#to be clear i do like emma stone and i do think she’s very talented

[aimfor-theheart]

my thing with emma stone winning is like…..her performance in poor things was good—she’s a good actress. but it did not compare to gladstone’s. it’s not like emma stone is this aged actress whose never gotten an oscar before and the academy felt the need to give her her flowers finally after years of hard work despite not out acting her peers….rather she’s a young actress whose already won an oscar previously. and she will likely be nominated and win more in her future too.

more than that, roles for emma stone are always and will always be around. and this one in particular was not insanely groundbreaking.

roles like the one lily gladstone played in killers of the flower moon are (unfortunately) far more rare in hollywood and especially by such an esteemed director and to be acknowledged at this level. it’s just a shame she didn’t win. it was so much more poignant and astounding of a performance than emma stone’s.

[taminoarticles]

— Tamino and Ramy for Knack Focus, 2018 (x)

Tamino & Ramy, Mortsel's most successful brother couple: 'Together we can do nothing bad'

Kristof Dalle 16-10-2018, 14:00 Updated on: 23-04-2022, 08:01

One is 21 and storms the sky with Amir, his debut album. The other is 18 and determines the international image of his brother from his room in Mortsel as a house photographer, director and all-round creative director. Ramy and Tamino-Amir Moharam Fouad, Mortsel's most successful family business. "There is both a romantic young soul and a nihilistic old man in me."

“When I was fourteen, I was a bit of an asshole. The classic adolescent rebellion to rebel, especially at school.'

'At school? Especially to me, yes, Tamino. I often asked Mom to send you to boarding school after all. Really very often. Well, it's clearly all worked out.'

Eighteen months after he forced his breakthrough with Habibi and was proclaimed laureate of De Nieuwe Lichting, there is still no measure of Tamino-Amir Moharam Fouad. Last month he received the Anchor Award for up-and-coming talent together with Faces on TV at the Reeperbahn Festival in Hamburg, this week Amir , his debut album, is on the shelves. Mesmerizing listening songs – as usual – peppered with Middle Eastern elements. Younger brother and film student at Sint-Lukas Brussels Ramy – 'Feel free to call him my creative director', says Tamino – provided the artwork and accompanying clips, just as he did for Blackwave , Emma Bale and Portland. Memo: one brother is 21, the other 18.

Say Ramy, you sure like that cameo as a woman, huh? Tamino

'Now that Tamino is really going international, I receive daily emails from America or Australia about artwork or promotional material', says Ramy. 'It was just about posters in the Paris metro. Crazy, if you think about it. Nothing goes on without my approval. I try to keep the overview, so that Tamino doesn't have to worry too much about it. That way he can remain a bit of a dreamy artist.'

Ramy's words whirl through the Antwerp Bar Vert. The eighteen-year-old speaks with the same confidence as his older brother, albeit much more softly and without too much intonation. It's eleven o'clock in the morning, or you would almost think that… 'I choked? Well, I hear that often.' Tamino laughs. “In high school they called him out because he was supposed to be stoned in class every day. Not so. Ramy is just extremely zen.'

Useful. Especially because at the age of eighteen, Ramy already largely controls your international image. You'd get nervous for less.

Ramy Moharam Fouad: (grins) There's a lot of pressure on me, but that's how I like it.

Tamino Moharam Fouad: I know. That also makes me feel less guilty for putting so much burden on your shoulders. We're just a good team.

Ramy: Together we can't make anything bad, I really believe that. We don't give up until it's right.

Has directing always been your calling, Ramy?

Ramy: No. Tamino would be the director, I the actor. I went to drama school from the age of eight to seventeen. Tamino was already writing pieces when he was ten and let me play them. I loved doing that.

Tamino: You just didn't know any better. It's also not that hard to get a six-year-old to play a knight who has to save the world. (laugh)

Ramy: It wasn't until I was fifteen that I became interested in photography – I did the artwork for Tamino's entrance exam at the Conservatory of Amsterdam – and later also in directing. The more behind the scenes documentaries I saw, the more that side of the business started to attract me.

In 2016 you shot the short film Damonia , of which your brother was responsible for a good part of the soundtrack. Damonia deals with dementia. What possesses a young fellow to tackle a theme that is – presumably – very far from his bed?

Ramy: When I first started photography, when I was 15, a friend of Mom's asked me if I wanted to make a series of portraits of her demented grandmother Godelieve as a keepsake. Tough, but I wanted to try. In the end it turned out to be a really nice day. Clear or not, she clearly enjoyed modeling. Her husband was also a photographer, she told me. He was currently in Africa but soon had an exhibition nearby. Her husband had died two years earlier. A day later I received a message from her granddaughter: Godelieve had died that night. I remember that I immediately thought of Damonia like crazyI have begun to write about a woman who longs in vain for her husband's return. That was the first time I felt such a compulsion: I had to tell that story, and photos alone wouldn't get me there.

Today you will also be directing your brother's clips, most recently Persephone's, in which Tamino sings to his beloved as Hades. It is remarkably understated compared to your earlier work.

Ramy: I wanted to portray the Persephone myth quite subtly, since the song is already very heavy and full of symbolism anyway. Although it had to be an intense viewing experience at the same time. For some, it might be too much of a good thing, but hey, so be it.

Tamino: The same goes for the song itself: it asks a lot of the listener. Which essentially gives you free rein for the accompanying clip.

We now know that Tamino works quite uncompromisingly. But apparently it's a family trait?

Tamino: I'm stubborn, but Ramy is at least twice as bad. Which also strikes me as a good quality for an artist. Although it is still a punishment how he cannot be dismissed from his vision at the age of eighteen. Even if that sometimes makes the collaborations very intense.

Do you always pull the same rope on set?

Tamino: We're always on the same side, yes. (…) What are you laughing at now?

Ramy: What about Cigar ? It's true that we're usually on the same page, but in the run-up to that clip he must have invaded my room at least five times. "Hey Ramy, you're sure about my cameo as a woman, aren't you?" "Yes, Tamino." "But really, huh?"

Tamino: I don't mind walking around in women's clothes. But it had to match the rest of the story. And I wanted to be a beautiful woman. (laughs)

Ramy: Come on, Tamino, you really are a beautiful woman.

Come Tamino, you are a beautiful woman. Ramy

Remarkably, that was still an issue in the first place. Last year you told in this magazine how liberating it was to be raised only by your mother and you never had to hide your feminine side, like your falsetto voice.

Tamino: That was also very liberating. And again, I actually really like to show up in women's clothes, but it wasn't supposed to look like a joke. It was also true: we asked the girls in the clip to dress up as nineteenth-century prostitutes, so putting on a skirt was the least I could do.

Ramy: I think I have that feminine in me even more than Tamino. Largely because Mommy raised us alone.

Tamino: You have a certain softness that you could possibly call feminine. But at the same time – if we think in traditional roles – a hardness and stubbornness that is just very masculine.

In the clip of Tummy, Ramy portrays you as a living pharaoh statue. No matter how much you try to wash off the gold paint at night, every morning, ad aeternam you still wake up like a shining pharaoh. A quite literal nod to the exaggerated emphasis on your roots and your grandfather, the famous Egyptian singer Moharam Fouad?

Ramy: That's one of the elements. That clip is a good summary of the record for me. 'Amir' means 'prince' in Arabic. A prince has no choice, he is born that way. The same goes for musicians. You can't run away from who you are.

Tamino: The choice for that pharaoh was of course obvious. It remains very strange, the realization that when people hear that I am a half-Egyptian musician, they still automatically think of pyramids and sphinxes. (dry) There are really very few pyramids in my music. When I think of Egyptian music, it is, for example, a firqa, an extensive Middle Eastern orchestra that includes oud and ney players, the kind my grandfather, or Umm Kulthum, also performed with.

That clip made me feel somewhat sorry for Tamino, who tries little successfully to escape from all the attention. Was that the intended emotion?

Ramy: No. But I do like to hear it .

Tamino: It's been going really fast for me for a year and a half now, but I can't complain about that, can I? This is what I've wanted to do all my life, there's never been another option. At the same time, I understand Tom Waits when he says: 'It's funny how you want to get people's attention. But when you get it, you want people to fuck off.' And I'm not talking about the fans, but about all the noise: the appointments, the promo, the flow of emails...

You did incorporate your grandfather's music into the record.

Tamino: Inne Eysermans of Amatorski set to work with Moharam's music. She took a couple of my grandfather's cassettes, worked on them overnight, and by morning she had thirty wacky new soundscapes ready. I don't understand how she does it at all. Pure wizard. I can only listen to it with my mouth open.

I am also glad that I could be guided by a Brussels firqa. Until then I just had some arrangements in my music program, then suddenly everything fell together. They had previously asked me to perform with them with my grandfather's music. But I really didn't feel ready for that: I don't know Arabic and I'm not schooled in that music at all.

Have you already performed in Egypt?

Tamino: No, and if I ever play there, it won't be obvious. With my legacy.

As the grandson of the Egyptian Frank Sinatra.

Tamino: I am very happy that I could start in a country where hardly anyone knows who Moharam Fouad was. Because even before I can sing a note, the average Egyptian will have formed an image of how I should sound. My father was never able to cash in on his singing career in Egypt: he always remained 'the son of'.

Which song on Amir do you want to work on, Ramy?

Ramy: Chambers. Strong song, sticks and I immediately had a lot of images in my head. Not everyone on the team was a fan of that song, but I was very resolute against it.

Tamino: There's a good clip in that, yes. I draw parallels between relationships and a battlefield, how you can sometimes oppose each other as two armies. 'In your feigned retreat I'll follow blindly in defeat.' Napoleon was also defeated: 'Tiens, the British are on the run? We're going after it!'

Ramy: (smiles) I get goosebumps when he quotes from it. I have that too with Will of This Heart.

A song about how someone dragged you out of a dark period.

Tamino: Something, not someone. Love, and how it can get you out of a deep valley but also make you soar so high that you become vulnerable again. 'No one else could match your flavor.' I would never sing that about a person. (laughter) Be a little realistic. Verses is a love song to someone, in the purest sense, inspired by The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran.

Together we can do nothing bad, I really believe that. We don't give up until it's right. Ramy Moharam Fouad

The Prophet must be pretty much your favorite book. In the foreword, Gibran's work is described as 'a romantic rebellion in a cold world'. Do you see yourself that way too?

Tamino: I don't so much rebel against a cold world, but rather against my own nihilism. Amir is one big contrast between the romantic and the apathetic. I really want to surrender – 'fuck it, you get everything, you get me completely' – but often I don't feel anything at all. A song like So It Goes is about that, about how you don't seem to notice the beauty around you at all. (thinks) There is both a romantic young soul and a nihilistic old man in me.

Ramy: I recognize it in myself too, although I would call it focus rather than nihilism. When I'm in a flow, I'm anything but social.

Tamino: That's why I haven't changed a bit in the last year. I'm just working, I wouldn't even know where to schedule diva scenes in my calendar. (laugh) In order to get everything done, you have to flatten yourself. I see a lot of artists who struggle with that. Understandable. Artists are not made to flatten themselves.

Is that why you're both up so early? The questionable talent to flatten everything where necessary.

Tamino: No. Nihilism kills everything, it is of little use to you. We owe a lot to Mom, who always left us free to do what we wanted to do. And besides that, Ramy and I just share a certain passion and willingness to sacrifice everything for that. Coming back to Tummy: if you're born with a calling, a talent, or whatever you want to call it, you can't help but feel it. If you're lucky enough that everything falls into place, then you don't let that slip out of your hands, do you? Then you just grow up very quickly.

Ramy: It's a very strange realization, but I haven't really felt like a student for a day. I'm just going with Tamino's rhythm. Fortunately, I can do a lot from my room, while he has to stand on it every day, facing the outside world. (thinks) Everyone says we're old souls.

Tamino: (half admonishing) Ramy, you don't say that about yourself.

Ramy: People say: 'Ramy, you are so young. Enjoy life anyway.' But this is my way of enjoying it. I feel physically bad if I don't get the most out of a day.

I hope to make a feature film someday. I look up to Xavier Dolan, but even harder to Spike Jonze. Ramy Moharam Fouad

Tamino: I have a hard time enjoying the fleeting things. Drinking wine on a terrace? A sun holiday at a swimming pool? Mumps. It's fun at the moment, but it doesn't stop there. Gibran says, "Labour is love made visible." That's right. It gives life meaning.

At eighteen you already have a vision of the direction you want to go, Ramy – if you have to choose?

Ramy: I hope to be able to play a full-length one day. And after a year of mainly video clips, I now really feel the need to work out my own project again.

Tamino: You're a storyteller. While a video clip, just like a song, is at most a sketch. You can never put everything into that.

Ramy: In three minutes I can lose my egg. Clips are also very grateful, because you do get a response. Let's be honest: such a short film is fantastic to make, but you know that you will never reach a large audience with it. I now have to redo my first year at Sint-Lukas – Tamino was my biggest priority this year – but of course I don't regret it for a second. I couldn't imagine a better school.

Reportedly, you mainly look up to Canadian director Xavier Dolan.

Ramy: It's hard not to admire Dolan, isn't it. There are very few directors who have already shot five relevant, intelligent films before the age of twenty-five. Although today I look even more up to Spike Jonze (director of Her and Being John Malkovich, ed.) Dolan's rawer work is very interesting, but I lean more towards Jonze's magical realism, creating a reality within reality. Damonia and my video clips always have such a dreamy atmosphere.

I understand. Jonze also started with video clips. And Jackass of course. I can still see you doing that. Tamino

Tamino: I get it. Jonze also started shooting music videos before shooting great movies. And Jackass of course. I can still see Ramy doing that. (laughs)

Ramy: First we have to make that animation sequence that you came up with. Walking Stick Charlie , about the adventures of a stick insect.

Tamino: Soon someone else will be walking along. But admit it's a good idea? Not least because such a stick insect reduces the animation costs enormously.

[wizkiddx]

without making this a sap story ive had some not so great news from home and am in one of them moods to not talk abt it. but i need a tom h to hug me , pls could u write something like that?

hey anon - i am sending u all my love, and hope things get a little easier for u as soon as possible. if u ever do wanna chat abt nothing or rant just send me a pm x  I hope this is at least somewhat what u were looking for <33

summary: life is sometimes not good, but your fave boy makes it just a little easier to deal with (with some original help from his brother too)

a bit angsty but i promise mainly fluff (and a popcorn fight?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What drew you out of the sort-of-trance was a two soft but firm knocks at the door - well Tom’s bedroom door. You’d been relaxing with him and Harry, watching the new ‘Line of Duty’ when your mum had called for the daily catch up. Admittedly, she had already tried to call you twice today but somehow you’d managed to miss both of them. On reflection, possible not that shocking because you’d been at a charity golf day with the boys which involved a fair amount of noise, chat and competition. 

Thankfully the boys had both done pretty well, Tom coming slightly ahead but that was the norm between the two. It meant they were both happily basking in their relative victories and not moody and grumpy like they are oh so often when things go wrong. Because to them, against your pleading, begging and sometimes lecturing…. golf was not just a game.  

You and your mum had always been very close, so usually speaking to her was uplifting and made you feel a little bit more complete - what with travelling with Tom for work, her voice was a slice of home. This time though, it was not so much the case. It was just sad news about your home town. Nothing directly to your family or close friends but still, it makes you feel generally down. 

Who knows how long it’d been since you’d hung up on the phone, just staring at the wall opposite. Everything felt just hollow and empty, lacking in meaning somewhat. You weren’t necessarily thinking, more like devoid of emotion, of thoughts, of anything. Just a bit cold. 

“Y/n…Y/n?” His voice sounded hesitant, as though scared he was interrupting your call. When you didn’t respond, the door cracked open and his fluffy head poked in, not that you noticed - your brain was still half absent. Tom on the other hand, was instantly looking you up and down, very much confused as the why you looked so rigid and not present. Noticing the phone was lying quiet on the bed in front of you, he felt safe to enter. He made a beeline for the bed, perching himself down on the edge, in-front of you - so he was blocking your fascinating view of the grey wall opposite. 

“What’s going on in that little head of yours?” His voice was soft and gravely, choosing not to put much energy into his vocal box as he rubbed up and down one of your arms. 

“Hmmm? Sorry, was miles away.”

“Could tell darl.” As he chuckled his eyes crinkled round the outside. “How was your mum?”

“Yeh…um okay, I-I guess.” As much as you wanted to shake yourself out of it, it just wasn’t that easy. Everything was laced with this underlying chilliness. 

“You sure? You dont really sound it?” 

“No, I um…well I’m not sure. I think I’m okay?”

“What happened?” You shook your head in response, making Tom press his lips together with a small nod. “ Don’t wanna talk about it huh?” 

“Not… not right now. Please?” 

With a permitting nod, Tom stood up and squeezed your hand, urging you to follow. Trailing behind him into the living room, he then instructed you to take a seat on the sofa adjacent to Harry, Tom himself disappearing back into the house. It made you pout a little, you wanted him to just look after you a little this evening but that self pity wasn’t allowed to last long - because a piece of popcorn flew into your cheek. You whipped your head around, with mouth open feigning shock, to see Harry smirking at you cradling a bowl full of other possible missiles in hand. 

“And what was that for?” He shrugged his shoulders, turning his head back to the TV.

“You looked sad.”

“…” Your mouth was open, no words coming out though, as you looked at the frizzy haired boy in bemusement. Sometimes you thought you understood how his head worked but at other points, the boy was a bloody mystery. Instead of explaining his thought process (because there almost certainly wasn’t one), he just smiled evily at you - wiggling his brows. And I know you know what that meant.

Sure enough by the time Tom reentered the room, arms full with different objects he’d collected round the house, the floor had been littered with popcorn kernels. You and Harry were squealing at each other as handfuls of the snack were catapulted vaguely at each other as you chased him round the room. It took Tom shouting at the both of you for you to freeze, slowly lowering your hands in ceasefire with a giggle. 

“I leave you alone for two minutes.”

“ It was his fault!” You protested, causing a 5 minute of ‘ he said-she said’ between the two of you, even if Tom wasn’t listening to the bickering. Instead, he quickly whizzed round the room picking up all the obvious popcorn bits and then spread out all the blankets he’d got from round the rented house on the sofa.

 You knew Harry, in his very own and special way, was only doing all this to cheer you up and you couldn’t appreciate it more. Your relationship with him had recently got so much closer, thanks to Tom being busy on set actually filming - while you and Harry just had some quality ‘almost sibling’ times. And now living with him too - naturally he had grown to know your tells almost as well as Tom. 

“Alright children calm down… thought we could watch movie?” Plopping himself down on the cream seat, Tom made grabby hands to you which of course you had to comply with. 

“I’ll um… I’m gonna leave you to- well to the being in love shit. It’ll make me chunder”

“We love you too bro” Tom called to Harry, who was already on his way out - but the tone of gratefulness in his voice was evident, he appreciated Harry noticing that the two of you could do with time together. 

“Don’t make it weird!” Harry’s response had you sniggering, as you pulled the fluffiest blanket over both you and Tom and nestling into his side. 

After a few minutes of Tom pretending to argue with you about film choice, before ultimately agreeing with your choice of ‘La la land’ as he always planned on letting you. The Holland boys were both very talented at subtly being a shoulder if needed, and yes you knew it was all an act - but you weren’t about to call him out. About halfway through he kissed the crown of your head and murmured. “Can tell you’re not watching darling.” He wasn’t wrong to be fair. Yes, you were looking at the screen - but your mind was far away from the plot line. 

“Sorry I um… minds like a runaway train sometimes.” Tom released a breathy chuckle at that before murmuring a ‘come ‘ere’ to you as he all but lifted you up from sitting by his side. You ended up lying almost onto of him, with both of Tom’s strong arms holding you tightly to him. Smiling into his chest, you nestled closer so the soundtrack to the movie played over the top of his constant thudding heartbeat. It took a few moments of you both just staring into the screen, completely contented for Tom to speak, squeezing you slightly tighter whilst the two of you watched Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone twirling on the road.

“I gotchu now lovie” 

And you swore then that all the thoughts racing in your mind were outpaced by those of a different kind. Still intense ideas, ones that buzzed round your brain, but these were happy. Thoughts of ‘how could I be so lucky’ and ‘I love this man with my whole heart’. 

Apparently these thoughts were also a comfort because when Tom looked down at you after what must’ve been at least half an hour, you were spark out. Breathing deep and unchanging, eye locked shut and mouth slightly squashed against his chest so your lips were pressed together. But what made the boy physical pout was the way you relaxed hand was loosely balled round a fistful of his purple hoodie. As if you were clutching at him to keep him as close to you as possible. 

He felt so grateful - not only for you, but also for the fact that he had the ability to make it a little better. You didn’t need him - Tom swore you were one of the most fiercely independent people he’d ever met - yet it was clear you wanted him. You wanted him when you felt down, the same way you wanted to be around him when you were overly hyper and chatting pure rubbish. You didn’t want him because he was the ‘Tom Holland’ you wanted him because he was Tom. 

He couldn’t fix what was going on back at your home (I mean right now, he still didnt even know what was going on). But he did know how to make everything just a little less shit. He knew how to be your person. 

And that would forever be job Tom was most proud of.

once again sending u all lots of love (esp u anon 💕)

would love to know what u guys think if ya made it this far ;)

tagging (link to join) : @hallecarey1 @hollandfanficlove

[scabopolis]

the gift of gab, the gift of you

Here it is @thisonesatellite! your 2020 CS Secret Santa gift. It was a complete and total delight to get to be your gift giver this year. That is not hyperbole - you are a gosh dang delight! Each of your message responses left me in stitches and while I will NEVER try and convince you a movie you think is bunk is good, I am delighted at the opportunity to recommend rom coms that don’t make you want to gouge your eyes out. 

This fic is heavily inspired by your love of coffee shops AUs (except...you know, a pub), your travel stories (which I shamelessly incorporated into the fic) and I believe rates about a 4 on the reindeer scale of Christmas cheer.  You’re a total eagle eye, so I just need to say I am well aware that Colin O’Donoghue’s accent in no way resembles an accent from Cork, but I just need that to be ignored, please and thank you.

Also, I’ve decided we’re fandom friends now. Okay? Okay! Finally, thank you to @cssecretsanta2020 for organizing this exchange and being the actual best and most patient fandom soul. 

*** Title: the gift of gab, the gift of you

Summary: Emma needs an Irish man. Wait! No! It’s not what it sounds like. And then the universe just has to go and provide her with the world’s chattiest, flirtiest, blue-eyesiest Irish man in existence. 

Available on AO3. ***

Emma is in no position to complain. From where she sits both literally – (perched upon a comfy barstool in the world’s coziest pub) – as well as existentially – (traveling abroad for the first time in her life) — she is fortunate and blessed. 

It’s just – 

It’s just it would be easier to enjoy it all if she didn’t have to deal with a rather annoying request from her rather annoyingly persistent mother. 

Her headphones are in but Emma still takes great care to speak in hushed tones over video chat. There’s nothing she wants less than to be the loud American who shares her private conversation with an entire establishment. The pub she found is at the end of a quiet lane off of Cork’s high street. The customers within the pub appear to be locals well known by the staff who tend the pub. In truth, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it wasn’t for —

“Who have you talked to today?” her mother asks. 

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I thanked the barista who made my coffee. And I ordered a pint in this pub.” 

“That’s not talking.” 

“It is by definition talking.” 

“That’s not what I meant. How else are you going to get to know the city?” Her mom interrupts before Emma can properly formulate a snarky reply. “And don’t you dare say ‘guidebooks.’ Your father and I raised you better than that.”

“Mom, please don’t make me do this.” 

“You said I could have anything I wanted as a souvenir.”  

“What about a mug? I bought Grandma Ruth one with a big fat sheep on it.” 

“Sounds lovely, sweetie, but no.” 

“Mom.” Emma realizes that as a twenty-six year old woman it is probably unbecoming to whine, but her mother is being absolutely ridiculous. Where is her dad when she needs him to rescue her? All he requested was a bottle of whiskey. What a sensible person!

“No. It’s fine. If you don’t want to get your mother the one thing she asked for on this trip that’s okay. I won’t say one word about paying for this celebration trip, or paying for graduate school, or —” 

“Shit, mom. Did you take a Guilt Trip 101 class or just Google how to?”

“Oh, this is natural talent. My present, please.” 

“Fine.” There’s a group of bearded men, the ones she pegged as locals, tucked into one corner of the pub. They’re probably her best bet, but she just arrived last night, and the combination of jet lag and travel nerves make her feel not yet up for that. Which leaves the staff working the bar. 

One of the two men she’s seen pouring pints and serving up food has gone missing. Besides, Emma wouldn’t trust herself in her sleep-deprived state to not say something utterly absurd to the blue-eyed, dark-haired, scruffy bartender. Probably a good thing he’s gone. Much safer is the other man working the bar – the one who refused to serve her Guinness but was very kind about it. While arguably attractive, he is a decidedly less intimidating sort of handsome. Unfortunately, he is in the midst of a heated discussion with one of the patrons, the two of them gesticulating to something happening with a football match on the screen. Which leaves the blonde haired woman currently polishing glasses. 

Emma lightly clears her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am?” When the woman turns to look at her, Emma smiles, and signals her over. She sets aside the pint glasses and tucks the polishing rag into her apron. Her mother, on the other end of the video call, is not satisfied. 

“Did you say ma’am?” 

“Mom,” Emma whispers.

“I said an Irish man, Emma Blanchard Nolan. Man.”

“No. You said person.” 

“The man was implied.” 

“Then you should have been more specific.” 

“Ready for another?” the woman at the bar asks. 

Emma looks down at her half-full pint. “Not quite.” She frowns. “And, uh, you’re not Irish, are you?” 

“No. Canadian.” 

