#and with her i also said fuck historical accuracy she is beyond of time

[anotherfandomtrash]

Just girls being pals

#my art #traditional drawing #war and peace #mary bolkonskaya #marya bolkonskaya #julie karagina #marjulie #hththtg girls #love them so much #marya is just a blushing mess and we love that for it #she was a christian and she was a goth #tbh is so fun to draw julie i don't know why she just have some effect on me #and with her i also said fuck historical accuracy she is beyond of time

[wickedpact]

Idea for a JoexNicky fic!! (anon here)- piggybacking off the other anon's nicky's mom idea, what if for an anniversary present, Joe sketches a portrait of Nicky's mother? (obviously she'd look like a beautiful warm goddess of kindness) Like maybe he has a dream of one of Nicky's most vivid memories ;-; I would literally die

so uh. this bloomed wildly out of my control

this ficlet is 5k words long so dont open that read more unless youre willing to commit to it

warnings: brief discussions of violence, extremely brief mention of sex, me not knowing how the FUCK one becomes a priest in Ye Olde 1000′s, and probably a criminal lack of historical accuracy as well as a criminal lack of the accented o in ‘nicolo’

yeehaw.

  It starts with one of Andromache’s sparring sessions, and of course by ‘sparring’ session Nicolo means a session in which Andromache was in a piss poor mood for no obvious reason, and decided to take it out on the rest of them.

 These sessions tend to start with Andromache coming hurtling into their camp with a dark expression on her face, and end with Yusuf and Nicolo sprawled on the ground, bruised and exhausted, while Andromache and Quynh beat the ever-loving hell out of each other nearby. (Yusuf has been convinced for a long time that it's some sort of mating ritual; Nicolo... doubts it.)

This time around, they are at some point after Nicolo has given up, and some point before Yusuf has joined him; Nicolo lies on the sand, starfished, while Quynh and Yusuf attempt to tag team Andromache with an abundance of vigor and middling results. Nicolo cranes his neck to watch the spectacle, catching a glimpse of Andromache flipping Quynh straight over her shoulder before twisting around and kicking Yusuf dangerously close to the groin. Yusuf stumbles, and Andromache grabs him by the shoulder, shoving his considerable weight off of his feet and towards Nicolo’s resting spot.

Yusuf, stumbling, manages to not trip over Nicolo by inches, and falls face-first onto the ground beside him with a groan. Meanwhile, Quynh has recovered and charges at Andy again, beginning their age-old dance yet again.

Yusuf grumbles at Nicolo’s side and peels himself off the ground, leveraging onto a knee. Nicolo drops his head back down to look at him, smiling when he swipes a hand across his beard to dislodge the sand accumulating there. Having been roasting under the midday sun and the excursion of the fight for hours now, Yusuf is layered in sweat and breathing heavily but evenly, chest and shoulders heaving slowly with each breath. Nicolo’s mouth goes crooked watching him.

“She doesn’t attack still targets,” he advises, amused, lying still atop the sand.

“Like a lioness!” Yusuf agrees with a zest Nicolo lost about thirteen minutes ago. He pulls himself onto both knees and balances on them, wavering in a way that makes Nicolo want to give him a steadying hand. “Hm.” Yusuf braces a hand on his thigh, face scrunching up in consideration. “No. I don’t think so.”

And then he plops, face first, back to the sand. Nicolo gives him an encouraging pat on the back with his knuckles.

“Are you two giving up?” Andromache calls over. Nicolo cranes his head up again to see that Quynh is on the ground yet again, slowly stumbling to her feet, and Andromache stands with her back to her, facing them. Her hands are on her hips.

“Yes. Thank you for checking in!” Nicolo confirms, lifting a hand to give her a thumbs up. Andromache responds to the sass with a raised eyebrow before whirling around and punching Quynh in the stomach before the younger immortal could sneak up on her.

Quynh goes down for the-- who knows how many times now, and Nicolo drops his head. He squints up at the wavering blue lines of the sky until Andromache’s white robes cross his vision, casting a shadow over his and Yusuf’s resting forms.

