned forward, beckoning her with a finger. Raising his eyebrows. Making a show of looking around before he answered. “Magic,” he whispered.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Her laugh was short and sharp, like a bark.

“Now, Mrs. Lucas”—Killian raised his eyebrow dramatically—“would I lie to you?”

She snorted and turned away, leaving a pint of beer in front of him. Killian twisted on his stool and watched her in the corner. Watched them, for Emma and her mother huddled close together over their table.

But he hadn’t told her a lie.

That first night in Storybrooke, as he’d sat in his quarters contemplating the bunk that felt too soft and too large and the night air that felt too cool and too still and too quiet, she’d appeared. A shift in the air, and a puff of white smoke; he’d been sure he was dreaming. In her hand, there was a small object. A black rectangle of some hard material that folded over. “I can’t stay,” Emma said. “But—it was too quiet at home. And I brought you something. It’s a telephone—”

“A talking device,” he said. He’d recognized the Greek even when he hadn’t known the word. Astonishing what one learned in the Royal Navy, and how it carried over even into this realm. “The mermaids have a magic like this.”

“This way we can talk. Or text. And no one will know but us.”

“How romantic,” he deadpanned. But her fingers curled in his as he spoke, twined together.

“I’m going to lunch with Neal tomorrow,” Emma said. “Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, until they see what I see. What I know. And then maybe—” she stopped. “What are you going to do?”

“I have some ideas.” He pulled her into his arms. Into his bed. Felt her rands roam as she traced his tattoos with her fingers and then her lips and her tongue until he shivered. Screamed.

And so did she.

She slipped from the sheets, quietly, and stood. “I can’t stay,” she said again.

“I understand,” he’d said. Because he did. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”

“So we’re going to do this?” And the unspoken question—you’re going to stay?

Killian nodded, answering both. “Your father’s been waiting for me to rob him since the moment we met. I would hate to be a disappointment.”

She’d appeared that first night and every night since; he almost wished that time were stopped again just so he could live in those moments forever. Here and now, David stood next to him--also watching, also quiet.

In the corner, Snow White started crying. So did Emma. Happy tears, Killian thought—Snow was smiling, holding Emma’s hand—Emma’s shoulders were relaxed and open as she leaned closer.

Killian smiled, too. He heard David’s sigh of relief. Saw his smile when their eyes met. “Take care of her, brother,” the prince said.

“She can take care of herself,” Killian said.

“Better than anyone,” David agreed. “But something tells me she’ll be busy watching out for you.”

“She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Just like her mother,” David said. He clapped his hand on Killian’s shoulder. Gave a squeeze, walked to the table in the corner.

“Another one, if you please, Mrs. Lucas,” Killian said, running his hand through his hair. The bell over the door rang, and Killian glanced over his shoulder. “Make it two.”

He slid the second pint over just as Neal sat on the stool next to his.

“I’m sorry,” Killian said.

Neal took a long, slow sip. He said, “I don’t need an apology, Killian. “And you don’t need my permission.”

“Not about that,” Killian said. “I’m sorry, Bae, for the ugliness that passed between us. If I could do it again, I wouldn’t.”

“Neither would I,” Neal said. “But then we wouldn’t be here. With her.”

“She loves you,” Killian said.

“I love her,” Neal said. “I probably always will. She’s my family.”

“Aye,” Killian said. “She is. And your boy.”

Neal surprised him, then. He turned on his stool and offered his glass in a toast. “And you,” he said.

“To family,” Killian said. He clinked their glasses together.

“To family, and home.”

[housesofmouses]

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: THE CURSE OF THE BLACK PEARL PSD by @lespsd.

[deathsmallcaps]

Ok I’m probably not the best person to say this, but I’ve been seeing a lot of (as of right now) accurate insults on how the CGI approach for the Live Action Little Mermaid movie, but please be mindful that you don’t take things too far, and *especially* don’t start going after Halle Bailey (Ariel’s actress) and to a lesser extent, Ariel the character.

Antiblackness is still an issue in a lot of fandom spaces, and it doesn’t just come out as using nasty slurs or stereotypes. It manifests as drawing Black characters lighter and/or with more white features, it comes out as removing Black partners from ships, and it starts out as plausibly deniable insults that get the door open to microaggressions and outright nasty comments.

I’m not saying that all discussion of the movie should be stalled, or even if it turns out to be an artistic failure, that it doesn’t merit discussion. I’m saying that you shouldn’t extend your vitriol to the characters and actors.

If you really feel the need to insult her, it might be worth a little introspection. Ask yourself, “Do I resent that they changed Ariel, or that they changed Ariel in this way?”. You’re not irredeemable if your personal answer isn’t kind. Just be more careful, try and observe how that sort of world view affects your behavior to others, and then course correct.

A lot of little kids would love to see another Black Princess. A lot of little kids would love to have a Black mermaid as a main character. Hell, a lot of adults would love those too. Black fantasy characters have long been excluded, transformed, killed, merely in the background, relegated to stereotypes, villainized and have hardly ever in the spotlight, especially in major productions.

Don’t make it harder for kids (and adults!) to see themselves on screen. Don’t ruin their wonder. So don’t make unkind comments. Keep it to yourself. Frankly, Halle looks beautiful, and I can’t wait to see the sparkles in her fans’ eyes as she swims across the screen.