“Ah. Okay.” Emma lowers her voice again and looks at her phone screen. Her mother remains unimpressed. “That’s foreign. Technically she’s a foreigner.” 

The sternness of Mary-Margaret’s expression is evident even over the video call. “Emmaline —” 

“Not my name, mother.” 

“Emmaline Blanchard Nolan, you promised me.” 

“I’ll find an Irish person tomorrow.” It’s about this time Emma realizes she’s rudely ignoring the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender. The one she asked to speak with. What’s more, the very kind and apparently Canadian bartender has been joined by the curly haired bartender. Both of whom peer at her with matching expressions of amused befuddlement. Emma removes her headphones and addresses the man. “You’re Irish, right?” 

“Well, miss,” and the gentle brogue of his accent, even with those two short words, is quite evident, “you are in Ireland.” 

“Excellent! Can you talk to my mom?” She detaches the headphones from her phone and turns the camera around to face the man and woman. “My mom wants to have a conversation with an Irish person.” 

“Irish man,” her mother corrects.

“An Irish man. Out in the wild.” The bartenders stare at her, nonplussed. “It’s her souvenir.” 

The woman presses her lips together – an obvious attempt to stifle a laugh. 

“Well, uh, aye.” The man tugs at his ear. “I guess I could —” He’s interrupted from his stuttering by the return of the blue-eyed, stubbly bartender, hauling a new keg into the back of the bar. 

“Actually,” the woman cuts in. “My husband,” she hip checks the curly-haired man, “needs to replace the keg.” 

“I do?” he asks. 

“He does?” This from tall, dark, and holy hell! also possesses an Irish accent. 

“But Killian is in the middle—”

“Shh,” the blonde woman interrupts her husband. 

“Yeah. Killian is—”

She goes on to shush the man Emma now knows to be Killian. 

“Oh no,” Mary Margaret whispers over the video call, “there’s two of them.” 

“What is happening?” Emma’s not sure which of the two men asked, this whole interaction spinning rather absurdly out of control. 

“I don’t know,” Emma says.

The woman ignores all of them. “I’m Elsa, this is Liam, and that,” she points to Killian, frozen with a hand on the keg like he’s uncertain what to do, “is my very single, very Irish brother-in-law.” And all at once it becomes clear what Elsa’s intentions are. “Killian, can you come over here and help our lovely patron and her lovely mother?” 

“Oh, Emma, Killian even sounds like an Irish name.” 

“Mom!” Originally she found her mother’s request to be silly but harmless. The more people who become involved, however, the quicker it approaches mortifying. Emma watches as Elsa whispers something to her brother-in-law, likely explaining the unconventional request. 

“I’m very friendly,” Mary-Margaret reassures anyone who might be listening. 

“You are a flirt, is what you are,” Emma scolds. “And what would dad say if he found out about this?”

“He asked for whiskey. I asked for this.” 

“Come on, lass. Don’t deprive me of a dashing rescue.” Killian leans across the bar, his hand reaching out for her phone. All that stubble and the blue-eyes and the accent are worse when directed directly at her. “Besides, your mum sounds like a woman after my own heart.” 

“If you’re sure—?”

“Absolutely.”

To her abject horror, the moment she hands Killian the phone, he walks away with it in hand. 

“As requested, milady,” he says to the screen, “one genuine Irish man.”

Her mother’s delighted giggle is embarrassing for all Americans everywhere but it seems to delight Killian. She can just makeout her mother’s question about where he grew up when he rounds the corner, out of her hearing. 

“Where is he going?” Emma asks, craning her neck. “Where is he taking my phone?” 

“If I know Killian, your mum is probably about to get the most thorough oral history of Irish pubs she could have asked for,” Liam says, tossing a towel over his shoulder. 

“Oh. Okay.” She drums her fingertips on her glass. “I’m sorry about all the trouble.” 

“Nonsense,” he waves her off. “This is the most exciting thing to happen in our pub since Seamus and Willy hosted their wedding reception here.” He jerks his chin towards the group of bearded men she noticed earlier, though which one is Seamus and which is Willy she can’t be certain. 

After another fifteen minutes, Emma has finished her pint and Killian still has possession of her phone. He crossed through the room once, merrily chatting with her mother as he regaled  her with the story of how he got the scar on his cheek. 

Elsa is filling a series of pint glasses for a group of women standing at the bar, and Emma feels the need to apologize again. “This isn’t what I expected,” she explains. 

“What’s that?” Elsa asks. 

“I was kind of thinking, best case scenario, there’d be an exchange of hellos and that would be that.” 

Elsa nods, hands the pints off to the women, and then fills one more. “Are you familiar with the legend of the Blarney stone?” 

Emma nods. She has absolutely no intention of kissing the dang thing (her research indicates local teens do all manner of ungodly things to the stone, knowing that tourists intend to kiss it), but it’s on her list to go see. 

“Well, Jones family legend —”

“I take it your husband and his brother are Jones’?” 

“And me by marriage. Jones family legend has it that Killian must have been birthed upon the stone because never has there been a man more endowed with the gift of gab.” Elsa finishes pouring the pint and sets it in front of her. 

“Oh, I didn’t order this.” Right at that moment, Liam returns to the bar and sets a turkey sandwich in front of her. “Or this,” Emma says. 

“Knowing my brother, you might be here a while,” Liam explains. 

“Gift of gab?” 

He nods, pleased that the Jones family lore has reached her. “Gift of gab.”

Liam proves to be correct, which means Emma has ample time to get to know both Elsa and Liam. The two of them are freakishly adept at juggling bartending, interacting with their customers, and keeping up a steady flow of conversation with her. The highlight is hearing the full story of Seamus and Willy (she is able to identify them by their matching navy sweaters – sweaters which Willy apparently handknits for the both of them), two men who worked on the same fishing boat for decades before realizing they were in love. 

“Once they sorted that bit out, they got married three weeks later,” Elsa says. 

“So which one of them is the designated driver?” Emma asks. 

“That whole lot lives down the street.” Liam raises his voice so the group can hear them. “And they do nothing but hassle me every day of my life!” The group all raise their pint glasses and cheer, indicating this kind of teasing is something central to the pub’s dynamic. 

Killian returns from wherever it was he was busy flirting with her mother and sets her phone on the bartop. She looks down at the display only to find it blank.

“Uh, your mum had to run to the market, but she indicated she’ll call you later.” 

“She didn’t even say goodbye? Unbelievable.” As Emma gears herself up for peak mom-annoyance, she gets a text message. “Speak of the devil.” 

4:38 PM - Mom to Emma hubba hubba

“Ah, geez, mom,” she grumbles. 

“What’d she say about me?” Killian asks. 

“What makes you think that text was about you?” 

“Because you have roses in your cheeks.” Emma frowns. She what? “You’re blushing,” Killian says. 

“No I’m not.” 

“It’s getting deeper, I’m afraid.” He takes away her empty pint glass. “Another?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He sets another pint of Murphy’s in front of her (Liam was the one to inform her that one drinks Murphy’s when one is in Cork). “Your mother is lovely.” 

“Yeah, she’s something alright.” She sips the beer and licks the foam off her lip. “What were the two of you talking about for so long?”

“Oh, just having a chat. She wanted to know about the pub and how Elsa and Liam met.” 

“The gift of gab.” 

“Ah,” he says, “Elsa told you of that, then?” 

“Like my mom didn’t tell you anything about me?” 

“It was all good, Emma.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Why a conversation with an Irish man?” Emma frowns at Killian, not quite certain of what he’s asking. “For a souvenir. That’s truly all your mum wanted?” 

“Oh, that. In between flirting, did she tell you anything about her and my dad?” Killian shakes his head. “It’s kind of a long story.” 

As if waiting for his cue, Liam comes up behind Killian and slings an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “My dear little brother has time.” 

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects. 

“Shorter brother.” Liam bumps Killian towards the other side of the bar. “Why don’t you keep Emma company?” 

“I have another three hours on my shift.” 

“I think Elsa and I can handle it until Will arrives.” 

“Liam.” 

“Don’t make me fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me. We’re co-owners.” 

“Fine. Don’t make me quit.” 

Killian rolls his eyes but slides out from under Liam’s arm. He crosses to the other side of the bar and sits beside Emma. “I’ll take a pint, then.” He raps his knuckles on the bartop. “And make it quick.” 

Emma hides her smile in her pint glass. Both Liam and Elsa have been so lovely. There’s no reason to switch allegiances at this point. Regardless of how much she might be tempted by the stubbly-faced, blue-eyed flirty Irish man sitting beside her. 

“Between the two of them and my mother,” Emma says. 

“Yeah, not the most subtle lot.” Liam shoots Killian a glare as he sets the pint down to which Killian responds with the cheekiest grin Emma has ever seen. The interaction has older and baby brother written all over it. “So, your mom and Irishmen. Go.” 

“Oh, that.” Unlike her mother, and even her father, Emma holds the details of her life close to her chest. She’s made the mistake in the past of sharing too much too fast. When people leave her, either by choice or circumstance, it physically pains her to know there are people out in the world with knowledge of her worries, fears and dreams. But maybe it’s the sandwich sitting warm in her stomach, or the jet lag, or simply the buzz of international travel, because she feels inclined to share at least a few details of her life with Killian. 

“My mom and dad both took a gap year after high school and met while backpacking across Europe. They met at the Roman Colosseum, decided to match up their itineraries, and by the time they arrived in Budapest five months later they were in love and my mom was pregnant.” 

“And they’ve been together ever since?” 

“Almost 27 years.”

“That’s quite the story.” 

She nods. “They cut their year of travel short, and went to live with my Grandma Ruth, my dad’s mom. They always talked about returning to Europe, finishing their trip at some point, but by the time I was old enough to leave behind with my grandma, dad was in vet school, mom was teaching, and they were running a wildlife rescue from the family farm. They kept making new plans to travel but they just kept getting pushed back and back and back. Until, one day, they decided to put all that money towards sending me on my first trip instead. So, as much as I fight every silly request she has of me, I would do anything if it made her smile.”

“Your mum and dad never made it to Ireland?” 

“Nope.”

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Thus the strange request.” 

“Well, it gave me a reason to chat with the lovely lass at the bar, so for that I’ll be forever grateful.” 

Her Grandma Ruth, Aunt Ruby, and frankly everyone who knows her parents well, routinely comment on the resemblance between Emma and her dad. Apparently in temperament and affectation they are almost identical. But maybe she’s more like her mom than anyone knows because the conversation between her and Killian flows fast and easy. Easy enough that she barely notices when she and Killian finish their pints and Elsa slides new glasses in front of them. Emma’s head is feeling a little buzzy, and that turkey sandwich was more than a couple hours ago. Maybe she can hint at Killian that she wants to go to the Christmas market. Hint even more specifically that she wouldn’t hate if he went with her. 

No, she can’t do that. To even think such a thing would be ridiculous. 

She can’t possibly ask a practical stranger to walk up and down the stalls of the festive market with her. She can’t expect him to want to sample all the baked goods and food they can handle. Or to hold her hand while they drink spiked apple cider. That kind of thinking is romantic, and hopeful, and not at all her brand. 

“This is really your first trip out of the states?” Killian asks.

“I mean, Canada, but that’s so close to home it doesn’t count.” Emma catches herself, eyes darting to Elsa. “Don’t tell your sister.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Killian angles his body on the stool to face her more directly. Without Emma realizing it, they’ve drifted close enough together over the past hour or so that the move makes it so their knees knock together. Emma could move away, put some distance between them, but everything is foggy and hazy in that delicious way, and she can’t bring herself to move. “What does that make me, then? The ruggedly handsome foreigner you intend to seduce as a notch on your bedpost?” 

“Who said anything about seduction?”

“You’re giving me bedroom eyes.” 

“I do not make eyes of any kind. Especially bedroom eyes.” 

Elsa jumps in, setting glasses of water down for each of them. “Yeah, but Killian does. And he needs to put them away.”

Emma tries to react quickly enough to Elsa’s teasing to evade Killian’s detection, to turn away and hide her smile in her shoulder so he can’t see, but the gentle tug on the end of her braid indicates he caught her. 

“Think that’s funny, do you?” 

“You and my mom ganged up against me. I deserve to join with your family against you.” 

“Your mum is great.” He shrugs. “Well, based on the little I know.”  

“I know she can be a little intense. I hope she didn’t—”

“She was as lovely as her daughter.” Before his words can fully sink in, perhaps bringing that blush back to her cheeks, he’s moved on. “You’ll have to bring her with you when you return.” 

She rests her chin on palm, blinking up at him. Okay, maybe she sometimes makes eyes. “What makes you think I have any plans to come back?”

“Ireland gets in your blood. You’ll be back.” 

This time they’re interrupted by Liam. He swipes away the pint glasses in front of them, remaining beer and all. “That’s about all I can stomach of that.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asks. 

“You’ve been flirting with the kind tourist long enough. Time to go.” 

Oh. Emma looks down at her boots. A surge of deep embarrassment heating her cheeks and causing her stomach to churn. “Sorry,” she says quietly, her eyes turned down. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” The twin cries from both Liam and Killian startle her. She’s not sure which one appears more stricken by her announcement she intended to leave.   

“Apologies, Emma, I wasn’t clear,” Liam says. He extends his hand to Killian. “Apron.” It takes Killian a moment to react but when Liam stays in his place, his hand extended, Killian removes his apron and hands it to him. “See you tomorrow, little brother.” 

“Younger.”

“Dumber.” 

“Stubborner.”

“Not a word.” Liam stalks back over to Elsa who is shaking her head at the whole display. “They’re both idiots,” Liam says, and Emma is just going to pretend she didn’t hear that, thank you very much. 

“Have you been to the Christmas market yet, Emma?” Killian’s voice brings her back to the pub, and this particular bar stool, with this particular man. This particular man who has somehow intuited the secret desire of her heart to go to the town’s Christmas market with him. 

“No. No. Not yet.” 

Killian jumps down from his seat and extends a hand to Emma to help her down. “Come on, love. Let’s sail away.” 

There’s 100 ways Emma could respond to that. She could tell Killian she isn’t his love. She could jump down from the stool on her own. She could insist she’s fine going to the market by herself. But she tries to channel a little magic, that particular magic which for her mom and dad turned one day in Rome into a lifetime, and chooses differently. 

(Not that she’s saying she expects—)

She takes Killian’s offered hand and his answering grin is all the confirmation she needs she made the right decision. 

And so they go to the Christmas market, and at Killian’s insistence she tries mulled wine but quickly trades it in for a cup of boozy cider. They ride the ferris wheel, the cold stinging her cheeks from the top, the lights of Cork spread out before her, and that thrum of love for this place beats loudly in her veins. Suddenly every travel story her parents have ever told her makes sense and maybe Killian is right  – maybe Ireland is in her blood. 

They walk together side-by-side and at a point Emma can’t remember – somewhere between sampling whiskey, buying several bottles for her dad, and licking salt and malt vinegar from hot chips off her fingers – they transition to walking hand-in-hand. The heat of Killian’s skin, even through two layers of gloves, is what she blames for the fact that she actually starts humming along to Christmas carols. Where’s that deep cynicism she has been committed to for her life when she needs it? 

“Told you,” Killian says after the two of them step away from a stall with handmade ornaments. She must have been channeling her mom because she couldn’t stop herself from striking up a conversation with the vendor. Somehow by the end of the interaction she’d agreed to join him and his wife for their annual holiday pub crawl the following night. 

“Told me what?” 

“That you would fall for Ireland.” 

“You get the honor and privilege of keeping me company on my first full night on my first real trip out of the country and all you can say is ‘I told you so’?” 

“I believe what I am trying to say, love, is you appear very much at home here.”��

The sentiment makes everything in Emma buzz, but she does what she does best and works to diffuse it. “Well, uh, I don’t know. Does it ever snow here?” 

“Eh, we get about 50 mm every year?” At her look of confusion Killian smiles. “Not much.” 

“Have you ever had a white Christmas?” 

“Can’t say I have. They’re pretty rare in Ireland.” 

“In that case, I think this means you should come to Maine. We do a great white Christmas.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

“Great. Next year sound good?” 

Killian laughs and squeezes her hand. “Sounds great.”

She hears the faint echo of advice her dad once gave her. It was right when she was fresh off her heartbreak with Neal and wasn’t sure she had it in her to apply for grad school. He said something to her about moments. About the need to notice good moments even in the midst of bad ones. 

Standing here hand-in-hand with a man she met only five hours ago, the glow of Christmas lights dancing in technicolor hues against his cheeks and hair, Emma is absolutely certain this is a good moment. 

“Emma?” 

She answers Killian’s question by rising up on her toes and kissing him. It’s quick and fleeting, barely a brush of her lips against his, but the look on his face as she pulls away, all bright eyed-wonder, deserves to be classified as a good moment all on its own. 

It takes self-control Emma wasn’t aware she possessed to not drop their shopping bags to the ground, grip him by the lapels of his jacket, and kiss the crap out of him. Instead she loops her arm in his. 

“It’s getting late,” she says. “Want to walk me back to my hotel?” 

He swallows, that poleaxed expression still on his face. “Aye.” 

The next morning, Emma is woken up by the sound of her video call alert and boy it was a mistake to not extend her do not disturb until noon. She reaches out and blindly bats at the bedside table until she makes contact with her phone. As soon as she swipes up on her mom’s call, she squeezes her eyes shut again. 

“Hello?”

“Oh, sweetie. Are you still jet lagged?” 

“And a little hungover.”

“Sounds like you had a very eventful night.”

Killian grumbles from somewhere behind her. “What time is it?” he asks.

It’s right about this moment Emma realizes her error. Her mom goes quiet and Emma considers taking the opportunity to end the call. And then maybe ignore every call thereafter for the next five days. 

“Emma Nolan. Is there a man in bed with you?” 

“No,” Emma answers, though it’s perfunctory and not at all convincing. 

Killian presses closer to her, and shifts so his chin rests on her shoulder. “Hello again, Mrs. Nolan. And this must be Mr. Nolan.” 

That gets Emma’s attention and she opens her eyes enough to see her mom and dad sitting beside one another on the couch. While her mom is positively gleeful, her dad looks as though he wishes he could melt into the couch cushions and disappear. 

“There are certain things I don’t care to see,” her dad says. “Certain things I don’t care to know.” 

Emma rotates in bed and onto her back, holding the phone above her head so both she and Killian are still in view of the camera. “Oh hush, Dad, you and mom did it the first night you met.” 

“You told her that?” 

In response, her mom shrugs. “She asked.” 

“And not that it matters, but Killian and I didn’t have sex.” 

Though it didn’t stop them from trading long, slow kisses that left her dizzy and wanting more, more, and more. Killian must have felt the same because it took little to no convincing to get him to stay the night. Perhaps most remarkably, after extending the invitation, Emma had no desire to retract it or pretend it didn’t mean anything. 

“Your daughter was far too drunk to have sex.” Emma turns her head so fast in Killian’s direction she hears something crack. 

“That, for instance, is one of the things I don't want to know about,” her dad says.  

Killian cheerfully waves at the camera, ignoring both her father’s indignation and her glare. “I’m Killian, by the way. Happy to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Nolan.” 

Emma elbows Killian. The man is a total menace. “I’ll call you guys back when I’ve had coffee,” 

“I want details,” her mom says. 

“And I want no details.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Emma hangs up the phone and tosses it in the direction of the foot of the bed. She flips over onto her side and Killian mirrors her, reaching out to trace the freckles on the bridge of her nose. “So that was my dad.” 

“He seems a charming fellow.” 

“Don’t let the responsible tough guy act fool you,” she says, and snuggles closer to Killian. He responds just as she hoped, by wrapping his arms tight around her. “He once spent all his money on a cross country train ride and stole oyster crackers from the dining car for food. And during a California road trip, my mom almost froze to death sleeping in her wet bathing suit on the side of the road.” 

Killian chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh making her feel even warmer. “You’re saying they can deal with a half naked man in their daughter’s hotel room?”  

“Yeah, they can deal.” After a moment’s hesitation, Emma slips her hands up and under Killian’s shirt. It’s the one he wore to work, and she can still smell the faint aromas of beer and fried food that linger. She presses her palms against his back and bunches the shirt up, up, and then over his head. 

“Emma?” 

A girl could get used to the way his voice moves over the syllables of her name. “They might have a problem with a fully naked one, though.” She kisses his bare shoulder.

Killian’s hands move under her shirt to span her waist. Goosebumps breakout across her skin. By the slight twist of his lips, Killian notices. “So you’re saying—?” 

“I’m saying you should quit gabbing and kiss me before they call again.” 

“As you wish.”

And a week later, when she is back in Maine celebrating Christmas with her family and Killian is in Ireland with his, Emma convinces herself she imagined it. She must have. She must have imagined how safe she felt in the presence of another person. Imagined the comfort she felt as he joined her for a quick road trip to Dublin. Imagined that it could feel like your heart was split in two, half residing in the chest of a person you just met. 

But the week of New Year’s Eve, when he arrives in Maine to celebrate with her, she’s startled to find it was all real. 

The morning after Killian arrives, she sits with her mom in her parents’ breakfast nook, the two of them sipping coffee as Killian and her dad make waffles. 

“Not such a dumb souvenir after all, huh?” her mom whispers.

Emma shakes her head, too happy to even react to her mom’s shameless gloating. “No. Not so dumb.” 

[ts1989fanatic]

Taylor Swift, Britney Spears and the media cycle that demands pain from our pop stars

Emma Clifton 08:30, Feb 16 2021

Britney Spears was robbed of her public image during the height of her fame. Taylor Swift was robbed of her music during the height of hers.

Why does our pop culture system seem so intent on punishing the very women who keep it afloat. Emma Clifton looks at a decade in young singers – and the variously terrible ways they get treated while in the public eye.

There was a theory floated on the podcast You’re Wrong About that ‘fame is abuse’ and you’d be hard pressed not to agree if you were one of the many people who saw the recent New York Times documentary Framing Britney Spears, and realised just how badly we as a society treated Britney Spears before, during, and after her rise to fame.

The paparazzi, the media, the comedians – and then the fans and look-i-loos who continued to buy all the magazines that ran headlines about what a train-wreck she was, when really she was just someone in her early twenties, trying to raise two children while being one of the most famous – and hounded – people on the planet.

The documentary discussed at length how we as a pop-culture obsessed society love to build up a talented, attractive young woman and then buy popcorn in preparation of when we can gleefully watch them tumble from grace.

(And it’s not just pop stars, of course; the resplendent rise and then the racist fall of Meghan Markle’s position in public opinion is one of the most recent examples we have of when good headlines go bad.)

When I was working at Creme magazine, between 2009 and 2012, our pages were over-flowing with talented young pop singers: Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez, The Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus, Demi Lovato, Rihanna, One Direction, Justin Bieber.

When you look back on the decade that has passed by since, time has not been kind to any of these people.

Either the showbiz demon took something from each of them – or they had to completely disappear from sight for years at a time in order to survive. Sometimes both.

There have been eating disorders, drug overdoses, rehab stints, broken marriages, abusive relationships, chronic illnesses. These kids – and they were kids – were so young when they started, they’re already on their fourth or fifth reinventions.

Most of them haven’t hit 30 yet.

And when you’re a female pop star, so many of these reinventions revolve around your sexuality.

Heck, when I was at Creme, Demi, Selena and Miley were part of the ‘purity ring’ club, where they all gushed about staying away from sex until marriage while their stylists dressed them in the tightest clothes possible.

The message from the marketing teams behind each of them was very clear: Sell sex, but don’t ever enjoy it.

This is the same battle Britney faced a decade previously – look like a Lolita, but make sure you never have sex with your long-term boyfriend because then you’ll be expected to cry about the shame of it on national television.

This was also the time of paparazzi trying to take up-skirt photos (exactly what it sounds like) of female actresses as soon as they turned 18; 18 – the age where you can legally have sex in America – was a big deal in pop culture.

There was a countdown for when the Olsen Twins turned 18. When Lindsay Lohan turned 18, Rolling Stone ran a breast-focused cover shoot with the headline: ���Hot, ready and LEGAL’. And it was just fine! Totally accepted. These girls, they were always up for it, right?

And then we get to Taylor Swift.

Taylor is re-releasing Love Story, the song that made her famous, the song that I first heard in the shower (yes, I had a shower radio) when I was 20 and immediately started crying, because it hit me square in the middle of my pop culture diagram: love songs and references to Romeo and Juliet.

It’s from her second album, Fearless, which she wrote when she was aged 16-18 and which won her four Grammys, including Album of the Year. It’s also an album that no longer belongs to her and she can no longer perform, due to some millionaire f...wittery committed by her former manager. But we’ll get to that.

From 2008 onwards, Taylor became a big deal for her music and then, like it always does for women, her love life became the centre drama.

She never talked about a purity ring (thank God) and she sung pretty openly about sex from her third album onwards (Sparks Fly, an iconic song), plus she had the audacity to date a bunch of boys and look happy while doing so. Naturally, her punishment awaited.

To this day, she is still ridiculed about lyrics she wrote in her first couple of albums… songs she wrote herself when she was literally a teenager.

If I had had written an album when I was a teenager, it would have been about my crush who caught the bus, Kevin from The Backstreet Boys, worrying about my thighs, and, I don’t know, my cystic acne.

I’m just saying – we let powerful men get away with s... they pulled when they were young with the old line ‘boys will be boys! They were just kids!’; it just never seems that generosity is never extended to young women and their far more harmless explorations of teenage sexuality.

Because she had yet to have a public mental health crisis or rehab stint, it was clear that Taylor was never going to be the architect of her own media downfall.

Luckily, one was invented for her. After a long-lasting stoush with Kim Kardashian and Kanye West, where absolutely no-one (including Taylor) came out looking good, Taylor suddenly because persona non grata in pop culture and the long-awaited comeuppance began.