“Get up,” Andromache insists, nudging Nicolo with her boot. “I’m not done with you two yet.”

“You can’t make us,” Yusuf grumbles into the sand.

“You bet I can’t?” Andromache threatens, more a tease than a promise. When neither of them reply, she rolls her eyes and says, with a less than gentle kick to Yusuf’s side, “You babies are so soft.”

Yusuf hisses, rolling away from Andromache’s boot, into Nicolo’s side. “Son of a whore, Andromache, knock it off,” he grouches, dropping his shoulder atop Nicolo’s. Nicolo grunts with the weight of it. “Or daughter of a whore, that is,” he corrects himself, then adds thoughtfully, “No offense to your mother, if she were a woman of the night. What did your mother do, Andromache?”

Andromache laughs at Yusuf’s meandering insult-- a posturing bluster of a laugh that makes Nicolo blink, wondering if Yusuf’s actually offended her somehow. If so this would be the first time; Nicolo has always known Andromache to be thicker skinned than a mule.

But then she says, “I don’t remember my mother. Who knows,” and turns and heads back over to Quynh, who’s only just recovered from before. They resume sparring, Nicolo watching them with mild confusion.

Nicolo turns to look at Yusuf, wondering if he’d caught onto Andromache’s discomfort, but when Nicolo catches his eye, he just shrugs his shoulder against the sand and says, “Well, that’s a line that’ll end an argument every time, eh?”

~

Later on, Nicolo is still considering it, sprawled in front of the fire --that Quynh had constructed a couple hours prior-- with Yusuf, Nicolo slouched against his chest and bracketed by his bent knees. Andromache and Quynh are arguing over the linen tent a little ways off, and Nicolo watches Andromache carefully, the lines on her face and the muscles in her arms, the working parts of her that have existed on this earth for thousands of years. The things her hands have done; the things her eyes have seen.

The things her heart has forgotten.

“You are thinking very loudly over there,” Yusuf says from somewhere over Nicolo’s head. Nicolo shifts his eyes from Andromache and Qyunh, to the fire, to his and Yusuf’s legs stretched out before it. He tilts his head back, the top of his head against Yusuf’s sternum, but all he can see from that angle is Yusuf’s beard, so he drops his head back down with a little amused huff.

“Andromache is very old,” Nicolo says slowly.

“Ah, yes,” Yusuf agrees, amiable. “Also: water is very wet, and the desert is very hot.”

“S’cold at night,” Nicolo grumbles, just to be contrary, and is rewarded by Yusuf slipping his arms under Nicolo’s, bundling him closer to his chest and notching his chin over his head.

“What’s wrong, Nico?”

Nicolo requires no further prompting, not from Yusuf at least. The words come tumbling out of his mouth, one at a time. “She doesn’t remember her mother.”

There’s little more that needs to be said there. The immortal life is one that comes with many downsides, and the nature of it is that sometimes one discovers these downsides centuries later than expected. This isn’t the first time an unexpected side-effect of their unending lives has been thrust upon him and Yusuf, and likely won’t be the last.

Nicolo had never really thought he might one day forget his mother.

 Yusuf hums thoughtfully in response, a non-answer that does little to soothe Nicolo. “That she doesn’t,” he adds after a moment. “What was your mother like?”

“I don’t--” Nicolo starts, and then, with an odd curiosity, realizes he’s having difficulty continuing. “I... didn’t know her very long. I was given to the church… very young. I don’t remember much of what she was like, other than that she was my mother.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Well…” 

Nicolo remembers little of his life before the clergy. Two brothers. A sister. His father’s stern brow, and the calluses on his mother’s hand as she took his little fingers in hers, leading him down the dirt paths back in Genova. Her smile, silhouetted by the heady red glow of the afternoon sun. 

“Brown hair,” Nicolo eventually answers. “Dark eyebrows. High cheekbones, too, and… and kind eyes.”

“What I’m hearing is you took after her very strongly.”

Nicolo smiles. “I do remember being told something of the sort before.”