[aidenknow]

Thinking of creating an art of 81 getting crucified

[fuckmeyer]

oooh bestie i just read your jasper gift-as-curse analysis (agree 100%!!! it fucks severely!!!!) and in your tags you mention thinking of all of the cullen "gifts" as curses and...i am going actively insane thinking about rosalie in that frame. like? her beauty carries over! and it's a curse in that people see that first and her second and assume that she's shallow...but also that was true in her human life as well and becoming a vampire seems like it maybe allowed her to transcend that and realize what was fucked up about her human experience??? WILD

Rosalie's gift is also a curse, but unlike Jasper's, i find it heartbreaking

it's a curse in that people see that first and her second and assume that she's shallow

VERY true. but the consequences of extreme beauty go beyond people chalking her up as shallow.

part of Rosalie's curse is that there are many aspects of her life where her looks play a role. & going through life requires either a degree of illusion or a degree of doubt.

for example: how many times as she been given— or been overlooked for— opportunities or merit because of her attractiveness? how many relationships has she tried to make, only to find the foundation of said connection was built on— or marred by— her looks? if Edward bothered to see past what he perceives as Rosalie's vanity, would they be closer as siblings? or, put another way:

In the first second that Emmett saw Rosalie, he saw a goddess whom he had worshiped without cease ever since. (Midnight Sun, Ch 6)

i'm not saying Emmett's love isn't real. but it's also clear he's immediately attracted to Rose physically; even decades later, their love is described as "intensely physical" (Ch 7). worshiping implies a degree of separation; there's a pedestal, a blindness, in the kind of love Emmett shows her. if she was average-looking, would he love her as she is, as an equal, without worship? would he even give her a second glance?

part of the curse is never knowing what's real. either she lives with a degree of doubt, or she lives with a degree of illusion.

another part of Rosalie's curse is that she also falls into the trap of seeing her face first and herself second. now, do i think Rosalie is vapid & a "stagnant pool of few surprises" (Ch 1)? no. she has a personality, she has hobbies outside of tending to or enhancing her beauty. but we do see her mesmerized with herself:

She’d caught sight of her profile in the reflection off someone’s glasses, and she was mulling over her own perfection. No one else’s hair was closer to true gold, no one else’s shape was quite so perfectly an hourglass, no one else’s face was such a flawless, symmetrical oval.

& we also see her play up her beauty in the vehicle she drives & the clothes she wears. she cannot look away from herself.

however, this is where i think we see yet another facet of Rosalie's curse. that is, being the most gorgeous vampire of the Cullens, there is a degree of intense scrutiny that comes with Rosalie's beauty. for all the illusion/doubt it brings her, she must be constantly aware of it. because this scrutiny is two-fold:

1) unlike someone like Alice who can pass as androgynous & is overlooked physically, Rose does not have the luxury of breaking traditional gender expectations lest she draw even more attention to the coven. in a sense, Rosalie is under more pressure to flawlessly perform the rituals of gender conformity because anything outside of the norm will be noticed more easily.

2) beyond that, the degree of attention she receives means she must constantly perform in a human sense, too: twitching, blinking, moving, behaving, etc. in this way, her looks become a hindrance to her vegetarian lifestyle.

so, she is cursed in that she's the face of the Cullen family & under pressure by the coven & society to perform. even if she wanted to escape her beauty, she cannot.

becoming a vampire seems like it maybe allowed her to transcend [her beauty] and realize what was fucked up about her human experience

but it kinda...didn't?

don't get me wrong, it did in some sense. as mentioned, Rose has picked up hobbies, dreams, & a personality. we do see her transcend her appearance; however, her beauty still traps her for the reasons above.

& to be honest with you bestie, it wasn't vampirism that allowed her to transcend her beauty. because if she had been turned, say, the day she got engaged, what kind of vampire would we see? her final days, her looks gave her everything she wanted, & now she ends up as the most ravishing creature on earth in the socioeconomic class she wanted. Rosalie wins. i'm not saying she would have wanted vampirism if she had been turned in better circumstances. but she would certainly be more divorced from reality, & i doubt she would find it as necessary to transcend her beauty since it got her what she wanted & confirmed her worldview.

it wasn't the vampirism that allowed her to transcend her beauty. it was the rape.

the rape tears the curtain back. the rape shows her all that glitters isn't gold. the rape teaches her that in the end, her beauty couldn't, & would never, save her. the rape tells her what a woman's place is in her world. the rape forces her to realize: for all Rosalie's beauty, she is awarded nothing, she is entitled to nothing, she can do everything right & still lose. the rape is what necessitated a change in Rosalie's beliefs.

i find Rosalie's curse heartbreaking because i do not doubt she has thought about this when she looks in the mirror.

she's more attractive now than ever, but that is what put her in that position in the first place. she's come to this horrific realization at an even more horrific cost. & everyone around her compliments how beautiful she is; everyone dreams about how wonderful their lives would be if only they could be so beautiful; everyone wishes they could be as beautiful as Rosalie Hale...

meanwhile, Rosalie sits with the uncomfortable idea that the thing that gave her everything she wanted is the same thing that led her to her rape, to her death— hell, Carlisle figured she'd make a good wife for Edward, so even her turning was a result of her beauty— & is now the very thing that traps her in a life she never wanted, performing eternally in a spotlight that will never dim.