And so, she disappeared – in a way that celebrities can do these days. (As a side note, can you imagine how different Britney Spears’ life might have been if she had been allowed to disappear for a couple of years?)

It was only when she released her documentary Miss Americana on Netflix that the public got what it had been craving the whole time – the dark side of Taylor Swift’s fame.

An eating disorder, a sexual assault that she ended up being sued for and, then, the poisoned cherry on top, losing the rights to all her past music thanks to her old manager.

Finally, our hunger for bad news had been satisfied. We had seen her scars and so we could allow her back into the spotlight again.

It’s been interesting watching the roll-out of new music from so many of these female artists during a pandemic: Selena, Demi, Miley, Ariana Grande are among the singers who have eschewed the normal long roll-out of publicity in order to release their own music, without much of the media fanfare that typically accompanies it.

Taylor herself released two albums, without any of the (slightly inane) games she normally includes in the lead-up. You can’t help but wonder that – stripped of their endless touring, performances and appearances, these female artists have found some freedom in being able to just get back to the actual work.

If a pop star releases an album in the middle of a pandemic and no-one is around to give a shit about any of the outfits she’s wearing, does it still count? Turns out, yes.

Following the betrayal of Britney, Taylor, Miley et al by the media, you can see the slow change to have total ownership of their voice these artists have taken.

Social media can be a devil for many reasons but it has overtaken journalists and publicists as the middle man when it comes to how these women get portrayed to the public. Beyoncé has been instrumental in this – it was she who first released an album overnight back in 2013; a move that came without warning and changed the entire industry forever.

She who stopped giving interviews almost entirely, choosing to use her own platforms to get her message and music across. As a result, she’s never been more powerful and she’s never been more private.

As an explicit ‘F... you’ to the powers-that-be who bought her music from under her, Taylor has announced she will be re-recording all of her old albums.

Stories about millionaires against millionaires rarely draw sympathy from a reader but it does highlight how little actually belongs to the artist at the end of the day.

They can have limited control over their image, their public appearances, their private life, their work and their songs. And these are the success stories – these are the people whose names we know.

You have to hope that anyone young and female entering the music business has their eyes very wide open as to just what can go wrong – and what can go wrong even when everything goes right.

The first album Taylor is re-releasing is Fearless, the album that is the most chock-a-block with fairy-tale imagery and glittery optimism.

She’s promised that the songs will be new interpretations on the old originals and that seems only fair.

You can’t help but think that those fairy-tale songs are going to sound a whole lot different being sung by a 31-year-old who’s been through the public wringer then they were as a wide-eyed 16-year-old, on the cusp of making her dreams come true.

[wistfulcynic]

The Eternal and Unseen (1 of 3)

SUMMARY: Misthaven University is an ancient place, and as all ancient places do it guards some secrets. Secrets such as Emma Swan and Killian Jones, a fae princess and her royal guardian, whose true identities are well concealed behind the guise of average college students—if not quite well enough to foil the plot their enemies have hatched against them. Now their friends will have to come together, putting their own differences aside to battle an enemy that threatens them all—fae and vampire and werewolf together… plus one very baffled human named David. 

For @cssns​​ 

a/n: Thanks to @spartanguard​​ and  @optomisticgirl​​ for the prompts that planted the seeds of this idea and to my TERRACE-mates @thisonesatellite​​, @ohmightydevviepuu​​, and @katie-dub​​, without whom I might never have found the right way to encourage them to grow, and of course INCOHERENT GIBBERING NOISES OF DELIGHT to @carpedzem​​ for the absolutely stunning art about which I cannot possibly say enough good things. Please zoom all the way in and appreciate the perfection of all the little details she included. The tiny wee fronds on the plant! The shape of the light! Emma’s feather earrings! Her red cloak! Her hat! (the hat you guys, the hat!!). Everything about it is so, so gorgeous and Nat is so talented and creative and such a joy to work with ❤️❤️❤️.

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On AO3 Rating: M Words: 3.9k (first chapter)

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CHAPTER ONE: 

David Nolan was always surprised by people’s reactions when they learned he was the Resident Assistant for H.C. Andersen Hall at Misthaven University. Sure, it was the oldest dorm on the campus, built of dark stone in a high Gothic style, with tall towers and pointed arches, way back when Misthaven and her people still believed in magic. And sure, the heavy wooden doors had a way of creaking on their iron hinges and the windows rattled in their frames when the wind was high... sometimes even when it didn’t blow at all. But this was merely rust and weather and David was a practical man, not one to be troubled by such things as can be plausibly explained away.

And yes, Andersen did have that reputation, though David was certain it could be no more than simple silly student gossip. As an upperclassmen dorm its occupancy was by request only, and over the years it had come to be known as the place where some of the more… unique students tended to convene. But that was surely no reason for people to give that startled twitch or to take a wary step back from him when he told them about his job. Or for the other candidates to look so relieved when they learned it was he and not they who’d be taking over from the last RA, a guy called Walsh who had, in the words of one, “Still not recovered from the trau—er, the experience. But hey, good luck, man.”

A thousand years ago when it was known by another name, Andersen alone had been the university, a haven for scholars of every kith and creed and a place where learning took precedence over any rivalry, however ancient. The building had both schooled and housed them, fed them in its great dining hall with food cooked in the basement kitchen, tutored them in the tower classrooms with books procured from the vast library. When lessons were completed the scholars found repose in the common room, a comfortable space with an enormous fireplace, large, overstuffed chairs, and carved wooden tables where lively debates were had each night until the fire died and they withdrew to their rooms to sleep. (Rooms which, David observed to his delight, were twice the size of those in the other dorms and always single occupancy—no roommate squabbles for him to contend with.) As the university grew and newer dorms were built, as the ancient covenants were forgotten and magic faded from the land, fewer and fewer students chose to reside in the newly christened Andersen Hall. At present there were only eight, plus David, who despite the strange reactions he encountered was thrilled to be the RA there. Eight residents, and all upperclassmen, he thought to himself. Andersen had to be the easiest gig on campus. How odd that no one else had seemed to want it.

The hall itself stood just at the edge of the modern campus, tucked against the so-called enchanted forest that marked the border of Misthaven on three sides. It was an ancient forest, whether enchanted or not—a forest of twisted trees and clinging moss and the shrouding mist that gave their country its name. Very little sunlight survived to reach its floor and thus such things as grew there fed on decay, most digging their roots deep into the soil to wrench what nutrients they could from it and barely peeking the tips of their grey-green leaves above the ground. Other valiant species reached out for whatever light could penetrate the dense canopy, stretching upward into vines that curled around the trunks and branches of the gnarled trees to unfurl their broad leaves hopefully as close as they could to the sky. And so it was of course these very leaves and vines and branches that crept up Andersen’s stone walls and scraped against its windows, and cast deep and shifting shadows that fell both outside the hall and in.

So yeah, David reflected, Andersen Hall was old. And dark. And with each successive year it sank a bit more deeply into the forest’s embrace—a perfectly benign embrace, most of the time, although perhaps not ideal when you found yourself alone in your dorm with the music in your headphones never quite as loud as the branches across your windows, or the distant howls of wolves, or the much less distant scrabblings of other creatures to which it was not always wise to put a name. So, yeah, there was that.

And the students who chose to live in Andersen were characters, that was for sure. Even David had to admit that he’d never met anyone quite like them before. But, he reminded himself, at the end of the day they were just students. Just kids like all the others, despite the sometimes unnerving focus of their attention and the surprising depth to their eyes. Just college kids discovering themselves, exploring their quirks and hobbies and interests.

Take Emma, for example. Emma Swan, as graceful as her name implied and even more beautiful, with her warm smile and wry humour and the spark of mischief in her green eyes. One of the nicest girls David had ever met, tough and smart but with a kind and generous heart and a tender vulnerability that made him wish it were still fashionable to slay dragons. He’d gladly slay one for her—or anything else that might threaten her. His urge to protect Emma at all costs—though from what dangers it was never quite clear—surprised him with its persistent and overwhelming strength.

Also surprising was Emma’s choice of dorm-room decor; the space in her room not occupied by the bed, desk, television, and mini-fridge that were standard even in Andersen rooms, she had filled entirely with plants. Plants the like of which David was certain he had never before seen, long and twisted vines that clung and crept across the stone walls, broad leaves and pointed ones and flowers in unexpected colours. He’d examined them with a frown the day she moved in, mildly unnerved by how comfortably they already seemed to inhabit the space but convinced by Emma’s soothing reassurances and the evidence of his own eyes that none of them were anything college kids might wish to dry and smoke. And while keeping what was essentially a greenhouse in a dorm room may be a bit unorthodox it wasn’t strictly against the rules—David had even made a special visit to the Chancellor to ensure Emma wouldn’t run into any difficulty later on, if another student made a complaint, for example. The Chancellor’s eyes had widened to an alarming size, but he’d confirmed that yes, students were allowed plants in their rooms, and there wasn’t technically a limit on their number, then hustled David from his office with the rather thin excuse of a dentist appointment he suddenly remembered he had.

And as for Emma’s habit of chatting to her plants as though they understood her words, or chuckling to herself as she did so, or singing as she watered them—a low and haunting tune in a language David felt he really ought to recognise—all while wearing a pointed hat made of green straw with flowers round the brim which she called her ‘special gardening hat’… well, she wasn’t bothering anyone and David really didn’t think it was his place to judge.

And actually, Emma’s plants weren’t even the most unusual things that could be found in the rooms of his residents. Victor Whale, a slender, pale young man who gave the impression of feeding off his own nervous energy, had what looked to David’s admittedly untrained eye like an entire laboratory set up in his room—tall shelves lined with specimen jars and long tables loaded with Bunsen burners under simmering beakers of… substances in which David felt it might be wisest not to invest too much careful thought. He had not spoken to the Chancellor about those burners and didn’t intend to, both because he didn’t wish to draw attention to them and because Victor with his wild hair and wilder eyes, the sardonic smirk he nearly always wore and the barbed comments he loved to make, did not rouse quite the same protective instincts in David as Emma did.

That, and he wasn’t entirely certain the Chancellor would agree to meet with him again.

Of all his residents, the one David felt he could relate to most was Graham. They shared a similar taste for plaid shirts and brown leather jackets, and a similar appreciation for the simple joys that could be had in the great outdoors. Graham had an deep, instinctual understanding of nature that David envied; several times he’d caught the younger man in conversation with the dogs he met on the walks he liked to take or the squirrels who paused to chatter at him from the branches of trees, even the deer and other creatures that crept out from the forest to scratch at his window, serious conversation that did not appear one-sided. Graham spoke to animals as Emma did to plants—in the manner of folk to their brethren—but the connection went deeper even than that. Every few weeks he went out to spend all night in the woods, generally, David couldn’t help noticing, around the time of the full moon—and when David inquired why Graham simply replied “The animals need me.”

If animals of the furry variety had need of Graham, the feathered kind flocked, quite literally, to Snow. There never seemed to be a time when she wasn't accompanied by some feathered friend or other, and her dorm window was always open so they could come and go as they pleased. She kept bowls of seeds on her shelves and handfuls of them in her pockets and had been delighted when Emma gave her a tree so the birds would have somewhere in her room to nest—a tree that within a week had overgrown its pot and sunk roots into the stone floor of Snow’s room in a way David again found himself opting not to examine. He himself passed many a pleasant afternoon with Snow in that room, listening to her talk about—and to—her birds. It amazed him now how little attention he’d paid to birds before. They were astounding, beautiful creatures, and the sound of Snow’s voice, melodic and soothing as she stroked their feathered heads, was… well, it was… it was something he sometimes felt he could listen to forever.

Snow’s best friend in the dorm was Ruby and though David liked Ruby perfectly well he had to admit he was a bit baffled by how close the two were. They didn’t seem to have a whole lot in common. All but the bravest of Snow’s birds fled when Ruby approached, and the ones that stayed eyed her warily and stuck close to Snow as she flashed them a grin and licked her chops. Er, her lips. She licked her lips and it made the birds nervous, and… and at any rate, Ruby was bold and charming but just a bit wild. She liked to party and to stay out late, often not returning to her room until the early hours of the morning. Andersen had no curfew so David said nothing, though he couldn’t help noticing that in sharp contrast to Ruby’s habits Snow was usually in bed by 10 o’clock. Not that he paid her or her sleeping habits any particular attention, certainly not, just that he happened to notice she always left her room at around 9.45 to go wash her face, always wearing such cute pajamas and trailed by a flock of bluebirds—and it wasn’t like he made a point of being out in the common room when he knew she’d be walking by, he just… well, he happened to be there sometimes. That was all.

Yet despite these differences Snow and Ruby were the best of friends, and while Emma was more solitary and a bit distant until you got to know her, she also got along well with them. Ruby got along with just about everybody, including Belle, who David sometimes forgot was even among his residents. Belle had an unnerving way of appearing very suddenly where she was least expected and of disappearing without warning from places she’d been moments before. She was a quiet, studious young woman who moved as though her feet didn’t quite touch the floor and was so pale he sometimes fancied he could see through her. She was hardly ever in her room or even the common room, preferring to spend her time in the library.

“You might say she haunts the place,” August had remarked with a wry note in his voice that David imagined was significant, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Feeling at something of a loss, he had simply nodded. “She certainly does spend a lot of time there,” he’d agreed, then frowned when August laughed.

August was a bit of an odd one, the only person in the dorm whom Ruby actively disliked, so much that she actually snarled at him whenever their paths crossed. He took only evening classes and was never anywhere to be found during the day. At least once a week he returned from his classes accompanied by a young woman—always beautiful and rarely the same one twice—and David observed that while August preferred to sleep the day away those women would stumble from his room quite early the next morning and looking awful—pale and drawn and thoroughly exhausted. Before leaving they all would go to Emma’s door, knock three times slowly then three times fast, and when it opened they all smiled the same sheepish smile and stuttered the same apologies as they slipped into her room. When they emerged from it they were as new women—pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, glowing with health and quite pleased with themselves, wreathed in satisfied smiles.

David felt uncomfortably as though he ought to do something about this, though he had no idea what. The women always seemed so thrilled when they arrived—clinging to August’s arm and chattering brightly as he smiled at them with a peculiar sort of fond disinterest—and so contented when they left, after they’d seen Emma, at least, and as no formal complaints were ever lodged David was left with nothing more to go on than a feeling of vague discomfort.

He’d attempted to broach the subject once with Emma but she had simply shrugged and said “Groupies. What can you do?” and so he’d let it go.  

So those were his residents. Four women—Emma, Snow, Ruby, and Belle, and four men—Graham, Victor, August… and Killian.

Ah, yes. Killian.

David liked Killian, he truly did. It was a point of pride with him to find something to like about every one of his residents, though he had to admit that finding that thing for Killian posed something of a challenge. It wasn’t just that Killian preferred his leather black or opted for dark button-downs or obscure band t-shirts instead of plaid. It wasn’t even that he was mouthy and arrogant, smarter than most everyone he met and not afraid to let them know it. No, the challenge for David when it came to liking Killian was Emma. Or more specifically, the way Killian looked at Emma. And the way she very much looked back.

“I suppose that’s one way to ‘guard’ her,” Victor remarked one evening as they sat around the fire in the common room, Emma laughing with Graham in one corner while Killian glowered darkly at the pair of them from the other. “Very dramatic, you know. Very Charlotte Brontë. Or is it Emily, I always get them mixed up.”

“Piss off,” Killian snarled, returning his attention to his textbooks just in time to miss the glance Emma shot him from the corner of her eye.

“‘Course I suppose she doesn’t make it easy for you—” Victor began, then smirked when Killian slammed his book shut and got up. “I’m going to bed,” he declared and stalked from the room, Emma’s eyes following his every move as he went.

“Enemies to lovers slow burn, 100k,” Belle whispered to Ruby on another occasion, a rare instance when she left the library to join them for breakfast. Ruby nodded sagely and both of them sat back, observing Emma and Killian’s heated argument about the best way to make a cup of tea with all apparent enjoyment. David wasn’t entirely certain what that meant, or that he liked the way his residents seemed to find the pair’s squabbles so entertaining. He knew only that if Emma and Killian really thought anyone believed they hated each other the way they both so loudly and frequently proclaimed, they were seriously deluding themselves. Their little snarky comments and defiant challenges were some of the most obvious flirtation David had ever seen, especially when combined with those damned looks. Looks that all but screamed how much they would prefer to resolve their differences with physical action than with words, and that they had already imagined how those physical dispute resolutions might go—frequently and in great detail.

David did not approve of those looks.

Nor did he approve, as the summer heat faded into the cooler air of autumn and the green leaves of the forest’s trees took on brighter hues, of the way Emma and Killian’s snappish words began to lose the battle with that oh-so-evident longing to touch. Slowly at first and tentatively, small brushes of arms and fingers that before long began to linger… In principle he supposed there was nothing wrong with what they were doing, or with the budding feelings they continued to deny. He would be one hundred percent in support of it, in fact, were it not so damned blatant—those sparks of tension that turned the air electric, the raw hunger in Killian’s eyes as he watched her, the answering ache in hers when she watched him—David had come to think of Emma as he would a little sister and he did not appreciate being slapped in the face, so to speak, by the evidence of her active sexual interest in a man whom David was not at all convinced was good enough for her. It annoyed him so much that he almost—almost—found himself agreeing with Victor, who had taken to rolling his eyes and muttering “I wish they’d just fuck already” a bit too loudly whenever Emma and Killian got into one of their ‘disputes.’

He would have been able to officially disapprove the night he caught them doing tequila slammers in her dorm room—alcohol was discouraged in the dorms, even for students of legal drinking age—except that had turned out to be nothing but a very bizarre dream… although… had it been a dream? It must have been, though it had seemed so real at the time… but he remembered only catching sight of them through her slightly open door and reaching up to knock… the next thing he knew he was groaning as he woke in his own room, his head aching and feeling full of cotton wool, Emma sitting by his bedside with her ‘world famous hangover cure’ in one of Victor’s beakers explaining that he was the one who’d overindulged... “So unlike you, David, I’m really very shocked,” she’d said with that glint in her eye… and when David confronted Killian about the incident he’d merely scoffed and said “Tequila, mate? You were definitely dreaming. You know I only drink rum, and that in the company of ladies more… amenable than Swan.”

Of course, on the late October afternoon when David accompanied Graham on his walk and they stumbled upon Emma and Killian beneath a tree in the forest, wrapped around each other and kissing so deeply that he wondered how they could also be breathing—well, that was most definitely not a dream. It was also not in the dorm and therefore not technically within his jurisdiction, so he simply caught Graham by the arm and turned back the way they came.

The energy had shifted between Emma and Killian, he realised with a curious sort of bittersweet thrum in his chest. An unmistakable shift yet hard to define, as though they were hovering just on the cusp of something both nebulous and truly extraordinary. And despite them being right out in public—seriously, right off the footpath—the way they’d held each other was so intensely intimate that interrupting them, even to ask them to move to a more appropriate location, would have felt like the worst kind of intrusion. Plus of course there was no telling what uncomfortable circumstances David might find himself waking up in if he dared to cock-block Emma Swan.

Now where in hell had that thought come from?

A few hours later Emma and Killian returned to the dorm, flushed and mussed and with leaves in their hair, buzzing with that newly shifted energy—and holding hands, though they let go both reluctantly and immediately upon realising they were being eagerly observed.

“Well well well,” smirked Victor, elbowing David in the ribs. “Looks like August owes me twenty. I should probably thank you, Jones.”

“Bugger off, mate,” muttered Killian, entirely without his usual snarl, and then with a defiant glare and a flush high on his cheekbones, he sauntered after Emma into her room and shut the door firmly behind him.

“Well, I think I’ll go put on some very loud music,” Victor remarked, and retreated into his own room, leaving David alone in the common room feeling vaguely unsettled.

The next morning Killian and Emma arrived at breakfast together, radiating happiness and unable to stop touching, and, David would swear to it, with actual stars in their eyes. They left for their morning classes with their arms around each other, returning in the afternoon in the same manner, and when Victor and August tried to mock him about it Killian just laughed.

“We’ve worked out our differences, mates,” he said, with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I’m certain you know what I mean.”

“It’s sweet, really,” August observed one evening a week or so later, in that dry, supercilious tone of his that grated on David’s nerves. “Though possibly not the wisest move, sleeping with the woman under his protection. I’ve seen the vows they have to take, you know, and they are intense. It could literally be the death of him.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Ruby snapped, baring her teeth as Snow placed a soothing hand on her arm. “Not that you would know anything about that.”

“You’re right of course,” August agreed, his eyes flashing red in the firelight. “What would I know about love and loss, I’m only three hundr—”

“Well, I think it’s great they’ve finally gotten together,” said Snow loudly, glaring first at August then Ruby then August again. “I hope they’ll be happy.”

David hoped so too, genuinely. Even he could see how good the two of them were for each other. She smoothed his rough edges and he drew her out from her shell, and the dangerous sparks of their attraction settled down into the far gentler flame of new love. It was sweet, and he did approve, and yet—still he felt unsettled, a vague sensation of unease twisting deep in his gut. He’d call it a premonition, if he believed in such things. But he was a sensible man, a man of science and the twenty-first century, and so he firmly ignored it.

Two days later Emma Swan disappeared.

___

[lastsonlost]

Oh gasps, I'm shocked.

Who would have thunk it?

The story:

Updated with Sunday figures: In the wake of Terminator: Dark Fate’s failure at the B.O., and Paramount’s recent decision to make Beverly Cops 4 for Netflix, we have the further breakdown of cinema IP in Sony’s Charlie’s Angels reboot, which is tanking with a God-awful $8.6M domestic opening, $27.9M worldwide (from 26 markets), 3 Stars on Screen Engine-Comscore’s PostTrak, and a B+ Cinemascore.

The Elizabeth Banks-directed-written and produced pic is also opening in 27 offshore markets,

China being one where it’s also bombing,

with a $7.8M 3-day take in third place behind No. 1 local title Somewhere Winter ($13.1M).

All of this is primed to further spur a WTF reaction and anxiety among film development executives in town in regards to what the hell exactly works in this have-and-have-not era of the theatrical marketplace. Many will make the hasty generalization that old, dusty IP doesn’t work, or is now deemed too risky when it’s not a superhero project. However, moviemaking is an art, not a science, and annoying as it might sound, good movies float to the top, and this Charlie’s Angels reboot didn’t have the goods going back to its script.

<Maybe somebody should have been working on a good story instead of pushing an agenda.

We’re going to break down for you what went wrong in another graph, but we don’t want to bury the success of Disney’s release of Fox’s James Mangold-directed Ford v Ferrari, which looks to be coming in at $31.5M, well ahead of the $20M+ many were seeing, with an awesome A+ CinemaScore and 4 1/2 stars and a 68% definite recommend on Screen Engine/Comscore’s PostTrak. After a franchise-laden summer which buried originals, now an original pic is sticking it to the IP.

When it comes to the bombing of Charlie’s Angels, the takeaway is this is what happens when you have IP, but there’s no reason for telling the story.

In the walk-up to developing Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle, and in the wake of its near $1 billion success, a fever broke out at the Culver City lot in the post-Amy Pascal era to reboot former Sony franchises or extend them, i.e. Zombieland: Double Tap (well over $103M at the global B.O. now), the upcoming Bad Boys 3, and, of course, Spider-Man, the latter electrified by Disney’s Marvel. Development studio executives define their being by getting films greenlit, and whenever that happens, it’s 90% of the job.

And the pressure is on to fill a 10-12 picture annual slate in a world where Disney vacuums up all the best IP. A third Charlie’s Angels with McG directing and Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu starring, wasn’t made immediately after the second chapter, 2003’s Full Throttle, as the sequel turned out to be 29% more expensive than the 2000 original at $120M, and also made less worldwide, $259.1M to $264.1M. With Elizabeth Banks coming off her hot feature directorial debut with Universal’s Pitch Perfect 2 (which over-indexed in its stateside opening at the B.O., going from $50M projections to $69.2M, and finaled global at $287.1M); after she expressed interest in September 2015 in taking on a Charlie’s Angels reboot with a modern feminist spin, there was no question in Sony’s mind that the project should move forward.

<Yeah Sony, how's that working out for you? You think they would have learned their lesson...

Guess not.

Back to the story.....

However, there were script problems, I hear, that could never be resolved. A few months after Banks boarded, Evan Spiliotopoulos came on to write. By the time cast was assembled in July 2018, Banks had penned the latest draft off a script by Jay Basu (The Girl in the Spider’s Web), and earlier drafts by Craig Mazin and Semi Chellas. Andrea Giannetti oversaw the project on the lot. However, I hear that the script for Charlie’s Angels didn’t really attract top talent, i.e. Jennifer Lawrence, Emma Stone and Margot Robbie (a trio that would have potentially jazzed up business). Hence, why the production opted to go with largely a fresh face cast outside of Kristen Stewart. While we overwrite that stars mean nothing at the box office, they do, sometimes, when it comes to propping IP, and unfortunately and arguably, no one in Middle America knows who British actress Ella Balinska is, and they’ve only became recently acquainted with Naomi Scott from Disney’s Aladdin and Lionsgate’s Power Rangers. Stewart, who is hysterical in the movie and even needed more funny bits, is in a different place in her career professionally, publicly, and privately. It’s unfair to think that she could delver her Twilight fans now.

Had she done Charlie’s Angels promptly in the swell of the Twilight whirlwind (like Snow White and the Huntsmen) then maybe it would have popped.