“Her eyes?” Joe rests one of his palms flat against Nicolo’s stomach.

“Green, I’m pretty sure.”

“So you took after her very strongly, then,” Joe concludes.

Nicolo looks down, fiddling with the fingers of Joe’s free hand. “She used to take me to the shore. We’d gather seashells together.”

That he remembers well, plucking seashells and bits of coral out from dried seafoam after the tide had gone out near the end of the day, one arm bundling conch and clam shells against his chest, the other prying washed-up shells from the still wet sand. The sun would be low, but not low enough that they would feel the need to rush, and it would cast their shadows in long, blue lines across the beach. Time was an endless thing there, where the sun glowed red and bright, and there was always another conch shell wedged in the damp earth to dig up.

“She sounds lovely,” Yusuf hums. Nicolo pauses, tracing Yusuf’s index finger with his own. Yusuf almost never talks about his family. They have known each other for nearly three hundred years now, and yet Nicolo could store all the things he knows of Yusuf's family in a basket. Over the years he’s been able to piece together that both of Yusuf’s parents were dead before the Crusades began. And that they both died when Yusuf was fairly young. Beyond that… he knows little.

“Yusuf…” Nicolo starts, uncertain and fidgeting. “What about your mother?”

“My mother?” Yusuf repeats, as if Nicolo has somehow strung together two incomprehensible words. 

“Yes.” When a pause stretches between them, Nicolo sighs and laces his fingers between Yusuf’s. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, no,” Yusuf insists before Nicolo can change the topic. He returns Nicolo’s grip on his hands, smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of Nicolo’s pointer finger. “I want to. My mother…” He sighs. “She was very anxious. Always fretting. She was a weaver; she liked making rugs.”

Yusuf’s thumb stills over Nicolo’s knuckle. Nicolo tilts his head. “Your prayer mat. Did she--?

“Yeah, she made it.” Yusuf pauses again. “Weaving calmed her down when she was nervous. My father and I, we would travel often-- business, you know. Trade deals and things. Mother always worried when we were gone.”

They both pause when Quynh yells something particularly loud at Andromache, breaking the moment for a split second. Andromache hollers something back, and the two women break out into abrupt laughter.

“Are you worried you’ll forget her?” Nicolo asks when they've settled again. “Your mother?”

“No,” Yusuf replies, though he trails off halfway through the word. “In part, I suppose… but there are many things I’d like to forget, I think.”

Nicolo peels himself out of Yusuf’s arms in response to that, twisting around to look at his companion. Yusuf’s brows are pressed together, the tilt of his mouth sad. Nicolo places a hand to his chest, fingers against Yusuf’s collar. “Yusuf?”

Yusuf sucks the inside of his cheek, looking far away before directing a sad smile at Nicolo. “She came with us, once. On a trip. Of course the one time Father allowed her to come was the time that it went wrong.” At Nicolo’s questioning look, Yusuf elaborates, “Bandits.”

“Yusuf...”

“I hadn’t really known how to fight, then, so it didn’t… really matter, either way-- but I got knocked out in the fight, and by the time I woke up again, it was all over.” With a slow breath, Yusuf looks down at their interwoven fingers. “I would like to forget some things. Not her, but…” 

It takes Yusuf a long moment to continue. He looks up, towards the stars, lips pursed with thought, before eventually ducking his head again. Nicolo waits quietly.

“It is hard to remember them,” Yusuf says eventually, to their hands, “without remembering them in death. I had to bury them both.”

With a soft noise, Nicolo reaches forward and pulls Yusuf into a hug, arms wrapping about his shoulders; Yusuf responds in chorus and reaches for Nicolo back, his embrace tight enough to grind bone.

Nicolo rubs a hand up and down Yusuf’s back, his face tucked into Nicolo’s shoulder. Perturbed, Nicolo can’t imagine it- the comforting memory of his own mother, crossed and tainted by violence so cruelly. To lose her was enough. To lose the comfort of remembering her as well would be harrowing.

Yusuf pulls away first after some time, eyes red but dry, mouth turned down. Nicolo reaches up and thumbs at the crease between his brows, which quirks Yusuf’s lips ever so slightly.

“How old were you?” Nicolo asks.

Yusuf reaches up and takes Nicolo’s hand from his face, wrapping his fingers around his. “Twenty one.”

“A child.”

“Hardly, Nico,” Yusuf snorts softly. Nicolo disagrees, but he’s not going to start an argument over it. Not now.

With a sigh, Yusuf leans back against the rock formation behind them, wrapping an arm around Nicolo and tugging him sideways against his chest. Nicolo rests his head against Yusuf's shoulder.

“It’s not that I wish to forget her. Or my father. But I… would rather fondly remember the idea of them, the fragments, then remember them perfectly in death. That might make me selfish.”

“It does not,” Nicolo replies sternly. “It makes perfect sense to feel that way, Yusuf.” And then, “I’m sorry.” Yusuf only hums in response. It is, admittedly, a frail sentiment, so Nicolo adds, “I love you. In case you’ve forgotten.”

This earns him a huff against the top of his head. “I love you too,” Yusuf responds, and they fall into an easy silence.

After a few minutes, and with a great sigh, Yusuf tilts his head so that his cheek presses against Nicolo’s hair. “Nicolo…” he mumbles, hesitant, “I don’t mean to ruin the moment, but... I think we’re sleeping under the stars tonight.”

Nicolo lifts his head and twists around to find the half-assembled and frankly pathetic looking tent swaying off in the distance alone, with both Andromache and Quynh nowhere in sight.

“The consolidated wisdom of millenia,” Nicolo grumbles, dropping his head back against Yusuf. “And they still can’t assemble a tent.”

Yusuf laughs; Nicolo is by far more warmed by that than any comfort the damned tent could have offered.

~

Quynh has the little joke of hers whenever they go drinking. She’ll tell Yusuf, giggling into her tankard, “I miss when you didn’t drink!”

This is a joke because Yusuf gave up his abstinence of alcohol only a few months after he and Nicolo had met Quynh and Andromache, nearly two hundred years ago now, and when he’d announced his decision to do so to the two warrior women, they’d both admitted they didn’t even realize that he didn’t drink in the first place. 

Nearly two hundred years later, Quynh continues to make this joke. Nicolo has yet to find it funny, but Yusuf laughs every time.

“It’s our anniversary, Quynh, you must be nice to us!” Yusuf insists in response to said joke. He is, as Andromache might say, drunk off his ass, swaying happily in his seat at the musty bar they’ve settled in for the night to celebrate. Despite how loudly he’s speaking, Nicolo can barely hear him over the clatter and bustle and chatter of the other, varyingly drunk, patrons at the bar.

“Three hundred years is nothing, Yusuf. You’re still babies,” Andromache replies, equally smashed yet bearing it more stoically, pitched against Quynh’s shoulder. One of her hands is still curled loosely around her tankard, unwilling to give it up just yet, probably.

Nicolo leans back against his rickety chair. “Do you two remember when you only knew each other for three hundred years?”

In response to this, Andromache pulls back from Quynh’s shoulder, propping herself up on the edge of a table with her free hand. She tilts her head, staring silently at Quynh with a quirked mouth, and Quynh stares back, eyebrows raised high. Nicolo’s gaze flicks between the two warrior women, eyeing them both, studying the emotion in their eyes and their mouths and their brows. 

For nearly an entire minute they say nothing. They have no need to. The charged gaze between them could write entire epics; legions of words pass between them and neither woman even opens her mouth.

Nicolo finds himself slightly jealous. He wonders if he and Yusuf will ever hit a point such as this, where they could communicate without words, know each other so well that even a twitch of the brow or a press of lips could mean so much-- that words become irrelevant. Become small and useless compared to the years of their bond.

“It was a time,” Quynh answers at last, smiling a far away smile.