But she has largely been dormant from popcorn wide releases for the last seven years since 2012’s Twilight: Breaking Dawn – Part 2, busy excelling and wowing in specialty awards season and festival fare like Clouds of Sils Maria, Still Alice, and this year’s Seberg, to name a few. Stewart needed to be paired with equal or bigger-name actresses.

was a one quadrant movie, eyed at women 13-39, especially given its lack of action scenes, and wisely limited their exposure to what I hear is 50%, with co-finance partners 2.0 Entertainment and Perfect World. Sony claims the budget is $48M net; we’ve heard in the mid $50Ms. Tax incentives were taken in the pic’s Berlin and Hamburg shoots. Perhaps Sony should have spent more, because Charlie’s Angels biggest problem is that it has very low-octane, we’ve-seen-it-all-before action scenes. Heck, there’s more action in a 1980s Chuck Norris movie. After watching Charlie’s Angels earlier this week, I put the first two McG movies on Netflix, and it was like watching Star Wars in comparison to this reboot, with his sharp production design, camera movements, unique action, and comedy set pieces, and, of course, the first movie blasted Sam Rockwell out of a cannon. Understand that the first two movies in the series were able to compete and hold their own in an action space where, yes, Mission: Impossible and Fast & Furious (the first two films came out in 2001 and 2003) also thrived. Mission and Fast sequels distinguish themselves on multiple 10-minute action sequences that we’ve never seen before on screen; it doesn’t matter who the villain is. This Charlie’s Angels doesn’t have that. And not even a super-duper hit song “Don’t Call Me Angel” for the movie from Ariana Grande, Miley Cyrus, and Lana Del Ray can trigger lines at the multiplex; the music video clocking over 116M views on YouTube, per entertainment social media monitor RelishMix.

Some will claim that Banks’ version was never intended to emulate the meat and potatoes version of McG’s films; that this version was expected to be more comedic, and more feminist. Unfortunately, after McG set the table here with the franchise as an action film, you can’t reverse it. You can only outdo him. And with a franchise movie like Charlie’s Angels, you can’t make it for a one quadrant audience.

The film arrived on tracking with a $12M-$13M start, and really never budged, but sank. That means marketing didn’t work. I heard that a $100M global P&A was first planned on Charlie’s Angels, with the studio now reducing that overall cost greatly to around $50M and pulling back on expensive ads. Another hurdle in activating the young girl demo is that much of the pic’s cast isn’t on social media. RelishMix says that Banks is the social media star with over 6.6M followers across Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, with Scott counting 3.4M.

Sony kept pushing Charlie’s Angels, which in hindsight means there were development issues. In May 2017, a release date was announced for June 7, 2019. When the cast was locked down in July 2018, Charlie’s got moved to Sept. 27, 2019. In October 2018 when Warners pushed Wonder Woman 1984 from the first weekend in November to summer, Charlie‘s took over the autumn spot, which was the same exact place the original 2000 opened. However, when Terminator: Dark Fate moved onto the same first weekend in November, Charlie‘s relocated to this weekend as they vied for a China release which they ultimately got.

Charlie’s Angels drew a 66% female crowd, split between 36% over 25 and 30% under 25. But both demos respectively graded it low at 68% and 79%, with men at 35% giving it a 68% grade on PostTrak. Diversity breakdown was 52% Caucasian, 21% Hispanic, 14% Asian/Other, & 13% African American. Charlie’s Angels best markets were on the coasts and big cities. But again, nothing to brag about in Friday’s $3.2M gross, which includes $900K from Thursday and Wednesday previews.

Says RelishMix, which also foresaw this disaster approaching on social media chatter, “Angels is the latest example in a ‘woke’ effort to reboot a franchise that many were not all that interested in to start with. In fact, many references to the 2000 version get a call-out as a reason this one doesn’t seem to compare – whether it’s the cast or the action teased from the film.

And, as observed with other recent films, some action/adventure, unfortunately fans say they’re steering clear of this one because of its ‘girl power’ messaging.”

[365days365movies]

April 8, 2021: Swiss Army Man (2016) (Recap: Part Two)

So...is Manny a Horcrux, or...

Look, I have only so much willpower, a Harry Potter joke HAD to get its way in here somewhere, OK? And to be clear, Radcliffe is too talented to be relegated to that as his career highlight in and of itself. He was great in it, sure, but the guy deserves more recognition. All of the Harry Potter cast do, for that matter! They’ve all had careers outside of those films, but it often feels like they’re only relegated to similar roles. 

Worst amongst those is Emma Watson. Like...really Disney? That was your choice for Belle? The most obvious possible choice EVER? Geez, guys, come on. Also, I hate to say it...but she was clearly the wrong choice for that role. Not just in terms of the autotune overload, but also in general. Sorry, but she wasn’t a great casting, and the reasons for the cast are so transparent, that it makes it even worse. Real talk, people have suggested Anna Kendrick for that role, and honestly...YEAH. THAT WOULD’VE BEEN A BETTER CHOICE, and she’s not even my favorite choice!

...Where was I? Oh, right, Swiss Army Man. I should probably get back to that before I start talking about the new Cruella movie, how Emma Stone is NOT a good casting choice, and how ALL of the DIsney remakes need SERIOUS retooling, and WHY THE FUCK IS QUEEN LATIFAH OR A DRAG QUEEN NOT PLAYING URSULA IN THE REMAKE OF THE LITTLE MERMAID SHE’S BASED ON FUCKING DIVINE

....Back to the movie. First part’s here.

Recap (2/2)

So, we’re back on the fake bus, where the two pantomime the interaction on the bus between Manny and the girl on the phone, with Hank narrating the situation, while also playing the girl, and while Manny sings the Jurassic Park theme song in the soundtrack (I LOVE THIS FUCKING SOUNDTRACK). Manny suddenly feels nervous about talking to this girl, and asks what Hank would do in this situation. But, of course, he’s been in this situation before, and never really said anything. Sorry, buddy.

However, living vicariously through Manny’s actions, he helps her talk to the mystery girl on the bus, whom Manny names “Sarah Johnson”. The two hold hands, and their interaction makes him smile, and once again brings him more to life. He also manifests the ability to make fire with his hands, and to propel objects far distances with his mouth. And yes, the soundtrack is BANGIN’. I mean, this is a montage in the film, and the song just shouts “MONTAAAAAGE” during the chorus, and also describes everything happening on screen. I fucking love this soundtrack, and this is now my montage music.

I should mention that, like the song says, they kill a raccoon and some fish, and also go on a fake (?) date between him and “Sarah Johnson”. They learn to use his arm with some karate chop action, have a fake party, take some fake pictures, it’s fucking nuts and its GREAT. What the hell, man?

Well, this soon leads to things getting a little...awkward between the two, and they nearly kiss after their night of reverie. Which, given the whole dead body thing, is definitely pretty goddamn weird. That continues throughout the day, and the emotional and literal tension ramps up as the two cross a rickety bridge of pipes, which collapses, leading to the two hanging high above a river, which legitimately scares Manny for the first time, mostly because he’s afraid of losing his connection with Hank.

The two fall into the river, and in order to save them both (I think), the two kiss beneath the water. I’m fairly certain that this was meant to blow into Manny so that he could propel them both out of the water...but that’s probably not the only reason for it. That will likely be revealed later on, of course. I’ll just wait and see.

They both get out of the river and the situation, and eventually settle down for the night. In the process, Hank shares more feelings about his father, and this includes how to two don’t really talk much. Manny definitely finds this weird, as he’s planning on telling the real Sarah Johnson how much he feels for her every day. I may have forgotten to mention this, but Manny’s impetus for getting them home (and for coming back to life) is to meet Sarah Johnson, whom he believes is from his past life.

However, upon learning that his farts would probably be discouraged in public, Manny wonders why they're returning, as society sounds restrictive. Hank agrees, and suggests that they stay where they are instead. This is a joke...I think...but that becomes moot, as the two are actually right next to a road, and Hank can get service. He goes onto a social media app, and looks at the profile of Sarah Johnson (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), which is...her real name. Huh. Also, she is married with kids. Oh. OH. Fuck.

Hank goes to Manny and finally reveals the truth about Sarah, which upsets Manny enough that he’s unable to use his abilities. Which sucks, because a bear is at their camp! The bear injures Hank, but the two escape when Hank accidentally light one of Manny’s farts, propelling them upwards and out of the dangerous situation like a goddamn rocket.

When they land in the treetops, the very saddened Manny begins to lament life, and to cry for the first time. However, doing so taps into another of his abilities: psychic manipulation and mental inception. Damn. This ability is far too powerful for Hank’s psyche, especially as Manny descends into straight-up depression, which Hank admits that he completely understands. And Hank falls out of the treetops as the two have a heart-to-heart about their shared depression, and the bear drags him away as they have a shared existential crisis. It’s kind of funny, kind of depressing,, weirdly sweet, and oddly poignant.

And weirdly enough, this is also when Manny discovers one last major ability: he learns to move on his own. He falls out of the tree, and stands up for the first time. He falls immediately after that, BUT, he still manages to get up afterwards. He also uses his fire-starting ability to scare away the bear, saving both of them. He also sets himself on fire for a hot sec, but whatever.

The next morning, roles have been reversed, as Manny is now carrying Hank on his back through the woods. And also right to Sarah’s house, oh FUCK. Hank protests this, understandably, and points out that he doesn’t think himself good enough to even talk to Sarah, revealing his own self-hatred. But after he calls himself an “ugly, useless sack of shit”, Manny counters that by basically saying that nobody’s perfect, but there’s still somebody for everyone. Which is quite sweet, despite how exactly he says it.

And that’s when they meet Sarah’s daughter, Crissie (Antonia Ribero), dear Lord. Weirdly enough, she can hear Manny, meaning that...wait, he’s REAL?!? MANNY IS AN ACTUAL TALKING BODY?!? Not that it matters, since he scares Crissie, which gets Sarah’s attention. However, having scared Crissie, Manny’s sadness causes him to once again become completely inanimate.

Sarah calls the authorities, and they come to patch Hank up and take Manny away at the same time. They discover the pictures of Sarah on her phone, which makes them understandably suspicious. Hank’s father (Richard Gross) also arrives, under the mistaken impression that Hank is the dead body. He completely breaks down, revealing his true emotions for his son, which Hank appreciates. However, things come to a head when Hank realizes that Manny will likely go unrecognized and unremembered. So, he does the logical thing.

He steals Manny’s body and runs away.

I mean, to be fair, they’re BOTH screwed. Sarah’s questioning why the hell pictures of her are on Hank’s phone, and Manny’s gonna get completely forgotten. Not to mention that, as the police and Sarah Johnson pursue him as he takes off with Manny, they discover the camp that Hank and Manny had built while stranded in the woods, which includes some unfortunate effigies of Sarah. Which, yeah, is scary as FUCK.

With Hank now seeming pretty obviously insane (which to be fair, he totally might be), and Sarah, the cops, and Hank’s father absolutely horrified, Hank is taken away just before he tells Manny that they have to SHOW them exactly what happened. And he attempts to make amends with Manny by doing something he’d refused to do in front of him previously: he farts. Hank farts. Loudly and proudly.

But Manny’s still inanimate, and led away by the cops...and suddenly...Many farts. And it’s gloriously stupid. A news cameraman films this, and they all watch on, as Manny’s farts propel him across the ocean, with everyone watching. Sarah rightfully says “What the fuck?”. Manny grins back at Hank. And Hank grins back.

That was Swiss Army Man, by far the weirdest movie I’ve see this month...and it’s weirdly kinda great? I’ll elaborate in the Review (I owe you guys a few of those, by the way; THEY’RE COMIN’). See you there!

[oh-phineas]

Emma’s 2020 Questionnaire! 

Your Name: Emma Characters: Phineas Flynn, Tiana Truitt, Aquata Triton, Henry Charming, Evelyn Deavor Pick one of your characters and talk about their growth (we recommend choosing an older character, but it’s up to you!) What about their story has surprised you? What are you proud of? How have they changed from their original inception to now? I’m going to talk about Phineas because I’ve had him for the longest and I think he’s the one I’ve been able to spend the most time developing. So basically something I struggled with when I first picked up Phineas was how he deals with people he doesn’t like, because in the show I don’t think he really dislikes anyone. And I feel like this drama with Tony recently has finally helped me crack what Phineas’s deal is when it comes to conflict-- he doesn’t really feel down about it unless he feels like his character is being questioned, and that’s why with Wilbur he’s mostly like whatever while with Tony and Lock (in the past) Phineas has gotten petty and vindictive-- he doesn’t like the role he’s found himself in and he takes that personally if that makes sense. (Also Phineas just way prioritizes his job with Cornelius over getting back at Wilbur, even if he’ll make the occasional jab at Wilbur in Among Us or on Twitter). So that’s been really cool to explore. And I think he’s also gotten a little less finance-bro-y than I originally intended, but I think that side of him will definitely come out once he graduates and goes to uni. I think the thing I’m most proud of with him is kind of maintaining that balance between being totally likeable and fun while also pretty infuriating and obtuse, like he’s a sweet and well-meaning person who’s also really annoying and idk I think I do that balance well.

Pick another character (or the same character if you only have one) and talk a little about where you WANT them to go. What are your plans for them going into the new year? I’m really excited to see where Tiana goes! Ever since I picked her up, I’ve been focused on this goal of getting the restaurant to happen and now that I’ve done that, there are a lot of possibilities. I want to see Tiana burn out from the stress a little bit-- maybe take on more than she can handle because a big part of her arc has been learning to accept help and collaborate with people, and I got to do that a lot with planning Tiana’s Place, but I would also really like to see that continue because those tendencies don’t really go away. I also want LOVE for Tiana even though I keep saying she doesn’t have time for it-- I want her to get a stupid crush that distracts her from work lol I think it could be really fun. And I’m also really excited to keep developing all her friendships, I love all of her Swynlake native connections and PRINCESS HOUSE and other small business owners and now that she really feels like she has put down roots with her restaurant, I want to see her branching out more.

Pick a thread or a plot that you’re proud of and talk about why you loved it. In terms of your own writing, identify 1-3 strengths and talk about why you think it’s one of your strengths. Ok sorry to keep talking about Tiana I promise I have other characters but I’m really proud of all of the different characters I incorporated into the Tiana’s Place opening. My goal was to make a real community effort to show that, no matter how much she wanted to do it on her own, she still has a whole group of people supporting her and who have a stake in it-- from Nuka and Ratigan in the beginning with the financial stuff to Clara and Toulouse and Laszlo with the music/art to Jun and Al for business advice to all the people who donated to the raffle. And the raffle was so fun and I hope people use that for plots!!

I also gotta shout out one more: writing the pirates AU Phineas and Ferb stuff was so much fun and really pushed me as a writer I think. I was a little uneasy going into pirates because action/movement/fights are not my strong suit and I knew there would be a lot of that. But the generated stuff was really helpful in kickstarting some ideas and Sid was so great to work with on that. I thought we got really creative and personally I had so much fun and I hope other people did too. 

In terms of strengths for my writing-- I think I’m good with flaws? Like even characters who are really sweet and nice (I’m looking at you Henry) I think I try to show the different sides of them and explore how you can be both really well-meaning and really misguided at the same time. And I think that’s good because it has the potential to cause conflict and drive forward more plots where there’s no clear ~bad guy~ just flawed people trying their best and that’s the most interesting stuff to me. Of course I also love big bads! I think macro plots are really important. I think my niche though is those petty little conflicts and I think I do a good job with them. 

I’m adding another too because you know what why not. I think I've gotten pretty creative recently?? Like I’ve done some really weird fun stuff this year-- Henry and Jake’s acapella audition is up there as one of my favorite threads, and I’m really excited about Tiana and Aurora’s fake date and Greg and Q doing Santa’s Workshop and I think Henry’s first open was one of my favorite opens I’ve done. Idk I think one of my insecurities about RP has always been that I worry I don’t bring enough ideas to the table with plotting and I think I’m getting better at letting my brain dream up weird cool stuff.

In terms of your own writing, identify 1-3 areas of improvement.

Like I said, plotting is still something I struggle with-- I spent the majority of my early RP experience in a very gif-chat-heavy open-heavy fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants rp, so coming to BDRP even back during round 1 in 2017, plotting was a big surprise to me. And this is also something that I struggle with in my non-RP writing-- story arc and structure is something I have always wanted to improve. But I think I’m getting better at fleshing out ideas and not putting too much pressure on myself. And I think I’m also getting better at stepping out of my comfort zone and messaging people I don’t write with as often which is important because literally everyone here is so fun and talented! So I want to keep doing that. I know I can be a little shy sometimes (this sounds SO weird I never shut up lol but it’s how I feel) and I don’t want that to hold me back

In terms of actual writing stuff, I’d like to expand my vocabulary a bit more? I think I use certain words and phrasing so often that it annoys me and maybe it annoys no one else and my writing will be worse if I try to throw in unnecessary words but yeah. I think reading more will help with that. And in general I just really want to get better at thinking stuff through and building story arcs. 

Pick one of your plots, or even just a character, and come up with a list of 3-5 “mentor texts” where you can look for inspiration or research, then write a short (2-4 sentences) why you picked those texts. (They don’t have to be books, either!)

Ev is the one I feel like I need to do the most development on so here goes!

1. Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston, specifically the character Nora

Messy nerd girls! Messy nerd girls! Please recommend me more things with messy nerd girls! Nora is basically Ev’s exterior, the person people know her as. She’s chaotic and fun and relatable, and also kind of a genius.

2. Macbeth, specifically the character Lady Macbeth

This is one I wanna dive into! I’ve seen a heavily abridged version of Macbeth and that’s about it but I have a copy sitting on my desk. I love a villain who likes to stay behind the scenes and pull the strings, and while Ev is in this for “moral reasons” (lol) she’s also in this for #power. I’m not used to playing manipulative villains-- I’m usually more of a henchperson type deal, so the ultimate 4-D chess gal would be some good inspo.

3. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, specifically Professor Quirrell.

Ok I am really sorry to bring Harry Potter into this but I think something that’s important about Ev is that one of the things distracting from her villainy is her vague air of incompetency. We know she’s very smart and she has the whole nutty-professor thing going, but she’s kind of a mess and I want characters to underestimate her. I think Quirrell’s vibe of being nervous about everything is similar to Ev’s messy exterior and I would love a good end-of-the-book villain reveal.  And now, a wishlist! Jot down a few themes or stories or genres etc that you want to maybe pursue in the upcoming year! (i.e. a good ol’ fashion forbidden romance, maybe you want to dig deep into racial identity etc) This doesn’t have to necessarily be attached to any characters or stories you have now– it’s just meant to help you see for yourself what kind of stories call to your heart.

Oooh so many things. Generally more romance-- I always hesitate a little with shipping IDK WHY maybe it’s insecurity about jumping into what always feels like a bit plot to me lol. But I wanna take that plunge more-- especially with Tiana! But I’m pretty much open to stuff with anyone, especially really silly rom-com type stuff. I also think that my shipping niche is super complicated stuff with villains (the irony and craziness of the Henleigh situation is so FASCINATING and FUN and I want MORE OF THAT) so just saying a I’m-flirting-with-you-because-you’re-a-good-ally-to-have-on-my-side-oh-no-I’m-actually-falling-for-you thing with Ev could be really fun (LISTEN her entire tag is just shipping content. I scroll through so much of it so of course it gave me some ideas)

I’m also REALLY jazzed about the uni stuff going on right now. Like I’ve said before, I think college is a really interesting place and so much weird shit happens there because you have all these 18-22 year olds living in close quarters and they come up with weird ways to entertain themselves. The secret santa/RA stuff has me loling every day and I just love stuff like that. Like, I’d love to have shenanigans like people sneaking into dorms and staying up until 3 am in the library and all that stuff. I just love that stuff.

Also I am really trying to do big bad stuff with Ev!! As I have mentioned... plotting and story arcs are a major thing I’m trying to work on, so it’s a lot to think about, but I would really just love to do all kinds of things-- I’d love to have her enable small-time villains, or manipulate people who are easily swayed, or to trick people. It’s a new area for me, but it’s something I’m excited about and I want to challenge myself.

OPTIONAL: Why do you RP?

Because I literally can’t stop apparently lol. No but the thing I love about RP is getting to collaborate on a story and getting surprised by people, getting to geek out about something that I can also participate in, and having NO RULES. I think there’s something really special about having an interest that I can’t monetize or market, that I can do for pure fun out of my love of creating and writing. And I love having a community of people on the ride with me. It’s so much fun and I’m so grateful for you guys!

I always end with a gif so here’s my favorite gif it legit makes me laugh out loud

[thearvariblues]

The Bard And The Wolf - Chapter Eight

(AKA Geraskier in the Metal Band AU you didn’t know you needed)

AKA me desperately trying to catch up my Tumblr with what’s already been posted to AO3. ;)

The masterpost for this fic can be found HERE.

A word of warning: This chapter references to a past sexual relationship between a nineteen-year-old and a (very willing) sixteen-year-old. Everything that happens in this chapter is 100% consensual, even though you might get an idea that it isn’t - don’t worry, everything will be properly explained in the next chapter! ;)

8 – We Know What You’re Like, Jask

Three weeks had passed.

They kept rehearsing, of course. Not as often as before the gig, though. Their next gig was going to be about thirty minutes long, again, and Jaskier already knew the lyrics.

So he spent the time trying to write new songs (and failing spectacularly, for some reason), working (he had to admit that he’d neglected his students a little in that hellish week before the first gig) and, well… daydreaming about a certain white-haired witcher.

He tried to stop himself. He really, truly did. He knew it was a bad idea to fall for another member of the band. And he hadn’t fallen yet. He was just… hanging from a high cliff, clinging desperately to the crumbling rock. With only one hand. Well, honestly, it was more like… two fingers.

But he wasn’t going to fall.

He wasn’t.

He fucking wasn’t.

“Professor Jaskier?” said a voice next to him.

He blinked and shook his head to clear it.

“I’m sorry, Emma, I wasn’t… paying attention. Could you play it again, please? And it’s Jaskier. Not professor.”

The dark-haired girl next to him bit her lower lip. She was about as old as Ciri was, but nowhere near as talkative or confident.

“I know. You’ve told me. Mom says I’m only allowed to call you professor Jaskier… or Mr. Pankratz.”

“Don’t you dare calling me Mr. Pankratz,” he smirked. “And don’t worry. I’m gonna have a word with your mother.”

“That’s not gonna help, I’m afraid,” she sighed. “Professor...”

“Oh, dear. What?”

“Is that… The instrument you brought. Is that a lute?”

“Yes, Emma, it’s a lute,” he grinned. “You see, when I’m done here, I’m heading to my new band’s rehearsal...”

Where he would see Geralt for the first time in five days. He cursed the tiny flutter in his chest and focused on the girl again.

“Sorry. Not one of my best days,” he smiled. “Would you like to see the lute?”

The girl beamed. “Could I?”

“Sure. Why not?” he said, already on his way to get it. “You can even try to play it, if you want. Of course, it’s way too big and heavy for you, but it doesn’t really matter, you can try just for fun.”

He removed the lute from its casing and handed it to the girl.

“Just be careful, darling. Because I love her very, very much, and it would break my heart if anything was to happen to her.”

The door of the living room opened and a woman with her hair as dark as the kid walked in.

“I can’t hear any music. Is there a problem?”

The girl sighed, staring longingly at the lute.

“No,” Jaskier said quickly. “No problems. We’re just taking a little break, that’s all.”

“I’m not paying you for breaks, Jaskier.”

“Try the lute out, Emma,” he muttered to the girl. “I’m gonna have a little talk with mom, right?”

“There’s nothing to talk about–” the woman started, but Jaskier was already grabbing her by the arm.

“Yes, there is,” he said, leading her out of the room and closing the door behind them. “You’re way too hard on that girl, Stella. Go on, and she’ll start to either be afraid of you, or hate you. And maybe both.”

“If I’m not hard on her,” she sighed, “she will come home at seventeen, impregnated by some idiot who will then pretend he’s never seen her and the kid definitely isn’t his.”

Jaskier wanted to say You mean like you did?, but he held his tongue.

“I don’t see how being able to play the violin could help in that situation, if you don’t expect her to shove a bow up that boy’s ass.”

“If she’s busy, she won’t have time to spread her legs to random boys.”

“Jesus Christ, Stella, she’s… what, thirteen?!”

“Nearly fourteen. How old were you when you had sex for the first time?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to the door.

“I just turned sixteen, and you know it damn well.”

She smiled at him.

“Oh, yes. So young and innocent.”

“You still can’t see how fucked-up it was, right? You were nineteen, for fuck’s sake. And already had a kid!”

“It was you who was so desperate to get under my skirts back then, darling.”

“Yes, but you could have stopped me. Should have stopped me.”

“You were singing ballads about me. You kept sending me poems. I’m not made of stone. And you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Jaskier sighed and shook his head. He did, right. As fucked-up as it was. Well, of course he did. He was sixteen, and she was the girl he’d been having wet dreams about for months, his first muse…

“She hates the violin, you know?” he said, trying to change the subject.

“She will keep playing it.”

“Come on, Stella. I mean… I get it that you want to keep her busy, but you could at least let her play another instrument. Something she really enjoys.”

“Could I?” Stella smiled, arching her eyebrow. “I could, of course. But how will you convince me to actually allow it, Jaskier?”

Jaskier sighed inwardly. He knew where she was heading. He’d been through this a few times with her already. And he wasn’t really into it now, but hey, it could really help the girl and take his mind off a certain white-haired wolf… And anyway, he wasn't a guy who would turn down an offer for sex, was he? Sex was good. She was hot. It wasn't her fault that she wasn't Geralt.

So he put on his cocky smile and leaned closer to her.

“What would you like me to do?” he murmured. “My dear Countess de Stael?”

*

“What the fuck you mean he can’t make it?!” Geralt snarled.

“How am I supposed to know?” Renfri shrugged. “That’s all he texted me. Emergency lesson with a student, can’t make it today, postpone to tomorrow?”

“What the hell is an emergency lesson, anyway?” Lambert frowned. “Does someone’s life depend on learning Beethoven’s Fifth before sundown?”

“No idea. Should I call him?”

“Nah. It’s probably an excuse, anyway. I’d bet he’s just tangled in someone’s bed sheets right now.”

“That’s just great,” Geralt growled. “So the band can go fuck itself, because Jaskier can’t keep his cock in his pants, right?”

“Come on, Geralt,” Eskel smirked. “Lambert’s just being a prick. As usual.”

“I think he’s right, though,” Geralt sighed. “Jaskier is a… Jaskier.”

“A whore is the word you’re looking for,” Lambert said helpfully.

“He’s not,” Renfri shook her head. “He’s just… easily distracted. And falls madly in love with everyone he meets.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt muttered. “If I find out he was… warming up his sausage instead of being here, I’m gonna kill him.”

“You’re not,” Eskel said. “The battle of the bands is in a month, and I’d prefer not having to find another idiot who would be able to learn the lyrics and who can play the lute.”

“Hmmm.”

“And don’t hmmm me, Geralt. If you want to kill him, do it after the competition, you hear me?”

“Hmmm.”

“And I could kill him?” Lambert asked.

“Nobody’s killing anyone!” Eskel groaned. “Jesus Christ, I really hope someone’s life did depend on learning the Fifth before sundown...”

*

“So. I actually went to see you with your new band, Jaskier.”

Jaskier, who was just pulling up his underwear, paused.

“You did?” he frowned.

“Of course,” she smiled and stretched out on the bed, eyeing his cock.

“And?” Jaskier said, finally pulled his underwear all the way up and started to look for his pants. “Did you like it?”

“Honestly, I think it’s a tragedy,” she said. “To see you, with all your talent, in the middle of that… band of complete idiots.”

“I actually like those idiots, you know?” he sighed.

“Can’t really see why. But don’t worry, lovely. You were amazing, of course.”

“Oh, well. Thank you.”

“I still don’t understand why you insist on being in a band, though. You need to start your own solo career. That way, you would truly shine, gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Stella–”

“Excuse me?” she said, arching her eyebrow.

“Countess de Stael,” he corrected himself. “But I really enjoy being in a band. Especially in this band.”

“Life’s not just about things you enjoy, Jaskier. It’s about things that are good for you. Things that need to be done.”

“I know. But if you can, you should do what pleases you.”

“And what is it that pleases you, hm?”

He pulled a T-shirt over his head, trying to force a pair of amber eyes out of his mind.

“Right now? Playing with my band of idiots,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “See you tomorrow. Night, Stella.”

*

Jaskier wasn’t late to the rehearsal next day. In fact, he was twenty minutes too early, just to be safe. He hoped he would make up for his absence the day before, especially to Geralt. Because according to Renfri, Geralt was mad at him. Which was fair, he supposed. He really should have let them know sooner that he wouldn’t be able to make it.

Still, he kind of prayed to the gods that the Wolf would arrive last, so he wouldn’t have to face him alone.

The Wolf arrived first, of course. With Renfri, but it made little difference.

“You could have at least covered the hickey,” Geralt said after taking a single look at the bard.

Jaskier winced.

“I wanted to. But the weather’s a bit hot for a scarf, so it would be pretty obvious anyway,” he muttered. “Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday–”

“Yeah, next time just text that you’ve got a date and don’t lie,” Geralt growled. “We know what you’re like, Jask, we won’t be surprised.”

That hurt. That really, really hurt.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

Jaskier bit his lip and looked away. He’d lied because the last thing he wanted was to disappoint Geralt, but it seemed that was exactly what he did.

He must have looked utterly devastated, because Geralt actually sighed and a tiny smile appeared on his lips.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” he said. “Just… Please. I don’t like being lied to.”

“I won’t do it again. Promise.”

Renfri, who had been ostentatiously staying away from their drama, nudged Jaskier in the ribs.

“So who was it, eh? A new flame?”

“An old acquaintance, actually,” Jaskier smiled, glad for the distraction. “It’s an… on and off thing. We’ve known each other for a while. Spend a few weeks fucking occasionally, then go on with our lives.”

“Sounds horrible,” Geralt said.

“Well, it wasn’t the healthiest relationship when we started,” Jaskier admitted. Especially with the age difference. “But we’ve grown, and now we know exactly what we want from each other.”

She wants someone to obey her. I want a distraction.

“Sweet. What’s his name?” Renfri grinned.

“Her,” Jaskier said. “And well, if you need to know, she likes to be called Countess de Stael.”

“Even in bed?”

“Especially in bed.”

Geralt growled. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. Don’t spoil the fun,” Renfri said. “Jaskier always tells us all about his newest conquests.”

“What conquests?” Lambert asked from the door. “So you were screwing some poor young maiden yesterday?”

“A Countess de Stael,” Renfri laughed.

“Oh, I’ve heard of her. Kinky. Good for you, I guess,” Lambert grinned. “Isn’t she older than you, though?”

“A bit, yeah,” Jaskier nodded. “But it really doesn’t matter. It’s just sex.”

“Right. From what I’ve heard, it would be extremely stupid to fall in love with her.”

“Extremely, yes,” Jaskier confirmed. “I actually managed to do it, a few years back. I was young and naive. I’m much smarter now.”

“Smart enough not to fall in love with someone you can’t have?”

“Dear gods, no. Never,” Jaskier chuckled. “Smart enough not to fall in love with her. I hope. Also, you’re a dick, Lambert.”

“Thanks. It’s one of my best qualities,” Lambert grinned.

“Oh, come on, guys, could you lighten up a little?” Renfri whined. “You’re making Geralt… Well, not sad. You’re making Geralt grumpy, and that’s even worse.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Geralt groaned.

“Oh, yes, you are,” Jaskier said. “Come on, Geralt, I said I was sorry. I promise I won’t do it again. Please, stop being mad at me. I won’t survive it if you keep being mad at me!”

A little smile tugged at Geralt’s lips.

“Of course you will survive, you overly dramatic prick.”

“No, I will not. I will die, knowing I will never see you smile at me again, my heart shattered to pieces, and it’s gonna be your fault.”

Geralt actually chuckled at that.

“Maybe you could ask the Countess to smile at you.”

“Yeah, I could. But she’s not you. Come on, Geralt.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “I can already feel my heart giving up, fluttering, trying desperately to–”

“You’re such a moron, Jask,” Geralt said.

“Are you smiling or not?” Jaskier grinned.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Damn you.”

“Honey, I’ve been damned since the day I was born.”

Geralt laughed.

“I’m glad to see you’re back to your old dramatics,” he said. “I was kind of worried for a while.”

Before Jaskier could reply, the door opened and Eskel stepped into the room.

“Oh. You’re all here. That’s new,” he blinked. “I come bearing good news. Well… maybe not.”

“Good news but maybe not?” Lambert frowned. “The fuck?”

“Vesemir called.”

“And he called you?” Geralt asked. “I mean… I’m obviously his favorite. Why didn’t he call me?”

“He did. You weren’t answering.”

“So… What’s going on?” Renfri said, just as Geralt fished his phone out of his leather jacket pocket, swearing.

“He got us a new gig. Full-length.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Jaskier grinned. “We needed a gig or two before the competition.”

“It’s tomorrow,” Eskel said.

“Oh,” Geralt muttered. “Fuck.”

*

Jaskier took a bite of his hamburger.

“Dear Lord, this is heaven,” he moaned. “I really was about to die of hunger. Thank you, Geralt, thank you so much!”

“I just ordered the food,” Geralt laughed when he swallowed a mouthful of his own burger. “But it was Renfri’s idea.”

“You’re free to keep the credit for it,” Renfri winked. “Have you tried the potato wedges yet? They’re awesome.”

“Are they?” Geralt grinned.

“Hey! Those are mine!” Jaskier protested.

“Were,” Geralt said, stuffing a few wedges into his mouth. “Oh, yes. Delicious.”

“Come on, Geralt,” Lambert mumbled. “How do you want to keep being skinny if you eat like a pig?”

“Maybe I don’t,” Geralt shrugged.

“Oh, so you’ve decided to grow that layer of nice, protective fat?” Jaskier asked.

“Maybe,” Geralt smiled. “And stop grinning like an idiot, Jask, and eat. We need to get back to work if we want to wrap up before midnight.”

*

In the end, they wrapped up at half past eleven, exhausted, but satisfied. Jaskier was about to drop dead, really, but he was happy. A few hours ago, he had been panicking about the gig, but now he felt ready for it. They rehearsed all the songs he hadn’t played with them before. They did it again, and again, and again.

“Good job tonight, Jask,” Geralt said, clasping his shoulder. “Can we drop you off at your place?”

“I’m not going home,” he sighed. His mind was a little fuzzy. “Wait, we?”

“I’m going with Geralt,” Renfri said. “Obviously, since I live with him.”

“You live in my house,” Geralt smirked. “In your own flat.”

“Shush. It sounds better when I say I live with you.”

“Whatever,” Geralt shrugged, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s go, Jask.”

Jaskier blinked. “I just told you–”

“Yeah, you’re not going home. I get it,” Geralt nodded. “Just give her address to me, I’ll drive you there.”

“It’s fine, Geralt. I can walk. it’s not far–”

“That wasn’t a question, Jask. It’s nearly midnight and you’re tired, if you think I’m gonna let you walk… Well, you’re wrong. Let’s go.”

*

“Jaskier,” she said when she opened the door for him. “I almost stopped hoping you’d show up.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” he sighed. “Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Well, you should have went home. You look horrible. And you’ve already disappointed me. I was looking forward to spending a nice evening with you, but you decided you’d rather be with that group of–”

“Stop,” Jaskier said. “Keep that tone for your toy boys, Stella. You know, those who are seven years younger than me and madly in love with you.”

“It used to work on you, too,” she smiled sweetly.

“Yeah, but I was seven years younger than I am now, and madly in love with you,” he smirked. “Do you want to fuck or not?”

“Look who’s showing his claws,” she laughed. “Come on, then. Do you want something to eat?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” he said, but then grinned. “Well, I am, but… not like that.”

“Oh? What are you hungry for, then?”

“I think you know,” he muttered. “My dear Countess.”

“Good boy,” she nodded. “Let’s get you to bed.”

[memoirsofrkxjiyeon]

                             Namji ♥ Jiyeon x Namjoon

"HE LOOKS AT HER                                   AND SEES EVERYTHING HE’S EVER WANTED."

   "HE LOOKS AT HIMSELF                                            AND SEES NOTHING SHE DESERVES."

"IF HE ONLY KNEW THE THINGS SHE COULD SEE. "

                                                       ♥♥♥♥

Once upon a summer at BBQ party on 26th July 2018, a girl and a boy met for the first time not knowing how many times their crossed paths and how many friends they had in common. He called himself KT’s prince and herself Sphere’s Sleeping Beauty thus silly friendship was born joking about fairytales. This is why the first song in their playlist would be…

An Unusual Prince/Once Upon A Dream from Sleeping Beauty

The two friends decided to work together on a project as Namjoon needed an outlet to show off his talents since he has been in the KT’s dungeon for a long time on 26th January 2019 . The trainees performed this cute love song at the coex mall at Gangnam, they had a lot of fun performing together. Jiyeon was quite impressed hearing Namjoon’s rapping for the first time it was quite nice on the ears and she even stage kissed him on the cheek at the end of the performance. It was a cute friendship to watch from afar and people start to notice..

OOPS by G.NA feat BTOB Ilhoon

10th March 2019 was the start of vacation she would never forget along with finding out a little about more about the prince Namjoon. It was the moment when she found out he is from a lot of money even found a nice luxury hotel in Cancun and allow her friends to come along on this fun little getaway. During the vacation, the two friends may have a moment at the piano even help Jiyeon find her love for the instrument as they both played around on the piano in the hotel lobby after a few drinks. They talked about their love for film La La Land even mentions that Jiyeon bought a yellow dress cause of the movie and Namjoon cheeky response to that was, “I’d like to see that dress one of these days” with a playful wink. The girl laughed it off saying in his dreams then wishes him goodnight…

City Of Stars By Ryan Gosling & Emma Stone from La-La Land

It seemed the friendship between the two friends caught the eye of their mutual friend Gray and like any good friend would do if they believe the two people were right for each other. He shipped them very hard with all his soul so one evaluation Namjoon & Jiyeon were feeling little mischievous and decided to prank their lovely friend Gray by pretending to be a couple through this evaluation project for giggles in April 2019. By both of their surprises it seems quite easy to play to pretend they didn’t really need to work hard to do it, it felt very natural too. It was a lot of fun even though it seems the company pranked them at the end of evaluation making her believe it was karma saying they shouldn’t have prank their friend like that. Maybe Jiyeon was lookin’ for a man who’s realer after all this time or not..

Oh Na Na by K.A.R.D

25th May 2019 on one fateful Saturday night when Jiyeon was sad alone not to mention shoeless in the pouring rain- Namjoon came to rescue her even though she did not call him it was only by chance he became her hero. He made the rain stop according to her drunk brain calling him magician because of it. However, the morning after he would tease her suggesting they slept together yet instead he was the perfect gentleman even brought her coffee & painkillers. After that, the two became very close by accident then something happened, her heart jumped. Jiyeon’s curiosity about his man grew wanting to know about him, what was his story? “I’m asking, please will you tell me your story? I wanna know. Don’t try to hide it, I’ll be on your side”

Save Me, Save You by WJSN

The month of September was a tough one, during a gathering she found out something about Namjoon which made her heart hurt little even feels little jealous causing Jiyeon to make her fool out of herself. He went on date with her close friend of hers Hwayoung even discussing another one at the party right in front of her. How could Jiyeon be mad right? It was only a moment yet she could taste the bitterness in her mouth. Namjoon approached Jiyeon if they could work together for monthly evaluation, every practice was secret glances between the two who oblivious liked each other and it didn’t help the song they performed together to trigger some emotions deep inside their hearts. 30th September 2019 the duo performed this emotional ballad revealing their true emotions for lyrics as reminds me of that night, ‘'the deeply colored night sky is filled with you, who won’t leave’

Jang Jae In - Auditory Hallucination (feat. NaShow)

The winter came along with a misunderstanding between them as Namjoon saw Jiyeon with another man making him feel bitter yet happy as she deserves only the best in the world. It was not as it seemed like all the moment she caught a glimpse of him observing herself & her brother. Jiyeon  made haste to go see her friend who didn’t seem like a happy bunny and wanting to clear up the misunderstanding even though it was a little funny how he thought her brother was her boyfriend. He was clearly in need of a friend & she was willing to lend an ear so the two had heart to heart on swings of children's playground in the middle of the night. That night she felt even closer to him learning about his troubles and struggles painting a clearer picture to who he is really was. The girl decided to keep her feelings hidden a little longer it was not the time to confess as she didn’t think he wasn’t in the right place to hear it either, she will always be a friend first and foremost not matter on her personal feelings. We cried and laughed We took each other in, resembling each other On this starry night...December 2019

Jun Hyoseong - Starlight

One day Namjoon asked Jiyeon to go out for dinner cause friends do that however there was secret they were keeping from each other. The fact they were both preparing for their debut however being in different companies they were not allowed to revealed this information to anyone. Due to this Jiyeon was so engrossed in practicing her debut song completely forgetting what the time was, accidentally standing up Namjoon who waited patiently at the restaurant. The girl rushed to the restaurant to find it was too late then she went to his apartment and the truth spilled out along with harsh words. Jiyeon spoke about her feelings honestly yet Namjoon refuse to believe, no, wouldn’t accept cause she deserve better than him. It was obvious they were more to it but they couldn’t reveal that they are debuting to each other.  It felt it was the end for the both of them like their relationship ended before it even began. Don’t say those words, please, You know those words hurt me even more...April 2020

Ending Scene - IU 

[insanityclause]

Near the end of Betrayal—or near the beginning of the betrayal within Betrayal, since Harold Pinter’s 1978 play about a seven-year affair runs in reverse, from the infidelity’s aftermath to its inception—a soused would-be lover rattles on a bit.: “Look at the way you’re looking at me. I can’t wait for you, I’m bowled over, I’m totally knocked out, you dazzle me … My life is in your hands, that’s what you’re banishing me to, a state of catatonia, do you know the State of Catatonia? Do you? Do you? The state of … where the reigning prince is the prince of emptiness, the prince of absence, the prince of desolation. I love you.”

In the royal family of Western drama, Pinter himself might be exactly the figure his intoxicated, infatuated character describes. His laconic, subtly brutal plays—known for the loaded pauses that now bear the writer’s adjectivized name—float precariously on a dark reservoir of things unsaid. His characters are like those waterbugs who balance above the depths on the delicate force of surface tension. He is not a universal taste, and mediocre Pinter productions have their own particular kind of cringiness: They feel like acting exercises. Even in sure-footed ventures into the Pinterverse—such as Jamie Lloyd’s lean and sexy revival starring Tom Hiddleston, now visiting New York after its London premiere—there can be an element of technical gloss to contend with. You can feel, as I did, like you’re watching Good Actors Acting Well, which is a matter of intellect rather than emotion. Impressive and interesting, yes. Devastating? (Pause.) Well.

Lloyd’s production is cool, confident, and mercifully aware of Pinter’s sense of humor. Some of its strongest moments are its unsmiling jokes, which Lloyd’s actors attack like fencers, pricking without overextending. Hiddleston—with his fixed blue stare and his ability to lock his jaw into a mask of British propriety, unmistakably undergirded with menace—is particularly adept with the playwright’s distinctive rhythms, his smirks, evasions, and threats. A vapid conversation between Hiddleston’s character, Robert, and his best friend Jerry (Charlie Cox) about whether boy babies are “more anxious” than girl babies becomes a master class in hard-edged, straight-faced comedy. But then the whole play has that “master class” feel to it: As much as the phrase has become a critical cliché for a tour de force, it’s not the same thing as “masterpiece.” There’s expertise on display, but there’s an academic distance to it too.

Part of the distancing effect might be that Hiddleston undoubtedly outshines his fellow actors, who are solid (and equally great-looking — this is Pinter with highly paid personal trainers) but never quite as at home in the material. Cox comes close, and indeed, his role gives him less of an ability to stand still and shoot lasers from his eyes, as Robert gets to. He has to maneuver, stumble, and course-correct more, and he does so with a bemused, affable charm that belies a deeply selfish character. Part of Betrayal’s fascination is that Jerry, who’s been having a hidden affair with Robert’s wife Emma (Zawe Ashton) for seven years, is in fact the “Pinter” role. From 1962 to 1969, Pinter himself concealed from his wife an affair with the BBC presenter Joan Bakewell (for her highly compelling take on their now immortalized-if-somewhat-fictionalized infidelity, click here). It’s arguable, though, that for all the playwright’s own experience inside a dangerous liaison, his play belongs not to the betrayers but to the betrayed. At least in Lloyd’s production, Robert—his moment of awakening and his eventual hardening of himself as a result—is the heart of the show.

It’s structural—the torturous scene in which Emma admits the affair to Robert sits smack-dab in the middle of the play—but it’s also a matter of actor and director inclination. As Robert slowly learns the truth about Jerry and Emma, Hiddleston sits stone still and silently weeps until the snot hangs in ropes from his nose. There were quiet gasps in my audience when it started to drip, unheeded by this broken man in his moment of crisis. “Ah. Yes. I thought it might be something like that, something along those lines,” says Robert, with extreme Britishness, when Emma confesses — but there’s so much raw emotion pulsing underneath Hiddleston’s performance, and overflowing its container in this one pivotal scene, that the character can’t help but become the play’s tragic center. The way Hiddleston plays Robert, it’s difficult to believe it when Emma tells Jerry, “You know what I found out… last night? He’s betrayed me for years. He’s had… other women for years.”

Despite the real power of Hiddleston’s performance, that empathy gap strikes me as a flaw. We can’t quite take Emma at her word (we’ve also heard her lie on other important matters), and so the scales of Lloyd’s play end up tipped rather than balanced. It seems to be a play about a victim and two perpetrators — but I think it’s a play about three people, all of whom we should empathize with, all of whom we should mistrust, all of whom are capable of great selfishness. Ashton has the hardest job: Emma’s got that sense of mystery about her that sometimes happens when men, even very talented men, write women. The scenes between Robert and Jerry, though often tense and terse, feel lived, red-blooded, affectionate. Emma often seems ethereal — her motivations and actual desires somehow far away. (For a real bust-up of that trope, get into Bakewell’s essay — there’s no mystery woman there; instead there’s a super-smart Cambridge grad who was expected to become a housewife and mother at 25.) The character is already the most opaque in the play, and Ashton’s performance doesn’t do much to elucidate her. Tall and willowy, with bare feet and a dancer’s limbs, she tucks her hair behind her ears, tilts her head and half smiles. It’s clear she likes Jerry’s attention, but it’s not clear where her own deep hungers lie. Lloyd has her leaning into the enigmatic aura Pinter gave Emma, and it renders Ashton less visceral and—and this is the real problem—less sympathetic than her male counterparts.

Still, Lloyd’s stripped-to-the-bone approach to the play’s environment lets the text breathe and stretch. We can really hear Pinter’s words pinging off the big blank wall of Soutra Gilmour’s set, with its neutral palette and vast, clean emptiness that put us in mind of the art gallery where Emma works. In this white box, the three actors move like dark ghosts, memories of themselves with all the clutter stripped away. They turn slowly on a big revolve, and, crucially, Lloyd keeps all three present throughout, so that the shadow presence of the third always influences scenes between the other two. The staging restores some of the balance that’s lost in the performances. It brings back the sense that any affair, especially one that involves friends, is in fact a triangle, and that out at the corners of such a hard, angular form, even in our desperate flight from loneliness, we’re more isolated than ever.

Betrayal is at the Jacobs Theatre.

[tomhiddleslove]

Lloyd’s production is cool, confident, and mercifully aware of Pinter’s sense of humor. Some of its strongest moments are its unsmiling jokes, which Lloyd’s actors attack like fencers, pricking without overextending. Hiddleston—with his fixed blue stare and his ability to lock his jaw into a mask of British propriety, unmistakably undergirded with menace—is particularly adept with the playwright’s distinctive rhythms, his smirks, evasions, and threats. A vapid conversation between Hiddleston’s character, Robert, and his best friend Jerry (Charlie Cox) about whether boy babies are “more anxious” than girl babies becomes a master class in hard-edged, straight-faced comedy. But then the whole play has that “master class” feel to it: As much as the phrase has become a critical cliché for a tour de force, it’s not the same thing as “masterpiece.” There’s expertise on display, but there’s an academic distance to it too.

Part of the distancing effect might be that Hiddleston undoubtedly outshines his fellow actors, who are solid (and equally great-looking — this is Pinter with highly paid personal trainers) but never quite as at home in the material. Cox comes close, and indeed, his role gives him less of an ability to stand still and shoot lasers from his eyes, as Robert gets to. He has to maneuver, stumble, and course-correct more, and he does so with a bemused, affable charm that belies a deeply selfish character. Part of Betrayal’s fascination is that Jerry, who’s been having a hidden affair with Robert’s wife Emma (Zawe Ashton) for seven years, is in fact the “Pinter” role. From 1962 to 1969, Pinter himself concealed from his wife an affair with the BBC presenter Joan Bakewell (for her highly compelling take on their now immortalized-if-somewhat-fictionalized infidelity, click here). It’s arguable, though, that for all the playwright’s own experience inside a dangerous liaison, his play belongs not to the betrayers but to the betrayed. At least in Lloyd’s production, Robert—his moment of awakening and his eventual hardening of himself as a result—is the heart of the show.

It’s structural—the torturous scene in which Emma admits the affair to Robert sits smack-dab in the middle of the play—but it’s also a matter of actor and director inclination. As Robert slowly learns the truth about Jerry and Emma, Hiddleston sits stone still and silently weeps until the snot hangs in ropes from his nose. There were quiet gasps in my audience when it started to drip, unheeded by this broken man in his moment of crisis. “Ah. Yes. I thought it might be something like that, something along those lines,” says Robert, with extreme Britishness, when Emma confesses — but there’s so much raw emotion pulsing underneath Hiddleston’s performance, and overflowing its container in this one pivotal scene, that the character can’t help but become the play’s tragic center. The way Hiddleston plays Robert, it’s difficult to believe it when Emma tells Jerry, “You know what I found out… last night? He’s betrayed me for years. He’s had… other women for years.”

Despite the real power of Hiddleston’s performance, that empathy gap strikes me as a flaw. We can’t quite take Emma at her word (we’ve also heard her lie on other important matters), and so the scales of Lloyd’s play end up tipped rather than balanced. It seems to be a play about a victim and two perpetrators — but I think it’s a play about three people, all of whom we should empathize with, all of whom we should mistrust, all of whom are capable of great selfishness. Ashton has the hardest job: Emma’s got that sense of mystery about her that sometimes happens when men, even very talented men, write women. The scenes between Robert and Jerry, though often tense and terse, feel lived, red-blooded, affectionate. Emma often seems ethereal — her motivations and actual desires somehow far away. (For a real bust-up of that trope, get into Bakewell’s essay — there’s no mystery woman there; instead there’s a super-smart Cambridge grad who was expected to become a housewife and mother at 25.) The character is already the most opaque in the play, and Ashton’s performance doesn’t do much to elucidate her. Tall and willowy, with bare feet and a dancer���s limbs, she tucks her hair behind her ears, tilts her head and half smiles. It’s clear she likes Jerry’s attention, but it’s not clear where her own deep hungers lie. Lloyd has her leaning into the enigmatic aura Pinter gave Emma, and it renders Ashton less visceral and—and this is the real problem—less sympathetic than her male counterparts.