“That’s different,” Yusuf interrupts, slurring slightly and grinning widely. “because, this isn’t about how long you two have known each other, but how long I’ve known Nicolo,” here, he gestures broadly at Nicolo, sitting at his side, “and when you two will have known Nicolo for three hundred years, and-- and want to celebrate, I will not laugh at your paltry few years spent with him, in comparison to my many centuries! And you may-- may thank me for my generosity and kindness-- then.”

Quynh snorts. “That was very poetic of you, Yusuf.”

“Thank you.” Yusuf places a calloused hand atop Nicolo’s head. “I love him very much,” he states, very sincerely, if a little slurred.

Andromache, as always, seems to feel a compulsion to try and ruin the moment. Their Andromache, old and wise as she is, is a great many things: an elegant warrior, a stern protector, and a graceful leader-- however, a kind drunk she is not.  “You know, you’ll get tired of each other eventually,” she points out, gesturing between the two of them. Yusuf rolls his eyes, his hand slipping from Nicolo’s head. “Quynh and I usually separate every couple hundred years for a time. It’s normal.”

“Bah,” Yusuf grumbles. “Andromache, you do not have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I do!” Andromache insists. Quynh sends her a sharp look that she doesn’t see because she’s too busy waving her hand widely. “I have been with, and wooed, and have been wooed by-- by more men and women than you’ve ever even set eyes on.”

Yusuf copies Andromache’s grand gesture, cheery and mocking. “That, what you’ve just described, is the opposite of romance, boss.”

“Whatever,” Andromache concedes with middling grace. “I’m happy for you two, either way.”

“Thank you,” Nicolo says, so that Yusuf won't say anything else. “Another round?”

~

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Yusuf says to Nicolo an hour or so later, as Nicolo is trying to haul the damned drunk up the stairs without sending them both sprawling down to their temporary deaths.

Funnily enough, around the time Yusuf began drinking, Nicolo stopped-- not out of any particular thoughts on alcohol itself, but because someone had to remain sober in order to drag Yusuf’s drunken ass back to their room at the end of the night, and the responsibility fell to Nicolo for all of the obvious reasons, and also because he was happy to do it.

“Who?” Nicolo asks, steadying a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder when he sways at the top dangerously.

“Andromache,” Yusuf replies. Nicolo’s not sure what exactly Yusuf thinks she was wrong about-- they’d discussed many topics at the bar downstairs-- but he might succeed in having this conversation more so if Andromache and Quynh weren’t standing no less than five feet away, hovering just inside their room’s open door down the hall, stripping down to their tunics and trousers.

Probably standing by in case Nicolo and Yusuf took an unfortunate tumble down the stairs. Nicolo is warmed by their concern, but Yusuf is too busy being drunkenly confused by Andromache’s presence after she calls over an “about what?” to think of such things.

“Where did you come from?” Yusuf asks Andromache, only going half willingly when Nicolo rolls his eyes and drags him down the hall.

“Thank you, good night,” Nicolo tells the two women as they pass their door and head down the hall to theirs, floorboards creaking under their boots.

“Have a nice anniversary, infants!” Andromach calls after they manage to stumble to their door, sticking her head out of theirs.

Nicolo fiddles with the key the barkeep gave him, trying desperately to ignore Yusuf when he yells back, “Us infants will try not to fuck so loud you can hear it all the way down there!” probably scarring some of the tenants.

“I bet you can’t!” Andromache responds, gleeful, and ducks back inside to slam the door shut.

“Is that a fucking challenge?” Yusuf asks the empty hallway, going easily when Nicolo drags him inside.

It’s a humble room, but the presence of four walls and a floor makes it good enough for Nicolo, and the bed is only an added bonus. He leaves Yusuf to his own devices as he lights the lantern set in the corner, double checking that their bags --that they’d tossed in the room earlier-- haven’t been stolen. He nudges the bags with a toe as he unlatches his longsword from his belt, propping the sheath up carefully by the little table with the lantern.

Yusuf is being oddly quiet; Nicolo turns to find the love of his life lying starfished on the little bed, peering up at the wood ceiling as if the secrets of the universe are engraved on it.