Still, Lloyd’s stripped-to-the-bone approach to the play’s environment lets the text breathe and stretch. We can really hear Pinter’s words pinging off the big blank wall of Soutra Gilmour’s set, with its neutral palette and vast, clean emptiness that put us in mind of the art gallery where Emma works. In this white box, the three actors move like dark ghosts, memories of themselves with all the clutter stripped away. They turn slowly on a big revolve, and, crucially, Lloyd keeps all three present throughout, so that the shadow presence of the third always influences scenes between the other two. The staging restores some of the balance that’s lost in the performances. It brings back the sense that any affair, especially one that involves friends, is in fact a triangle, and that out at the corners of such a hard, angular form, even in our desperate flight from loneliness, we’re more isolated than ever.

-

[ Link to full article in source below. ]

[courtorderedcake]

Roses : A CS retelling of ‘Tam Lin’

Hi, everyone! Thanks to @kmomof4​ and the extremely talented @eastwesthomeisbest​ for their patience on this. As usual, thanks to @ultraluckycatnd​ who I would be lost without, the woman is a monster editing machine, and super beta. I live for my updates from her.  Without further ado, here is my laaaaaaaaaaaate contribution to @cssns​. You get TWO chapters for the price of one! WHOA!

Read on Ao3 right here, darlings! Chapter 1/4 Chapter 2/4

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If there was one trope in fairytales that Emma hated, it was the lonely orphan who found parents and lived happily ever after in a beautiful castle. Her first problem with it was that while she hadn’t met any royalty, she doubted that most of them lost track of their children that often. Or, if they were separated, that a prince or princess would be placed in a crowded Boston orphanage. Her second problem was that there were only so many countries in the world, and even less with a missing monarch. Even diplomats and billionaires were few and far between in that category. 

So, on a rainy April afternoon when she returned to her apartment, she did not expect to see a fresh faced courier waiting for her. Although she wasn’t old by any means at 28, the boy looked about 12 with his baby face as he asked her to sign for the letter. She gave a scribble, handed him a wadded bunch of bills from her bag, and stumbled inside to peel off her rain slicker. Throwing aside the envelope of what was probably more of her husband's accounts that she was now responsible for, Emma opted for a nap before work instead. It was until she landed a successful skip that night that she felt ready to tackle another batch of what remained from Neal's legacy. 

Kicking off her heels, which were most likely ruined from the rain, she collapsed on her couch. With a wiggle, the skin tight red number was off and she basked in the freedom of being nude as she searched her floor for a clean t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. Looking at the letter, she picked it up and placed it between her teeth, paused to put her hair in what she hoped would resemble a ponytail, and pulled to rip it open. Letting the envelope fall to the floor, she grabbed her thick rimmed glasses to read the small script. 

Her roommate, Mary Margaret, came out of her room. “Emma? It’s 4 am, did you just get back?”

“Mmmmyar.” Emma replied, scanning the text. Her late husband's family crest and name, long discarded after his death, was printed on top of the document. She shuddered at the golden medallions adorning a darkened shield, and the scaled, lizard like, dragon that curling around it. 

“Well… OK, but do you want some coffee? David's here and we're getting up early to -”

“Holy. Fucking. Grilled cheese and onion rings.” Emma breathed heavily, staring wide eyed in shock at the papers in front of her. 

“What are you swearing on such sacred foods for?” Mary Margaret quirked an eyebrow in amused concern.

“I've just inherited an estate valued at £800,000.” Emma flicked her eyes up, mouth a thin line. “Neal's family's fortune, home and grounds apparently. Things I never even knew about.”

“Well.” Mary Margaret sipped her coffee, looking completely nonplussed even if Emma knew on the insides she was bursting - it was how she had earned her nickname Snow Queen after all. “That would do it.”

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 The estate reading took place in Ireland through a crackling speaker box, Emma's eyes racing around the office the entire time. It was stunning, as were what seemed like all the buildings during her trip to gain the deed to her home. This office in particular was what Emma imagined when reading Peter Pan; a gentleman's study and den, complete with whiskey decanter and cigar box to her left as if she had gone back in time. The tall shelves were lined in books with gold leaf letters and rich leather bindings, the panels of dark wood mixed with verdant jade paint and damask almost making up for the unsettling stuffed deer heads.

Cringing, Emma turned back to the box. The voice on the other line was thickly accented with a rolling brogue which Graham assured her in his own was common, and had obviously been in a bad mood long enough for it to be a defining quality.

“Ye don't be wanting Carterhaugh, lass. T’place is cursed, hallow in the way tat echoes, not t’way of blessings.”

Her lawyer smirked, teeth white and extremely straight. Emma had liked Graham Grimm since she had met him, and this was insight into his character. Taste in wall decorations aside, he respected her agency enough to not let this man continue to try to stop the change in ownership. In her experience, lawyers were far too careless and rude. This man was funny, even when she teased him about his name and he had sighed, an eye roll so loud she could hear it through their original phone call. 

(Yes, my name is Graham Grimm. Yes, they do sound alike. No, I am not involved with fairytales, unless you consider me a fairy Godmother of estate and divorce settlements. No, I am usually very happy. No, I cannot change into a black shaggy dog, can you please just tell me what the approximate appraisal value is?) 

“My client will determine its worth.” His tone was calm and well practiced, even through his own clear lilt, but Emma could hear the edge there just under the surface. He had the heart of a forest hunter; not a threat until prey was too well ensnared in a carefully laid trap. This man on the phone, a Mr. Seáìnns’, had been fighting tooth and nail to keep her from her inheritance, throwing obstacle after obstacle in her way for months now. 

At first it was as simple as he refused to understand that Emma wanted to know the family that had abandoned her husband, wanted to feel the last connections she had with him or any family she could, but it quickly devolved into more. Emma was subject to constant harassment by calls and letters, envelopes filled with shredded paper or scribbled notes she could not read, all from this crazy older man in the village that Carterhaugh laid in. This didn't do much more than annoy her, as well as the post office, customs, and the garbage disposal crew. It escalated to him crossing a line when he tried to prove she was not the proper heir, insinuating Neal was a bastard, and further when he tried to declare the estate a historical landmark. 

Emma hadn't even seen the damn mansion or castle or whatever an estate was considered. It seemed to vary between every property she had compared what little information she had, the repeated ridiculous notion of having her own ballroom driving her and David giddy with excitement. Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but David pulling her away to dance made a smile crack across her face. They'd discovered over beers that a ballroom didn't make a home a palace, a question neither David, her, or Mary Margaret had ever thought they'd be asking. 

The sound of sputtering rage brought her back to the present. 

“You bloody ridiculous ‘n hateful creatures! I know what you are doing, what you're playing at. You can try to find me, but I know your games, and I know this woman is either demon or worse! She'd kill ye before even looking, smile on ‘er face. Calling her client… Yer client doesn't know her ken folk have cursed me, an m’wife, and took -” The line crackled, an electronic whining mixed with metallic pops. A dial tone replaced the man's voice and Graham’s smile faded. 

“Well. It seems like your new residence has eccentric neighbors, doesn't it?” Graham laughed, and Emma felt his hand slip into her own. She flinched, pulling away from him and he gave her a sad smile. “Sorry, I -”

“It's alright. I… I'm just not looking for anyone.” Rubbing her palms together to do something with her hands, she pushed away the feeling of wrong that came over her at someone's touch. “I don't think I'll be ready for some time.”

Graham nodded, gathering papers together from his desk. He waited a few long, drawn out, silent minutes before asking, “How long has it been since Mr. Gold's -”

Emma's tone was short, frustration defined in every syllable. “It could have happened yesterday, but it was 2 years ago. We got married fast, it was a blur. It's a difficult topic for me.”

“I'm so sorry I -”

“Can we please see the estate?” Pinching her brow as a migraine set in, Emma heard Graham clear his throat and stand. 

“Absolutely. It's a few hours from here, if you'd like to get lunch and car pool -”

“I'll take my car. Lead the way.”

 -·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

 Driving through the small town of Carterhold, Emma could see why locals may be wary of change. The town was a sleepy and picturesque village, stone homes with thatched or moss covered rooftops that stood sparsely around a small town center. From there, through the foggy clouds that swirled through a dense forest, trees climbed up the slope of a massive hill, emerald fingers that reached for the plains leading up to Carterhaugh’s imposing presence, and its perch on the cliffs over the sea. The wind shifted, and it was gone, swallowed again by mist, but Graham was already making the slow ascent up a winding road. 

Emma heard a thud, jerking the steering wheel as someone barreled into her bug, broad shoulders and crazed eyes under matted hair barely visible through her wet windows. 

“What the -”

The words had barely left her mouth when an unmistakable voice was yelling at her, rambling incoherently as he pounded on her door. 

“Ye kinnit go to Carterhaugh! Ye kinnit have it ye bloody witch or fairy demoness! ‘Tis on Hallowed and protected ground, guarded, an ye haven't a clue what I will do to protect it from you, ye - ” The face of Mr. Seáìnns was lit by lightning, eyes blazing bright blue, thunder from his fists against the passenger door and the sky. Emma felt panic in her chest, heavy and leaden.

Slamming her foot on the accelerator, Emma let the bug lurch into its unused highest speeds as she flew up the road to Carterhaugh. 

The driveway was curved elegantly behind an imposing metal and stone gate, mossy spheres capping the tall towering structure. The manor itself, even in its disuse, was stunning. A fountain stood before large wooden doors, framed by windows that traveled in neat rows up walls choked in ivy. Two wings on either side curved off from there, both facing the sea and woods, a domed roof on one side for a solarium, another for a ballroom. It was both imposing and impossibly inviting, a mystery that was decayed beyond unraveling. 

And it was hers. 

Graham helped her inside, the lights crackling in refusal to turn on in the storm as they stood in the atrium, dripping on the stone parquet. 

“It's fine, I have a lighter,” Emma shrugged, pulling it out of her jacket pocket. “I always carry one. As a kid I was afraid of being alone in the dark. I somehow always seemed to end up there, either hiding or being forced somewhere, so it helped to make my own magic light to fight away shadows. Probably silly…”

“Not silly at all. It's a common fear based on instinct. Predators lurk in the dark, so your brain says that light is safe,” Graham said simply. “Smart to have it on you to start a fire too, or warm up in the wilderness.”

Emma's lips tightened as he continued on about the practicality of the lighter. She turned, expecting him to get the hint, but he followed her while continuing on about the merits of different wood to burn or oils to keep to sustain a good burn. Emma found herself wishing for a nice birch branch just to whack him with. As her annoyance peaked, the lights flickered on. 

“Well. No candles I guess, but let's get you a fire started in the hearth, and then I'll be on my way.” Graham paused, and looked down, shuffling his shiny leather shoes. “Unless… I can stay if you like, until you get used to the place or have someone to stay with you, you know, because it's a big older house and -”

“I think I'll manage.” The words crept out more icily than she wanted, but he nodded with a sheepish wave of his hand. 

“That's fine. Just call if you do find you need something. I'll get someone out here, and then be out myself in an hour or so. I don't want to see you get swallowed up by a house this big.” He smiled and Emma returned it genuinely, touched by his offer. If she didn't know how men dangled kindness in the face of women like her to get something in return, she would have taken him seriously. But Neal… Neal had ruined her. 

The fire in the hearth was easy enough to start, even without special wood. Taking off her boots and coat, she gazed into the flame and planned out her course of action. Her sparse belongings were in the bug, and furniture would be delivered as soon as she took stock of what remained and measured for new pieces. Sighing and rubbing her temples, Emma rolled out her sleeping bag. She was asleep as soon as her eyes closed. 

 -·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

 In the morning, light flitting through the windows and the chill of the fire's death woke her up far earlier than her usual time. Wandering out to the bug, she dragged her luggage inside, pulling on extra socks and layering her sweaters. The effect was comical, but warm. Her stomach growled, but the kitchen was a quick - and musty - find. Sticking to pop tarts instead of whatever the swamp like gloop in the sink was, Emma set to work making a written game plan. 

Calling contractors would wait until reasonable hours, but she mapped out who she would need while taking stock of furniture, books, tapestries, busts, and paintings. To her surprise, much of the home was in decent condition, and she easily found a bedroom suite that overlooked the sea cliffs from a secure balcony, a fireplace with stone carved boats in its inlay, an almost modern bathroom, and to her absolute delight, had a storybook fairytale four poster bed. The linens were almost new, the pillows fluffy , and it smelled of sea salt, leather, spice, and rum. If she didn't know how alone she was, the room would seem almost home to someone. 

As normal waking hours approached, Emma went outside to survey the gardens and landscape. Most of the plants were dead around the house itself, but the gardens and connected solarium were wild and overrun with blooms. Down the hill, wildflowers in rainbow spectrum danced in the wind, their colors like an eruption of the Crayola crayons Emma had to share in school. 

Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and a dark shape made its way around to the front of the manor. Emma grabbed a rusted shovel from a garden bed, and crept towards where the intruder had gone. She found the man looking curiously at her bug. He was tall, dark hair blowing in the wind, scratching his neck in confusion. In his hand was a hook. 

“Don't touch my car and I won't have to hurt you, buddy!” Emma yelled, wielding the shovel in her hands like a baseball bat. The man turned, surprised. 

Blue. The first thing that Emma noticed was how blue his eyes were; how clear and beautiful the blue she saw in those eyes reflected the color of the sky above. The eyes that currently were gazing at her in confusion. 

“Who are you?” he asked, raising his hands above his shoulders, as if she were police. In his left hand was not a hook, but a three pronged garden trowel. Some impression she made, thinking about urban legends this late in life. 

“Better question, Alex Trebek, is who the hell are you?” Emma snarled. 

<

“I’m the, er, gardener, madam.” He waved the garden trowel in the direction of a nearby wheelbarrow. There was something off in the way he spoke, the accent strange to her. “Killian. Killian Jones.”

“Gardener?” Emma would had refused staff had she known they existed, and had made sure that she was for the most part alone. He shouldn't be here, especially not with her. Anger boiled over to cover her fear. “You’ve done a great job of things.” Gesturing at the dead plant life around the dilapidated manor, she watched his eyes narrow. “You’re truly magic with landscaping.” This comment brought a dark smile to his face that left her feeling like he was in on the punch line of a joke she hadn’t heard. 

“Well, if you’d contact the ruddy owner and let him know to add to the budget for gardening...” The English accent was evident in his voice now, the clear definition between Irish and it what had been off to her ears as she watched his cheeks reddening. Emma gave him a wolfish grin.

“I think that can be arranged.” She gave him a curt nod, before pointing to herself, which he appraised with lips curled back. “Emma Swan. Official new ‘ruddy owner’ of Carterhaugh.” 

 -·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

 The Gold family estate had beautiful gardens. At one time they even had cultivated a rare buttercup and rose hybrid, so they had been very particular on who tended their gardens. A quick call to Graham that took several minutes of cell phone aligning to make confirmed that Killian Jones actually was listed on a small ledger, his family name written on yellowing paper, noted as “horticultural help”.

“I don't know how I missed this, it's like it just appeared here Miss Swan,” Graham had groaned, yawning into his end of the line. Static cracked through her cell phone speakers as fog rolled over the driveway. “But yes, he is explicitly listed as coming with the property.”

“Great. And you're sure I can't fire him without penalty?” 

“No, I'm sorry. This is written in a ridiculously old way, as if they're counting him as property. He can resign, but even then -” There were several moments of garbled reply that was incomprehensible. Emma huffed, kicking rocks and pacing until she caught a better signal, and Graham's voice snapped back on the line. “-Look into it more as I do some digging. You're out of luck. Do you want me to come stay? I'm happy to while you wait for another friend -”

“No, no, it’s fine. He’s not creepy, he just seems…” Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she struggled for words. “He seems, lonely. Just sort of desperate and excited for company, which I thought I could avoid by being out here. I just wanted to be alone, or at the very least I guess with someone I didn't worry about… Well. I just don't do yokels or men, and he seems a pinch of both.”

Dead air hung on the other line, followed by a faint, eerie whispering. 

“Graham?”

The sound of a low laugh, as quiet as blown leaves over cold pavement sounded over the line, and Emma dropped her phone with a start. 

“Are you alright?” came the sudden voice from behind her, and she whirled on her heel. 

"I'd be fine if you made noise when you walked, buddy, and if I could get some damn reception out here." Emma huffed, and the grounds keeper seemed to decide against saying anything, quickly snapping his mouth shut. "Do you know a better place to get service?" 

In the fog and chill breeze of the gravel drive, Emma suddenly felt a deep sense of foreboding and unease. The shadow of Carterhaugh loomed, as if reaching for her, Killian already swallowed by the scrawled shape in the morning sun. He seemed uneasy as well, even unnerved. Emma watched as his jaw muscles worked as if he quite literally chewed on her words before speaking. 

"I could set up a tea service, if you'd like, but I'm afraid you'll find neither a service or reception out here. Nothing but chill." He made a gesture for her to follow him, which she did with a wry smile. He thought he had a sense of humor. Wonderful. 

As he prepared tea from a silver set in one of the many kitchen cabinets, they made attempts at conversation. Killian was also a caretaker for the property, and he asked her how she came about ownership as they sat at the large oak dining table together. The furniture was remarkably well preserved in the majority of the main rooms, much to her delight.

The sunshine through moth eaten curtains had dust motes swirling in the air as her face fell, and she swallowed the bile that rose before she uttered her tight words. 

“My husband passed away.” Killian had winced at that. 

“I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure he was -”

“I don't… I don't discuss Neal.” She closed her eyes tightly, taking deep breaths, feeling her skin flame. Even after what felt like an eternity, Neal's shadow still darkened her day. She sipped her tea, trying to cool herself, even with the scalding liquid. 

He hadn't asked any more on the subject, only asking about changes to what affected his work. Emma found it comforting; if he was to stay, at least he would leave well enough alone. 

“I'd like to stay here, if you don't mind. I have a master suite facing the sea on the third level of the east wing, and I know there'll be nothing in town for rent,” he stated. Emma chewed her lip in thought, mapping out his room in relation to her own. The answer struck her, and she groaned with a scrunched face of annoyance. 

“Do you get up early? Probably don't keep a fire lit?” she grumbled, and he looked at her with eyes narrowed. 

“Yes, I'm up as early as possible, and I find I enjoy the chilled sea air. Why?”

“And I bet you have a dove gray comforter.” Emma sighed, head falling into her palm with a wry laugh. “Because of course, just of course -”

“I do, aye -” He blinked and his brows shot up. “Were you..? Did you sleep in my room?” 

“Well, no, but I didn't know it was -”

“I mean, it's fine. I'll choose another, I guess -”

“No. No need to be ridiculous. I… You probably know where the next best preserved bed is?” she asked, and his eyes lit up. 

“Well yes, but you'd be in the same wing, is that alright?”

Emma hesitated, and then nodded. “With you up so early I doubt we'd see much of each other. And I'll be busy inside as you work outside.”

He made a non-committal noise, and stood with a stretch. Emma inhaled sharply; he was well toned and very good looking, but the thought of anyone’s hands on her after Neal had… 

Her stomach churned. 

“Follow me, then,” he said, offering his hand. Emma could feel her lungs tightening. Her expression must have frozen on her face too, because his eyes widened and he lowered his hand. “Or we could do this later, if you -”

Emma stood, and shook her head. “Just got a bit dizzy. Lead the way.”

They made no conversation as he led her up the staircase to the third level, the other suite he mentioned on the far end of the hall whereas his was at the beginning. The large door was imposing but carved with floral inlay, the stain perfectly applied to add to its richness. Both sides were flanked by stained glass in the same twisted vine and flower designs. 

“I almost chose this room. It was for the lady of this house at one time, and should serve you better than me.” Killian produced a key with the same designs swirled around the brass, unlocking it to reveal a sun warmed sitting area the color of blushing peonies. An ornate vanity sat in one corner, while a matching bureau and canopy bed sat before a balcony, from which the sea and his own room visible. Stained glass curved around the doors to what she assumed were the closet and bathroom, and more carved wood and glass made up a truly spectacular fireplace. If Killian’s room was big, this room was truly gigantic. 

Emma was at a loss, the furniture was all beautifully intact except for the bed’s canopy curtains and linens. Beyond that, the fabrics and rugs showed no large evidence of wear, the patterns still bright and soft underfoot. She poked her head in the closet and found it relatively large, possibly a maid's room or changing salon at one time, then turned the handle of the bathroom while Killian watched from the entrance. 

The huge claw foot soaking tub and gold veined marble under her feet could not prepare her for the large stained glass framed window that captured the sea, as if she was sailing away in the tub itself. A double sink, open shower, and large mirror completed the space in luxury. It was exquisite, and left Emma aching for a bubble bath. 

“I'll move your things, if you -”

“No,” she whispered, still in awe, before clearing her throat. “No, that's alright. I'll move everything. I… I don't like people touching my things.”

“At least allow me to give you my spare set of bedding, love, and -”

“I am not your love, alright?” she snapped, and his eyes widened. She took in a steadying breath, chewing her lip to rid herself of the sourness she wanted to throw at him. He seemed mollified, scratching behind his ear. 

“I'm sorry, I -”

“No. I'm sorry. It's been… I have… I don't do people very well.”

“Well, I'll get you the linens and be out of your way, then.” There was resignation in his tone, but Emma could only hug herself as she let her armor build back up around her. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” Her tone was clipped, but she didn't expect the annoyed response, huffed under his breath as he pulled blankets and pillows from a hall closet. 

“As you wish, Princess.”

Emma's tone was colder than ice, her words spoken in frigid staccato. “Excuse me? I must have misheard you.”

“I wasn't expecting the new owner to be all business, is what I said. These corridors are old. If you aren’t careful, these halls will try to trick you. You’ll get used to them, though.” Killian deposited the mountain of linen on her bed, and spread out the fitted sheet. 

“I don't think halls,” she snatched the pillows from the bed, pulling the sheet roughly on the other side, “are capable of trickery. Only people. People are difficult, they need to be watched. You have to keep your eyes on them or they'll do who knows what.” Pulling roughly on the sheet again, she glared with narrowing eyes at Killian, his own eyes glowering under dark lashes. “Especially people who say things under their breath like a petulant, scorned, self absorbed, preening -”

“Well, I would despair if ‘People’ took their eyes off of me. Some might say this attention is in the beholder’s benefit, and I'd say so as well. I'm quite dashing, or so I've heard.” Gripping the comforter tightly, he laid it out and smoothed it down while returning her glare. “So, I suppose we are well matched, since you are an icy, insufferable, stubborn, spoiled -” Reaching for a pillow, his hand grazed her own, and Emma yelped in surprise. 

Her breathing quickened as she stared at her skin, Killian’s insults and attempted arguments drowned out by an increasing electrical whine mixed with her heartbeat thumping. Stumbling away into the bathroom, she turned on the tap, desperately washing her skin where they had touched in the rust colored water, scouring the place their skin had met with her nails instead of the absent soap. 

Killian’s hand found her shoulder and Emma flew at him, pushing him away as she screamed profanities. He stumbled backwards into the tub, watching in fear at her transformation, her rubbed raw hand bleeding as she renewed her focus on the new area he'd touched. Without soap it was pointless, hot water her only real advantage, pouring the scalding water onto her skin. She mumbled to herself, trying to focus against the onset panic.

Emma's thoughts were burning away elsewhere, the fires she could not escape when Neal had locked her away; smoke, embers and ash acrid in both the air and her lungs. 

It took what felt like hours for her to come back to herself, her fingernails bloody and skin blistered from the heat. The gentle chime of the clock in the room indicated it had only been ten minutes to her relief. It was the worst attack she had in ages, the first time in so long she hadn't been able to control herself. The first time in so, so, long that she had fallen back into the flame of those memories, of that pain. 

A soft voice whispered gently to her, taking her off guard, and she looked up to see Killian slowly extricating himself from the bathtub. He raised his hands in supplication, kneeling several feet away from her. She choked out a strangled noise and he shook his head. 

“It's alright, it's OK, lo - er…” He gave a sheepish look, thinking for a moment. He smiled in a sad sort of way after a moment, before continuing, “It's alright. Just tell me how I can help. Maybe a glass of water?” Emma nodded slowly. “Alright, I'll fetch you a bottle.”

At his retreat, Emma let her herself take stock of what had happened, falling back into her times under clinical observation. Mary Margaret had been a stone faced angel, taking in her pain and working a life around it, going as far as releasing care notes when she felt Emma was ready. She had met David, Emma's adoptive brother that way, resulting in a very happy marriage.

“Patient refuses to accept human contact, even using high concentration chemical cleaning agents on skin.”

“Patient has no history of obsessive or compulsory behavior, but violence and destruction of property are noted in their state welfare file.”

“Attempts at getting patient to explain what happened on the night of the incident to victims causes patient to become increasingly distressed when her husband is mentioned. Questions regarding other victims or the causes of death are met with silence. Patient claims no memory of her actions.”

“Patient indicates possibility of further witnesses or victims at scene - hallucinations caused by trauma or psychosis?”

“Repeated attempts at questioning or explaining patient's obsessive actions or fear of touch are met with hostility, while questioning in regards to matrimonial life is indicative of abuse. Patient advocate (M. M.) recommends home based care, with patient's brother.”

“Patient continues to allow touch in sparing amounts among family, friends, and in situations where they are prepared. Therapy with preferred Doctor is continuing as part of a deferred sentence. Patient advocate (M. M.) states that large improvement has been made outside of care facilities. Recommending end of observational treatment.”

Killian placed the water next to her, as the feeling of oxygen in her lungs weighed her down. 

“Thanks.” Emma croaked, voice raspy. Killian sat down in front of her, legs crossed as he watched her drink with shaking hands. 

Scratching behind his ear, he looked sideways across the floor, picking at a chipped piece of tile. “It was nothing. I'm sorry that -”

“Don't be. I just have a thing about touch.” Emma stood briskly, ice back in her unsteady tone at glacial levels. “You couldn't have known, and since you are going to be scarcely around it won't be an issue, as we discussed earlier.”

Killian snorted, and stood as well, rocking on his heels. “I was going to say that I'm sorry it took so long, and I brought you some… other items.” His face changed, haughty to solemn, watching her hands tremble as she shoved them in her pockets. “You're right, we won't be seeing each other often. If you need help with something, or finding your way around the estate, leave me a note under my door. If I need garden supplies, I'll leave a note in the kitchen.” 

He turned, walking towards the bedroom door. After a moment Emma followed tentatively, walking towards the door behind him in silence. She shot a glance at the bed, noticing the bandages, a tube of some ointment, a key ring, and a few pink roses. She stopped in the small salon, watching Killian open her door and give her a strained smile. 

“I'm sorry for touching you, as well.” Emma made a sound of protest, ready to tell him again that he was blameless, but he persisted. “While I couldn't have known, my presence here has never been… convenient. I had hoped that had changed with the new owner. Good day, Miss Swan.”

“Wait -” He looked as surprised as she felt, the words racing past her lips, blurted at the last second. “What is your cell phone number? It'd be easier to get a hold of you that way, if I should need you. Not to say that I will…” Killian stared at her in abrupt confusion, his brows knitting. 

“I don't have a phone. The manor has one, should you need to use it.” There was something off in his tone, but her own cell phone had fought every attempt at service on the property, so this shouldn't have been too much of a surprise. The manor phone, she could work with that. 

“What's the number?” Emma pulled her phone from her pocket, the screen lighting up. Killian looked amazed in her peripheral, which didn't surprise her. The town was practically medieval, and this phone was the newest of its brand. Emma scarcely knew how to use it. 

“You have to set it up later, if you want communication by wire. Your device there -”

“It's an Android, I let the kid at the store set it up for me. If you want me to get you one, I can the next time I go to the city. They have a walkie talkie app that I think might work with a wifi connection once I have that set up.” Killian nodded, looking at her blankly. “Have you ever had Wi-Fi in the house before?”

Killian hesitated, his jaw ticking as he bit into his lip in thought. “I wouldn't know, love. I'm afraid that we’re a bit behind the rest of the world here, I don't believe we know what year it is most of the time.”

Emma laughed lightly, and relaxed a little bit more. “Most of us are trying to forget that it's 2019, so I suppose that's fair. I just enjoy Netflix and the occasional game of Words with Friends too much to go without internet.” Killian looked down at his feet, his face unreadable for a moment, fists balled. When he looked back at her and relaxed, Emma caught a glimpse of pure sadness, a mirror of her own pain, before it was carefully pushed behind walls of his own. 

Smiling softly, Killian laughed. “I have no idea what a Netflix is, but you are the Mistress of the estate. I encourage you to do as you wish. If you would like me to have a…” He hesitated again, as if searching for something. “A, er, shell phone, I will gladly oblige if you provide it and give me instruction.”

Emma snorted, and found herself genuinely laughing as Killian’s cheeks turned red. “You're actually funny. Alright. I'll try to get you a ‘shell phone’, old man.” Killian’s eyes darkened, his smile turning almost sour. “Between the two of us, we'll bring some life back into this place.”

He nodded, that same pensive look on his face, almost hidden by his smile. “Yes. Well, taming the estate is not going to be an easy task. I'll help you where I can, should you need me. Good day.” He closed the door slowly, and Emma listened as his footfalls fell away. 

Climbing into her bed, the mattress surprisingly plush under her, she bandaged her hand slowly. The roses he'd laid next to the first aid were beautiful, their strong aromatic scent filling the air already. Picking up one of the roses delicately, she sniffed, the full scent absolutely breathtaking. The throbbing of her skin faded, and all at once Emma felt herself relax. She felt invigorated, but her muscles were loose, and she happily moved her things into her room, making sure to place the roses in a porcelain vase. 

The rest of the day was spent taking pictures and taking full stock of every room in the large estate. It was exhausting and by the time darkness settled Emma had barely scratched the surface of the repairs needed. Neal had left a large sum of money for her, but this was a giant and expensive endeavor. Back in her room, she started a fire in the hearth and tugged on a robe over her pajamas. Opening the door to the balcony and stepping out onto the cold stone, she stared at the waves. 

Never, never in her wildest dreams did she believe that this could be her life. In the moment it was overwhelming, the only silver lining in the thunder cloud that was her marriage to Neal. A true story of a love turned into something poisoned, a once healthy plant that grew into twisted vines, strangling everything in its path. 

His hands tight around her neck, the air in her lungs not enough, she wasn't enough. The other women being led somewhere by the red haired woman with green nails, Ari's and Tam's bracelets heavy on her wrist even as she starts to feel herself go slack. The pressure is too much, black spots dotting the air, and somewhere close, another man hooting like some primate - Brown eyes meet hers, and for a moment he falters, fingers loosening. 

Emma kicks, kicks with all her strength, and when he crashes backwards she screams, screams like her chest is ripping apart just to resonate this noise, this wail of everything he lied about. It is a trick of light, a symptom of lack of oxygen, a freak occurrence spurred by the old home and poor insulation, bad wiring and mice chewed exposed cables. 

Neal looks at her and sighs as Emma can hear the red haired woman and her underling shriek. 

“Thank you,” Neal whispers, reaching for her, but Emma's banshee wail is not over and her mouth is a perfect ‘O’ as the rafters shake, tears stinging her eyes. A Swan song, she thinks, the end of her sanity and her life, the feeling of this cry flowing through her like breathing with every inch of her body. Her skin burns too, but not like theirs. 

He makes it to her on stumbling steps, a vision from a nightmare, her scream unending even as she stares at him in horror. His touch is like a branding iron, his embrace like raw flesh dipped in salt. Neal touches her face as he burns away, ashes to ashes, his hand becoming embers and dust. This is hell fire, and Emma can't stop her scream long enough to beg for this to end. His lips are against her ear and his last words echo as he falls away, falls to her feet, the building crumbling around them. Her scream ends when the ceiling piece hits her skull, and the world too, finally falls into blissful, silent, cool darkness. 

Far off there are sirens, and she can feel the burning when her body is lifted, but for now, Emma prefers the darkness even as Neal's last words occasionally echo through the stillness. 

“I'm so sorry, Ems." 

Emma came back to herself soaking wet, the rain that threatened from the horizon now in full force. It pelted her, cold, salt rain, pulled from the waves and forced from the sky. She was crying, sobbing in silence, but no one is here to see the rain wash away her tears. 

[vatrixsta]

How Long Will I Love You (3/3)

That’s right - complete!!! Praise be to @csmarchmadness for the gun to the head and to the beautiful, lovely, amazing @the-corsair-and-her-quill for basically informing all story choices with the things she loves! I hope you enjoy the conclusion, darling! 

And seriously, read all the awesome stuff being created by the talented ladies participating in March madness - I’m never online at the same time they are, but they’re bleeding out all these wonderful feels for us to enjoy!

Also on AO3

Remember when Emma wanted nothing more than to understand why Killian was acting so strangely?

Yeah, she was over that. 

She officially wanted to bury her head in the sand and pretend none of this crazy bullshit was real, that fucking Tinkerbell wasn’t sitting in her living room, sipping a cup of tea, while her husband was asking after people Emma was apparently supposed to know, like her parents, who were also fucking fairy tale characters.

Part of her thought Killian had lost his mind, that maybe his books had created some kind of delusion that had led to this Tinkerbell taking advantage of him - maybe she was some kind of delusional fan who’d started talking to him because of his books. He was always too nice to his fans, especially the ones who seemed a little too into what he wrote.

She wanted to call a doctor, get Killian help, do anything to cure this delusion.

Except for that part of her, the really big one, that thought this ridiculous story sounded almost… familiar? Like on a gut level. And damn both their crazy asses, but neither Tinkerbell nor her husband thought they were lying. And neither of them behaved at all delusional, if you ignored every word that came out of their mouths. Which Emma was trying very hard to do.

“I don’t know who the note was from,” Tinkerbell added. “Just that it came by bird and said I needed to find the Savior. I confess that I didn’t spend much time analyzing it - the curse was coming and I used the last of my pixie dust to outrun it.” She held up a bottle. “This was attached to the note.”

Killian sighed. “A memory potion.”

“You always did have an eye for treasure,” Tinkerbell teased.

Great, and now Emma was also insanely jealous of the obviously old and easy rapport between her husband and a fucking fairy.

“Memory potion,” Emma said out loud. “Curses. Snow. Fucking. White.” She shook her head. “Killian, can I talk to you? Alone.”

“Of course, luv,” he said, having the decency to look chagrined for apparently forgetting she didn’t believe a word of this insanity.

Emma practically fled to their bedroom, hugging herself tightly around the middle as she looked at everything that made up their life. Pictures hung on the far wall, a wedding she remembered happening, when they promised to love, honor and always, always cherish. Henry and Killian behind the wheel of a sailboat, the most excited seven year old in history their first time out. Their first Christmas in Boston, the three of them sitting around the tree, happy and settled and a family.

How did he expect her to believe none of it was real?

Killian shut the door quietly behind him and Emma spun around to face him.

“You can’t expect me to just… accept this,” she hissed.

“It’s true, Emma.”

“It’s bullshit,” she countered. “Killian, it’s insane!”

He shook his head. “I admit, I’ve had many a day where I wondered if I had lost my mind, if I had imagined all this, if it really was just the book running away with me. But I knew in my gut it was all true. I just didn’t think we’d ever encounter it again. The curse… it was supposed to be forever. I’ve no idea what’s transpired, luv, but if your family is in danger--”

“I don’t have a family!” Emma yelled. “I have Henry and I have you and that is the end of my family and we are fine!”

Killian approached her slowly, in that way he had, like she was feral but he wasn’t worried about her hurting him, only herself when she inevitably lashed out. Then his arms were around her and she felt that same calm, that same safety she always felt, even in all this madness. His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingertips rubbing soothing little circles into her scalp as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I know you’re afraid,” he whispered.

“I’m not afraid,” she said, but that was exactly what it was. She was afraid her husband was crazy and even more afraid of the idea that he wasn’t. She’d spent her whole life knowing one thing for absolute certain: no one had ever wanted her, really wanted her, until Henry and having him changed her whole life. Her baby wanted her and then they met Killian and she suddenly knew what it was really like, having someone put you first, having someone be there, a husband and a father, the way no foster parent or assholes who dumped their kid by the side of the road ever could have.

“Aye, I agree, you’re quite fearless,” he chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t know fear. I promise you,” he said quietly. “The truth is nothing to fear. You may not be terribly happy with it just yet, but the only thing it changes are some of the details. You’re Henry’s mother. You are the love of my bloody life. And your parents… wanted you, Emma. They wanted you more than anything and if I know them, they’re waiting for you to find them one last time.”

He held the bottle up to her. The fucking memory potion. Like that was a real thing.

She looked carefully into his eyes. “You aren’t telling me something.”

“I’ve told you the truth,” he said quietly. “The one thing I can’t tell you is something only you can. And only when you’re truly yourself.” He pressed the bottle into her palm. “You’re a bloody hero, Swan. You’re incapable of doing anything but the right thing. Trust your gut, Emma. It’ll tell you what to do.”

Her gut. The thing that had kind of believed this crazy story from the moment she heard it. The thing that knew there was something wrong with Killian all those months ago.

Emma took the potion.

….

ONE YEAR AGO - THE TOWN LINE

“We’ll go back to the Enchanted Forest?” Emma clarified.

Regina shook her head slightly. “All of us. Except Henry. He will stay here because… he was born here.”

Dread sunk like a stone in Emma’s belly. “Alone?” No, no Henry would not be alone, abandoned by the side of the road - right where she was.

“No,” Regina said, echoing the denial Emma felt. “You will take him. Because you’re the savior. And you were created to break the curse. And once again, you can escape it.”

It should have been the answer to her prayers. Except… there was David and Mary Margaret, who had finally started to feel like her parents, the one she’d lain awake crying for more nights than she could count. There was Neal and he didn’t deserve to lose his son anymore than Henry deserved to lose his father. There was Regina, who had raised Henry… and there was Hook, who stood to the side, looking like something was dying right in front of him.

Emma knew how he felt.

“I-I don’t want to. We’ll both go back with everyone.”

Regina looked as gutted as Emma had ever seen her. “That’s not an option. I can’t be with him. If I don’t pay the price, none of this will work.”

“If someone who wasn’t part of the original curse were to try and escape with them… would it work?” Hook asked, a considering look in his eye.

Emma looked at him sharply. Some traitorous flutter of hope she hadn’t known existed flamed to life in her breast. Stupid hope. It never learned that life wasn’t fair.

“Perhaps,” Regina said.

“What if Neal and I accompanied them?” He held a hand toward Emma. “Not that I doubt your ability to handle any foe with your usual brand of punching and kicking, but perhaps you need not start totally from scratch when it comes to rebuilding your lives.”

The hopeful look in Neal’s eyes died almost immediately when Regina spoke again.

“The magic in this curse comes from Pan. He designed it to punish Rumple most of all and as his son, Neal would be unable to escape.” Regina glanced at Hook. “The pirate, however… should have no problem escaping with you, if that’s what you want.”

“I prefer making my own choices in this world and frankly… there’s nothing left for me in the Enchanted Forest,” Hook said, but the way he looked at Emma, the way he didn’t disguise the longing in his eyes, made it very clear to her exactly why he wanted to go with them.

The curse’s thunder sounded in the distance.

“Emma, you have to go,” Mary Margaret said firmly, holding back tears. “All of you, if you can,” she added, nodding toward Hook.

“No,” Emma said, the panic clawing up inside her. It felt like the social worker was coming again, forcing her to leave another home, another family, another life that she should have known would be like all the others, but she always let herself hope, why didn’t she learn-- “N-no. I’m-I’m not… done. I’m the savior, right? I’m supposed to bring back all the happy endings. That’s what Henry always said.”

Mary Margaret smiled at her, a strong but fragile thing. “Happy endings aren’t always what we think they will be. Look around you. You’ve touched the lives of everyone here.”

“But we’re a family,” Emma whimpered.

“Yes, and we always will be,” she promised. “You gave us that.”

“You and Henry can be a family,” David said, circling around them protectively. “You can get your wish. You can be like everyone else. You can be happy.” He jerked a thumb in Hook’s direction. “You can even take in a stray or two.”

Mary Margaret laughed a little. “It’s time to believe in yourself, Emma. It’s time for you to have hope.”

Regina moved closer to Emma, resolve written all over her face. “I’ve known you for some time and all I wanted was for you to get the hell out of my life so I can be with my son. But really… what I want is for Henry to be happy. We have no choice. You have to go.”

Emma put on her big girl pants. “Okay.”

She said goodbye to Neal, again to her parents, to everyone - Henry took it hardest, of course, blaming himself, losing the dad he’d just met. Then Regina brought out the big guns.

“When the curse washes over us, it will send us all back. Nothing will be left behind. Including your memories. It’s just what the curse does. Storybrooke will no longer exist. It won’t ever have existed. So these last years will be gone from all your memories. Now we’ll go back to just being stories again.”

“What will happen to us?” Emma asked.

Regina shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a happy ending.”

Regina chuckled. “It’s not. But I can give you one. I can give you all a chance at one, least.”

“You can preserve our memories?” Emma asked hopefully.

“No, I can… do what I did to everyone else in this town. And give you new ones.”

“You cursed them and they were miserable,” Emma reminded her.

“They didn’t have to be.” Regina took Emma’s hands. “My gift to you is good memories, a good life for you and--” She looked to Henry, who moved to her side. “Henry. You’ll have never given him up. You’ll have always been together.”

It was probably the first truly selfless gift Regina had given anyone in decades. The idea of it - of never having given Henry up - was something Emma would have said she wanted more than anything… until now.

Regina gestured toward Hook. “I know what to do with them, but what sort of connection do you want?”

Hook looked at Emma. “Perhaps… new friends? Headed on an adventure in the same direction? It’ll be up to us then, what happens next.”

Emma nodded her head slowly. “Up to us. Yeah. Good.” But something about it didn’t sit right with her. She hugged her parents again, said as much of a goodbye as she could get out, then she and Henry were shuffling to the bug. Killian was speaking with Regina in low tones, an insistent look on his face. And then he was piling into the car with them, the back seat, throwing her a pained smile. Regina had changed his clothes, given him a prosthetic hand in place of a hook. He looked… good.

“This is quite the vessel you captain, Swan.”

She returned his pained smile. It was probably the last thing he would ever say to her as… well, as him. This was the last time she was ever going to see Captain Killian Jones, Captain Hook. Where they were going… he was going to be someone else, more than she was. Because at least she would still be Emma Swan, just with a few years patched in here and there. She’d grown up in that world. Killian didn’t. He was from a literal fairy tale and he was going to be shoved into the Land Without Magic.

Who was he going to be?

But Emma didn’t have time to think about that. Because the curse was coming. She put the bug in gear. Kept her eyes on the rear view mirror as long as she could…

… Henry smiled at her. Emma shook her head, lost in thought. Killian was in the backseat, hoping to catch a few winks before they traded off in a few hours. He looked wide awake. His eyes met hers. She smiled. He tried to smile back. Something was bothering him.

Emma decided she’d ask him about it after they got to Boston.

….

They stared at each other for a long time. Emma felt the bottle drop slowly out of her hand. It bounced off the carpeted floor of their bedroom and she swallowed the last of its taste from her mouth.

“Hook,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he agreed sadly.

Both sets of memories were fighting in her head - the way she’d believed they met and fallen in love for the last year and the way they really met and…

It felt like her husband was dead, which was ridiculous, because he was right in front of her, staring at her without a drop of hope in his eyes - he looked as though his wife was dead, too.

In a way, she was.

“What the hell happened?” she muttered.

He shook his head. “I did nothing but consider that when we first arrived here. I can only assume something went wrong or perhaps Regina decided this would be easier for us and did what she liked.” He shrugged. “After awhile, the why of it didn’t seem to matter as much as what I was meant to do now. Assuming I hadn’t simply lost my mind, which I confess I seriously considered for a time.” He tapped the side of his head. “The memories were all so real and in this world, the idea that I’d invented a three hundred year old pirate often seemed more plausible than the idea that it was all so tragically real.”

“You lied to me,” she whispered, trying not to cry. It wasn’t a fair accusation - she probably understood what he’d done better than he ever would. But Emma didn’t feel terribly fair at the moment. She felt like everything she’d ever wanted had just been ripped away from her.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he pled. “Anything I chose would hurt you somehow. I didn’t think we’d ever go back, so in the end, it seemed the best option in a sea of bad choices.”

“So you just decided to fake it for the rest of your life?”

“Don’t,” he warned. “You can hate me if you like, but you know damned well what I feel for you is real.”

“What I know is that all of the fake bullshit in my head made me think I loved you,” Emma hissed. “It ruined whatever spark of something, of possibility that was between us. Oh, God - Henry. How the hell do we explain this to Henry?”

“We don’t,” Killian said quietly. “Not yet, at least. There was only one potion. My feelings for him haven’t changed either, so it should be no problem to continue faking it for the boy’s sake.”

The bitterness in his voice was as heartbreaking as it was infuriating. Emma had a powder keg of rage inside of her and absolutely no one else to direct it at.

“Your feelings may be real, but I feel taken advantage of, like we were both taken advantage of,” she whispered. “I get that you were backed into a corner, but it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like an idiot who got tricked.”

His face looked stricken. “I didn’t - I never intended--”

But Emma didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Mostly because she was afraid of how terrified she was - it felt like nothing in her life was real, was hers, definitely not in her control. She was going to keep lashing out at him if they kept talking and she’d already done enough damage. Deep down inside, she knew this wasn’t his fault - but the emotions that were in the driver’s seat didn’t particularly care.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “I was kidding myself. This life? It was never real. It was never in the cards for the Savior. We have to go back. I have to save everyone. Because that’s what I do.”

She spun away from him before he could say anything else and pulled down suitcases for both of them by habit. She knew what they’d both need.

“Pack a bag for Henry,” she ordered. “We’ll pick him up early from school and head back to Storybrooke. Assuming it’s actually there,” she added bitterly.

At the last moment, Emma grabbed the one thing she knew she’d need - her red leather jacket. Her armor. The reminder she needed of who she really was and who she was never meant to be.

…

The drive seemed to take a lot longer than it actually did, given Storybrooke was only a couple of hours from Boston. Henry had been ecstatic at the idea of a spontaneous work trip, “just like old times!” and he’d been quite taken with sharing his backseat with Tinkerbell, who kindly confirmed for him that yes, it was her real name. They made up a story about her being a big fan of Killian’s books and that’s how she found Emma. It made her skin crawl, lying to Henry. It made her skin crawl how easily Killian did it. Then again, she was no slouch - she basically lied for a living. Everything made her skin crawl, really. She was ashamed to admit that if someone told her everyone in Storybrooke would be safe without her, she would take the fake memories over reality in a heartbeat.

She was almost surprised when the town line was there, right where she’d last seen it.

They crossed over without incident, dropping Tink off at the convent to check in with the other fairies, assuming everyone was back again. Killian offered to get Henry settled while Emma went to check in with her parents - if everyone was under another curse, they agreed, it would be best if she tried to reason with them alone.

Something she didn’t have to do, it turned out. Her father hugged her, and it was so strange and so comforting all at once that Emma had to stop herself from bursting into tears. Her massively pregnant mother hugged her, too, and Emma tried to keep all the confusion and jealousy and reluctant happiness at bay. She needed to focus on the problem at hand - whatever had brought everyone back had also taken the last year of their memories away, which meant everyone still needed to be on red alert. Emma didn’t have time to feel like an outsider in the only family that was supposed to be real to her. She had Henry and that would always, always be enough.

When she returned to the room they were renting at Granny’s - Henry would never understand why they were staying with David and Mary Margaret and the loft was cramped plus Emma was avoiding the Hook-is-sort-of-my-husband reveal as long as possible - Henry was fast asleep on the pull out bed in the main room. Killian was sitting in a chair in the bedroom, staring out the window - brooding.

On his left arm, was a familiar silver hook.

He gestured toward her with it after she’d shut the door. “Belle confirms it turned up in the pawn shop when the town did. No sign of the Crocodile. Or Neal.”

Neal. She hadn’t given him much thought, something that made her feel guilty - he was Henry’s father and even if Henry didn’t know him now, he would again.

“There are more people missing,” Emma said quietly. “David says they’ve had a hard time getting a head count because there are new people, too.”

Killian pursed his lips. “New people could mean the person who cast the curse. No one really thinks it was Regina, as her memories seem to be as lost as the rest.”

“You don’t believe that?” Emma asked.

He shrugged. “I made my desires for our curse very explicit to her and again when she took my hook and gave me modern clothing. I’ve no idea why she decided to torture me this way, but it was quite effective, don’t you think?” It was then she noticed he’d also found his old flask and by the looks of him, he’d been indulging since Henry went to bed.

“I doubt she was trying to torture you,” Emma argued.

“Who knows why the Evil Queen does anything she does?” He shook his head. “At any rate, whatever her reasons, the blame still lies with me.”

“Hook,” Emma admonished, and his moniker felt as sharp on her tongue as the hook that was once again reunited with his left arm.

“I swore that I would win your heart without any trickery and the first chance I got, I made a mockery of that vow.” He took a heavy swig from his flask. “I assure you, Swan, however much you hate me, I hate myself more.”

I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever could. I’ve just never been able to take the chance that every instinct I have about you is wrong, the way they always are about a guy I really, really like. And nothing in the whole world feels real to me anymore.

Her heart was the one place Emma was not brave, at least not the Emma who hadn’t been cursed by Regina. So she went into the bathroom to change into pajamas and when she emerged, he was still brooding out the window, like some kind of guardian gargoyle.

She climbed under the covers. “Come to bed,” she ordered. “Henry won’t understand if you sleep somewhere else.” That wasn’t why she wanted him to come to bed, of course, but it was the only reason she could admit out loud.

He was silent for a long moment, then muttered a bitter “As you wish” and joined her in bed, atop the covers.

Emma refused to let herself cry.

….

Regina was devastated Henry didn’t remember her. Emma felt bad for her, particularly when she witnessed a very angry Killian - once again sporting his prosthetic instead of a hook - obviously interrogating her about her role in his half cursed state of being. Emma imagined she told him a version of what she’d told Emma herself - that she hadn’t done anything other than what they’d asked and if things got screwed up, it wasn’t her problem. Emma tended to believe her, mostly because Regina never could give up a chance to gloat when something she’d done had made her enemies miserable.

Which wasn’t really fair, because Regina was as miserable as a person could be with Henry not knowing who she was, but Emma still didn’t feel much like being fair.

David looked like he wanted to murder Hook when they dropped the marriage bomb, but Emma quickly diffused the situation by very loudly reminding him they were both cursed. Killian opened his mouth to stupidly confess his sins, but Emma elbowed him in the ribs to keep him quiet.

“The last thing we need is David going psycho protective dad on you,” she explained later. “Besides, this part is between you and me. No one else.”

That was also the excuse Emma gave herself not to mention the status of her relationship to Mary Margaret. The Queen of Hope would probably pounce on the idea that Emma still had feelings for her fake husband and that was the last thing Emma needed to be distracted by when they had a town to save.

It surprised no one but Emma when their new foe was revealed to be the Wicked Witch. They still had no idea who she was, but tensions were running high and everyone had started snapping at each other. Emma knew she was the number one offender, but that did little to cool her always at the ready temper. She didn’t know how to stop being so angry, how to stop grieving her broken heart over her fake marriage, how to separate the Killian she’d lived with for the last year from the real thing, how to just get over it already.

It was after a particularly heated argument Emma and Killian had in front of everyone in the middle of their room at Granny’s over Henry’s wellbeing - Emma wanted Killian to take him back to Boston and Killian argued the boy was safer here, with both his magical mothers and the rest of his family around him - that Regina apparently finally had enough. She waited until the others had filed out before she pulled Emma aside.

“I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not my place. But Emma, you have to realize what this was.”

“Why?” Emma muttered. “What was it?”

Regina shook her head sadly. “You really don’t know, do you? Funny how I’d forgotten how stubbornly rigid you are.”

“If you have a point, I’d appreciate you getting to it.”

“Fine.” Regina mirrored her defiant stance. “I gave Hook cursed memories along with yours, that’s why he had them rolling around in there. But he wasn’t supposed to be your husband, he was supposed to be an author Henry admired that moved in next door who was victim to the same fire that ruined all of your things - an experience that bonded you and had you agreeing to share a ride to your new home in Boston. That was the reality I put in your heads. He definitely wasn’t supposed to remember he was a 300 year old pirate Captain who specializes in making googoo eyes at you.”

Emma shook her head. “You already told us this--”

“My magic didn’t do this,” Regina said, raising her voice. “Yours did.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “What? I didn’t do--”

“You’re like a baby with a blowtorch,” Regina muttered. “You have no idea how powerful you are and you refuse to learn. You didn’t want Hook to be someone you could lose, someone who could fall through the cracks. So you made sure he was tied to you and Henry, tied as deeply as possible in the Land Without Magic. You made him Henry’s father so he didn’t have to grow up without one and you made him your husband because you wanted him.”

“Look, I don’t need your pop psychology--”

“And,” Regina said, louder still, “you made sure he kept his memories because you didn’t want the fake version of Killian Jones I would have had to create for him to exist in the modern world. You wanted the real thing. You wanted him to love you the same way he always has. No substitutions for Miss Swan, hm?” Regina shook her head. “Get a handle on your magic. We have something wicked to fight. And get a handle on your love life, because the way things stand right now? Your mopey, guilt ridden pirate is going to get himself killed. And while that wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing that ever happened, I imagine Henry would be fairly upset by it.”

Emma tried to fold her arms in the intimidating way she’d used since she was young, but she feared they were more cradling her chest, forcing her heart to stay in place than anything else. . “You’re just guessing,” she said stubbornly.

“Maybe you’re right,” Regina said suddenly. “Maybe I am wrong. Because the only way you’d be able to override Pan’s curse and my alterations to it, would be if you truly loved one another. And to be frank, I’m not sure you believe in anything enough to truly love someone other than Henry. I’m not sure if I do anymore, either.” Regina gestured toward the door. “He’s staying with your parents tonight. He’s excited about having the loft bed to himself. I suggest you use the time to put your house in order.”

Rolling her eyes at Regina’s imperious tone, Emma tried to deny everything she’d just said as the other woman left her alone.

The trouble was, it all rang frighteningly, embarrassingly true.

Emma sank down to the end of the bed and forced herself to sort through her shit. The last year, Killian’s behavior, how hard he’d tried to both stay away from her and be with her. What the hell did she expect him to do? She had as much as told him so - he had to make a choice and then live with it. And if Regina was right -- and goddamnit, she is, she’s right -- Emma had done this to him either because she was so selfish that she wanted him, the real him, even if he wasn’t getting entirely the real her… or, even more terrifying, it had happened unconsciously because she loved him.

Truly.

Before she could think about it much further, the outer door opened and closed quietly and she heard Killian’s hesitant footfalls come closer.

“Swan,” he said tightly. “Henry’s with your parents. Since he won’t be with us, I thought I’d give you a night of peace by seeking my accommodations elsewhere.”

He was very carefully looking just over her head, his expression intentionally blank. She’d been hurting him, punishing him the way he’d always feared she would and all he’d done was the best he could in an impossible situation. He’d tried to protect her heart at every turn, even when his own was hurting and confused and at war with that strange moral compass he’d always had.

This had to stop. Now.

“Regina said something to me tonight,” Emma said, her voice hoarse.

Killian finally looked at her. “Swan, are you crying?” he asked, the worry flooding his tone.

“Am I?” Emma reached her hand up to touch the tear tracks that had made their way down her cheeks. “I guess I am. It’s funny, when you make it a rule that you won’t let anything make you cry anymore… it kind of sneaks up on you.”

“What the hell did Regina say to you?” Now he looked murderous again, which was kind of sweet, actually. That was her life - a murderous pirate fake-husband. For a kid who grew up alone and unloved, it actually didn’t sound too bad.

“This is all my fault,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Killian, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he soothed, flipping from murderous to concerned in a heartbeat. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that none of this is your fault.”

“Killian, I’m so damaged that even my magic is repressed and it only comes out when I’m desperately afraid of losing something,” she explained. “Regina thinks - and I do, too, I mean, I don’t think, I know - all of those walls I have, those stupid walls, it’s why you were basically tortured for a year. I did it. I didn’t want some fake version of you living down the hall. I wanted you. And my magic just… did it. You didn’t trick me. If anything, I’m the one who tricked you, except… I guess I didn’t, because you always knew how you felt.” Emma didn’t know what else to say and Killian was looking at her with the most inscrutable expression. “I could use a little feedback here,” she prompted.

He shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. “You called me Killian.” His voice was tinged with wonder.

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s your name.”

“You haven’t called me anything but Hook since you remembered,” he said. “You haven’t…”

Her chest hurt again from how much she’d hurt him. “Stupid walls,” she offered, the only explanation she had.

Killian took a step toward her, then another, until he could fall to his knees at her feet. He took her hand in his, brought the back of it to his mouth for a kiss. She was still wearing her fake wedding ring. So was he. She still had Liam’s ring around her neck. His actual ring, if she was a betting woman - her magic had made sure the moments they shared with false memories were still as real as a land without magic could allow them to be.

“I like your walls,” Killian confided, as if telling her a secret. He looked up at her with the tenderest expression in his blue, blue eyes. It didn’t really matter if she met him on a crowded sidewalk or under a pile of bodies - it was understanding at first sight and everything they’d shared had been real, even the things that weren’t.

“I think I was right before,” she whispered back. “No one else could have loved me well enough to bring them down.”

“Oh, Emma,” he chuffed. “I don’t know if you give me too much credit or yourself too little. Perhaps both.”

“How do you do this?” she muttered. “How do you love me like this? Like it’s just… easy? I’m not… i’m not easy. I know I’m not. But it’s as if you just… like me this way.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Almost as funny as you liking me the way I am - all tortured, revenge obsessed-turned-Emma Swan obsessed, so much that you forced me to stay exactly who I was even in the face of an unbreakable curse.”

Emma groaned. “Your ego is never going to come back down to earth after this.”

“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully. “But this is the monster you created. You’re going to have to live with him.”

Emma brought her palms to his cheeks; stroked his ridiculous cheekbones with her thumbs, paying extra attention to the scar on his right. He was perfect, even in the places that weren’t. Real, even the ways he hadn’t been. No one else would have been right - would have been this right. No one else would have had her magic crying out at the idea of taking any part of him away.

“I guess I can do that,” she promised, resting her forehead against his.

She had to play it a little cool. He still had to be the grown up in the relationship.

…

They buried Neal.

Henry got his memories back. Everyone did.

They beat the witch.

Emma’s little brother was the most perfect baby she’d ever seen.

Until eight months later, when little Hope came screaming into the world.

Henry was the best man at their wedding - the one the whole town and one very fussy baby attended.

The fake memories had been good. Really, really good.

The real ones were better.

[easyhairstylesbest]

What’s Happening In 'WandaVision'? Here Are The Most Likely Theories.

By the end of 2020, the Marvel Cinematic Universe had started to feel a bit…stale. Part of what makes the superhero genre so universally captivating is its capacity to go where other mediums can’t. But by the end of Avengers: Endgame, the MCU was closing the door on a chapter that, no matter how wildly successful, had followed a series of predictable patterns. While that doesn’t make watching Tony Stark save the world any less satisfying, it does make it less nerdy. And no matter how mainstream superheroes get, there’s always a part of the genre that deserves its place in the realm of the geek, where fan-fueled calculus thrives.

Now, with the explosion of new MCU series rolling out on Disney+ (at least four by the end of 2021), the superhero empire is reigniting fan theory fervor. When WandaVision dropped on January 15, the sitcom-turned-horror-show experiment heralded a bold new path for comic-book narratives. Turns out, superheroes can make for pretty hilarious sitcoms! But, most importantly, WandaVision—at least initially—seems intent on not spoon-feeding fans a story they’ve seen before. Which means, of course, that the fan theory machine is running hot.

WandaVision takes place after Endgame, and it stars Elizabeth Olsen and Paul Bettany as a delightfully well-matched Wanda Maximoff and Vision, basking in newlywed (?) bliss in the quaint 1950s-era suburb of Westview. They don’t exactly know how they got here, or what they’re doing in the 1950s. But they roll with it: befriending neighbors, hosting talent shows, nearly spoiling dinner with Vision’s boss, and trying not to wither under the critical eye of local Karen, Dottie (Emma Caulfied Ford). But increasingly, Vision gets the sense not all is right in this cookie-cutter suburb.

New episodes drop every Friday, and as the puzzle pieces come together, we’re gathering the best fan theories from around the internet. Here, we’ll try to make sense of what’s happening to Wanda—and why it matters for the next phase of Marvel stories.

Marvel Studios/Disney+

Theory #1: WandaVision is a spin on the comics arc House of M. (Confirmed.)

If you’ve spent any time digging around Marvel fan forums, you’ve probably already stumbled on this theory, and after episode 5 aired on February 5, it’s virtually confirmed.

Here’s the background: In 2005, Marvel Comics released a storyline called House of M, written by comics legend Brian Michael Bendis, in which an insane Scarlet Witch (aka Wanda Maximoff) has a mental breakdown and attempts to recreate the universe. You see, she’s lost her two children, Billy and Tommy (sound familiar?), as well as her grip on reality. The other Avengers and X-Men (in the comics, Wanda is a mutant) realize they must consider killing Wanda, because her reality-shaping powers pose an enormous threat to humanity if she cannot recover her sanity. (Again, we’re seeing hints of this in WandaVision.)

Hearing the news of her pending execution, Wanda manifests a new world, an almost-perfect utopia where her children are alive, her superhero teammates are happy, and mutants rule the world. But it’s a dangerous lie, and when Wanda realizes what she’s done, she decides the solution is to rid the world of mutants like her. (You might have seen a comic panel circulating of Wanda whispering, “No more mutants.” It’s very meme-able.) At that point, the majority of the mutant population lose their powers.

House of M

Brand: Marvel amazon.com

WandaVision can’t and won’t mirror House of M exactly because, at this point in the MCU, the X-Men and Avengers’ worlds have not yet collided. But it certainly seems that Wanda has created her own version of Westview out of grief. If you remember the events of Avengers: Infinity War and Endgame, you’ll recall that Wanda is forced to kill Vision while extracting an Infinity Stone from his forehead. He does not return to life in Endgame, and she tells Thanos, “You took everything from me.”

Given the revelations we witnessed during episodes 4 and 5, this all makes sense. When Monica Rambeau (Teyonah Parris) is sent spiraling back into the “real” world, she whispers, “It’s all Wanda.” We know Wanda’s behind the “hex” surrounding Westview. What we don’t know is how much of it she’s controlling.

Theory #2: Wanda is the show’s villain.

By the end of episode 3, “Now In Color,” we’d watched Wanda “rewind” or “snap” her sitcom reality multiple times. It happens first when she watches a mysterious beekeeper rise from a manhole in episode 2, and again when Vision gets the sense not all is normal in Westview. Then, at the end of episode 3, Geraldine/Monica is banished from town after gently reminding Wanda that her twin brother, Pietro, died at the hands of Ultron in Avengers: Age of Ultron. As episode 4 reveals, Wanda didn’t take kindly to this reminder and physically threw Geraldine out of the suburbs. After, she reminds Vision she has “everything under control.”

We now know that Wanda is perfectly aware of what’s going on, and she’s orchestrating most—if not all—of it. She knows there’s another world beyond Westview where her brother lived and died, and where Vision similarly lived and died. And she would prefer to stay in her sitcom world. Anything—or anyone—who seeks to threaten her fake reality is…well, removable.

Interestingly, in an interview with ELLE.com about WandaVision, Olsen mentioned, “With our show, you don’t know what the villain is, or if there is one at all.” It’s clear the S.W.O.R.D (Sentient World Observation and Response Department) team that’s set up camp outside of Westview think she’s that villain. Vision is starting to get that sense, too. But the pieces don’t add up.

Here’s why: Wanda is tortured by her own grief, by the mistakes she’s made since the Sokovia disaster in Age of Ultron. The likelihood that she’s blatantly disregarding human life for her own gain seems like a trap she wouldn’t allow herself to fall into again—not easily, anyway. (Remember that, in episode 5, Monica says, “I don’t believe this was a premeditated act of aggression.”) That said, Wanda’s desperate, and we all know what they say about desperate people. She might have allowed something supposedly harmless to become brutal by striking a deal with the wrong person.

That’s where we bring in Mephisto.

Chuck Zlotnick

Theory #3: The series’ big bad is Mephisto.

Now let’s get deep into the weeds. WandaVision has given us little to no clues as to its major antagonist this season—except for, of course, Wanda herself.

But it could also be Mephisto. His character has been around since the 1960s, and he’s based on the Mephistopheles of German legend. Basically, he’s a demon-like creature, oft confused for Satan, who can shape-shift and alter time. Once upon a time, he served Thanos, much like Ronan and other big bads. Perhaps he’s manipulating Wanda, but it seems more likely the two of them made a pact—a deal with the devil, if you will. Perhaps, in return for her own sitcom-verse where Vision is alive, Wanda agreed to enter Mephisto’s domain and become trapped under his rule.

Here’s why this theory holds so much weight: In episode 5, Wanda stresses multiple times that she doesn’t know “how any of this started in the first place.” When Vision confronts her, she seems horrified by his accusations, mystified that he thinks she’s capable of controlling everyone in Westview at all times. Sure, she could be bluffing. But there’s likely an element of truth to her defense. Perhaps something outside of her—maybe Mephisto?—is controlling her ability to control.

Theory #4: The Westview citizens know they’re being controlled. Maybe they can do something about it.

Regardless of who is pulling the strings, the Westview denizens have some inkling of strange goings-on about town.

In episode 4, we learn that these kind folks are being “portrayed” by real humans. Darcy Lewis (an astrophysicist you’ll recognize from the Thor films) and Jimmy Woo (a S.H.I.E.L.D.-turned-S.W.O.R.D. agent we met in Ant-Man and the Wasp) assemble a bulletin board covered with profiles of the characters and their real names: Norm is Abilash Tandon, Phil is Harold Proctor, Mr. Hart is Todd Davis, etc. These characters probably didn’t volunteer to perform imaginary lives in Wanda’s sitcom-verse, so they must be—to one degree or another—under her thumb.

But they’re somehow self-aware. In episode 5, Agnes asks Wanda if she wants to “take it from the top” after Vision refuses to accept her questionable babysitting skills. Later, Wanda doesn’t seem concerned about Agnes witnessing her and Vision using their powers—it’s as if hiding doesn’t matter anymore. And at Vision’s office, Norm and Vision intercept an email from Darcy about the “Maximoff anomaly.” Norm laughs it off: “It’s a joke. Can’t you tell? None of it is real.” Then, when Vision clears his mind, he reveals, “She’s in my head. None of it is my own. It hurts.”

We’re meant to assume that “she” is Wanda, of course. But does she know she’s hurting them? And is it possible the Westview residents know more than they’re revealing? Agnes, in particular, seems to have more information than she’s sharing, even if it frightens her.

Chuck Zlotnick/Marvel Studios

Theory #5: Billy and Tommy are the only children in Westview. That’s purposeful.

At the end of episode 3, Wanda gives birth to twins Billy and Tommy. In the comics, these cuties are Billy and Tommy Maximoff, aka Wiccan and Speed, who have superpowers similar to Wanda and Pietro’s—hex abilities and super-speed.

Billy and Tommy are stupendous characters in their own right, and they eventually become leaders of the Young Avengers, another popular franchise that Marvel might have plans to cinema-tize. But they also have complicated origins: They’re actually created from fragments of a demon’s soul, and that realization is part of what originally drives Wanda insane during House of M.

What’s most interesting about Wanda’s relationship with the twins in WandaVision is that she can’t seem to control them. She can’t make them stop crying as infants. She can’t stop their rapid age progression. And they seem to know more than she wants them to—like, for instance, that she “can fix anything,” as Tommy stresses after their puppy, Sparky, dies.

Wanda responds, “I am trying to tell you that there are rules in life. We can’t rush aging just because it’s convenient. And we can’t reverse death, no matter how sad it makes us. Some things are forever.”

But we know from episode 5 this isn’t true. Wanda resurrected Vision. S.W.O.R.D. has proof. She’s rushing through the decades. And the twins can rush their own aging, which seems to imply they’ve inherited their mother’s powers.

What this doesn’t explain is why there are no other children in Westview, something Vision points out during a heated argument with his wife. Did they disappear? What if Wanda can’t control children, as evidenced by her inability to control Billy and Tommy? What if, somehow, the Westview kids have already escaped Wanda’s reality? There are too many missing pieces to understand the implications of that possibility yet. But it sure seems likely.

Marvel Studios/Disney+

Theory #6: Monica Rambeau already has her superpowers. That’s why she’s uncomfortable with mentions of Captain Marvel.

By now, you know, of course, that Geraldine is not, in fact, “Geraldine.” She’s Monica Rambeau, and she disappeared during Thanos’s snap in Endgame.

If you haven’t already googled Monica’s name in a mad fervor, here’s what you need to know: She first appeared as a little girl in Captain Marvel. She was the super-cute daughter of Carol Danvers’s best friend Maria, remember? Lieutenant Trouble? Well, a few years have passed since then, and it would seem Maria went on to found S.W.O.R.D. Maria raised her daughter in the hallways and control rooms of the organization, and Monica went on to become a respected agent in her own right. But, as we learn in episode 4, Maria contracted cancer, and she died during the time Monica disappeared in the “snap.”

In the first moments of episode 4, Monica re-materializes after the Avengers reverse the snap, and she rejoins S.W.O.R.D. But she’s temporarily “grounded,” meaning she’s assigned to lowly earthly tasks. That leads her to the doorstep of Westview, and eventually to Wanda giving her the boot.

Then, in episode 5, she awakens on the S.W.O.R.D. base to discover her lab results are mysteriously blank. The medic requests another blood draw, and Monica refuses. No explanation is given.

If we had to guess, Monica is hiding her own superpowers. WandaVision has yet to reveal if this adult Monica has any abilities, but in the comics, she has skills similar to Danvers—photon blasts, flight, the works. Over the years, Monica has claimed multiple aliases, including Photon, Spectrum, Pulsar, and even—yes—Captain Marvel. An Easter egg in episode 4 reveals that Maria, in fact, used “Photon” as a nickname at S.W.O.R.D. And in episode 5, Monica requests Darcy’s team build a “10,000-pound fallout shelter comprised of lead for photons.” It’s doubtful that’s a throwaway reference. I’m willing to bet Monica is gearing up to unleash her powers.

So, why does she look so remiss when Jimmy mentions Captain Marvel during one of their briefings? We can’t know for sure. But we can assume it has something to do with ’90s-era Danvers leaving Earth to spend 23 years exploring Outer Space. Maybe Maria or Monica had plans to become Earth’s version of Captain Marvel after the real one seemingly jumped ship. It would make sense.

Marvel Studios/Disney+

Theory #7: Pietro’s return opens the doors to the X-Men universe.

If we know anything about the MCU, it’s that the creators aren’t afraid of ambitious storylines. Plus, more franchises = more $. And the X-Men franchise is a money-maker.

Disney owns the rights to X-Men, which is why you’ll see those films on your Disney+ queue. So it’s probably not absurd to assume the Avengers MCU and the X-Men universe will eventually collide on the silver screen, as they do in the comics. WandaVision could be what makes that happen.

By far the biggest reveal of episode 5 is Pietro Maximoff’s return to the screen. Wanda’s brother shows up at her doorstep, completely unexpected—and, apparently, not by her design—when the doorbell rings, she tells Vision, “I didn’t do that.” The door swings open, and there’s Pietro…except not the one from Age of Ultron. This is Evan Peters’ version of Pietro, who first appeared in X-Men: Days of Future Past.

This is the first time the worlds of the X-Men films and the MCU films have collided. Does this mean WandaVision‘s Pietro is from a different reality? Is he aware of where he is and how he got there? Might the mutants finally become a part of the MCU? We’ve got more questions than answers right now. But I’d be shocked if this isn’t a precursor for an enormous crossover.

Theory #8: Agnes is really Agatha Harkness.

Here’s one that requires you to know a bit more comic lore. You first met Agnes (Kathryn Hahn), Wanda and Vision’s deliciously wry neighbor, in the WandaVision pilot. Sure, it’s possible she’s merely a quippy side-character, but I find that doubtful.

Several fans think she must be Agatha Harkness. In the comics universe, Harkness is an old (like, was-alive-before-the-sinking-of-Atlantis old) witch who escaped the Salem Witch Trials and went on to master mystical arts, later teaching them to a young Wanda Maximoff. In other points throughout the comics, she serves as Wanda’s antagonist, and she’s also the one who, after Wanda gives birth to twins Billy and Tommy, reveals to Wanda that the children are not, in fact, hers, but were born of more demonic origins. We don’t need to unpack all of that, but the point stands that Agatha has an important role in Wanda’s life—so it makes sense she’d appear in Wanda’s TV show.

Another interesting detail? In the comics, Agatha has a son named Nicholas Scratch. And the name of Agnes’s bunny in WandaVision? Señor Scratchy.

Marvel Studios

Theory #9: The “missing person” is Mephisto.

In all the excitement of episodes 4 and 5, it’s easy to forget that Monica and Jimmy first showed up in Westview because of a missing person case. But don’t let that detail escape you. It could be a huge clue.

The missing person they’re after—a male—is in the Witness Protection Program, and none of his known associates or relatives have even heard of him.

Bettany mentioned in an interview with the “Lights Camera Barstool” podcast that he works with a special mystery actor in WandaVision: “So many things get leaked, but there’s this thing that has been completely under wrap that happens. I work with this actor that I’ve always wanted to work with and we have fireworks together—the scenes are great and I think people are going to be really excited. I’ve always wanted to work with this guy and the scenes are pretty intense.”

Obviously this is an important character, and there’s a reason he hasn’t been revealed yet. Many fans think this mystery man is “Ralph,” the husband Agnes mentions frequently who has yet to appear onscreen. Others think Ralph might just be Mephisto.

Marvel Studios/Disney+

Theory #10: S.W.O.R.D. started all of this.

We know Mephisto is a solid guess for the show’s villain. But Marvel also loves to reveal how corrupt people in power are the bad guys more often than demigods and mad titans. So what if, like in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, the real villain is someone we’ve already met?

We see in episode 5 that Wanda retrieved Vision’s corpse from a S.W.O.R.D lab. If you look closely, you can see he was in pieces, completely dismantled and likely being experimented with. It’s possible S.W.O.R.D itself was violating Vision’s will and attempting to recreate him, so Wanda stole his body and resurrected him in order to rescue him.

If that’s true, that means S.W.O.R.D. might have had a hand in Wanda’s creation of Westview. And Director Hayward might know more about it than we’ve been led to believe.

Theory #11: WandaVision will tie directly into Doctor Strange in The Multiverse of Madness. (Confirmed.)

This theory is less about if than how. Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige confirmed WandaVision will tie into the film, and Olsen will star alongside Benedict Cumberbatch in March 2022’s The Multiverse of Madness. So, what does that mean? Well, the theory of Wanda creating her own alternate reality within the multiverse could be true. And if she shows up in the next Doctor Strange, someone must pull her out of the sitcom-verse—and it could be the Master of the Mystical Arts himself.

Theory #12: The folks in the WandaVision commercials are Wanda’s parents.

Let’s tackle those fascinating commercials, shall we? Each promises a different Marvel Easter egg, and already, fans are dissecting screenshots for clues.

All the “commercials” different couples advertise different products. The first is a Stark Industries toaster, the second is a Strücker watch, the third is “Hydra Soak,” a specialty bath product, and the fourth is a paper towel brand called “Lagos.” If you’re an avid MCU fan, you’ll of course know Stark Industries is Tony Stark’s company, and Strücker is the last name of Baron von Strücker, the Hydra leader who recruited Wanda and her brother Pietro before Age of Ultron and gave them their powers.

Why is this significant? As one fan pointed out, the ads seem to be revisiting Wanda’s trauma: A Stark Industries bomb killed her parents, and Strücker corrupted Wanda and her brother, recruiting them for Hydra. Lagos is a reference to the town in which she accidentally destroyed a building, killing a number of residents inside.

But who are the man and woman in the Stark Industries commercial? One Twitter user suggested they could be Wanda and Pietro’s deceased parents, alive again in her pseudo-reality. Does this mean she can bring others back to life, such as Vision himself, or perhaps even her brother Pietro? Or is she simply imagining all these ghosts of the dead?

Marvel Studios/Disney+

This story will be updated each week after new episodes of WandaVision drop.

Watch WandaVision on Disney+

Lauren Puckett Lauren Puckett is a writer and assistant for Hearst Magazines, where she covers culture and lifestyle.

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What’s Happening In 'WandaVision'? Here Are The Most Likely Theories.