“I am so tired, Nicolo,” Yusuf mumbles, mournful. “Why did you make me go up all those stairs?”

“I am infamously known to be cruel and unfair,” Nicolo replies dryly, crossing over and sitting next to Yusuf. He unbuckles the straps around Yusuf’s shoulders that keep his scimitar attached to his back while Yusuf lies still. When the task is done, he looks up to find Yusuf staring at him, brows drawn together. “Lean up,” Nicolo orders softly, and Yusuf complies without complaint, shifting his shoulders off the bed just enough that Nicolo can pull his sheath off.

He stands to go retrieve his own sword, so that both can be placed at their bedside, within reach, shucking off his boots as he goes.

“Can you grab my bag for me?” Yusuf asks from the bed while Nicolo is doing so, so Nicolo does, balancing the two sheathed swords under one arm and holding Yusuf’s rucksack in the other.

He drops the bag at Yusuf's side and sits beside it, setting both swords at his feet, on the left side of the bed. Usually Yusuf’s scimitar goes on the other side, but Nicolo does not trust him with access to a sharp object in this state.

Yusuf sits up to shuffle through his bag. “I got you something,” he tells Nicolo when he straightens. Nicolo frowns at him.

“You got me something?” he repeats. 

“Yeah.” Yusuf pulls out his sketchbook, though he doesn't grab his bag of charcoals.

But I didn’t get you anything, is something Nicolo almost wants to say, but honestly, three hundred years into a relationship, you stop keeping track of how many gifts have been exchanged and when. Especially when their finances are so intertwined. Nicolo and Yusuf simply buy each other things whenever the urge arises, and they’re both such men that these gifts are usually just practical items: new boots, a thicker cloak, and so on.

But now Yusuf passes Nicolo his sketchbook, turning back to the bag to buckle it closed again.

“A sketchbook,” Nicolo muses with a smile, rubbing a thumb over the bound leather cover. “You shouldn't have.”

“Oh, stop,” Yusuf grumbles, snatching the book back once his bag is closed. He shoves it off the bed with a mildly worrying clank and sits in its vacated spot, next to Nicolo. “Your jokes will make you look a fool when you are crying tears of gratitude on me.” 

Nicolo smiles. Yusuf’s thigh, pressed against Nicolo’s, is warm, and his shoulder knocks against Nicolo’s with such familiarity Nicolo wonders if he could identify Yusuf from that alone; without sight, without hearing. He thinks he could, given the opportunity.

Yusuf flips through his sketchbook quickly, scanning past images of landscapes and crowded marketplaces and Nicolo’s own smiling face until he stops at a certain page, angling the book away so that Nicolo cannot see. He peers sideways at him, suspicious or maybe anticipatory.

“Do you expect me to start the tears of gratitude now, or…?” Nicolo asks, grinning at Yusuf’s unamused stare before Yusuf shoves the book into Nicolo’s open hands.

Nicolo doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, at first. Not that he doesn’t recognize the image; he does, he just doesn’t... understand.

“How…?” Nicolo asks, trailing off in wonder. He lifts a hand to touch the image, then snatches his hand away, afraid he’ll smear it.

It’s his mother.

He doesn’t understand how Yusuf could do this; drawing his mother is one thing, but the accuracy of the drawing to Nicolo’s memory is astounding. The line of her cheekbones and the crinkles of her crows feet, the shape of her eyes set by happiness. The drift of hair over her shoulder is a little longer than his mother had it, and a little straighter, but other than that it is an almost perfect recreation. Down to the curl of her mouth, the small flash of teeth. Nicolo can practically hear her in the image, her eyebrows raised and surprised joy flashing in her eyes, as she says, “That’s a big one, Nicolo, good job!”

“How did you do this?” Nicolo asks, voice small.

“Do you remember when you told me what she looked like?” Yusuf asks. “When we were talking about Andromache’s mother?”

“Yes, I remember,” Nicolo replies, frustrated. “I told you she had brown hair and green eyes. Yusuf, how did you--” He peels his eyes off of the drawing that sends him straight to his childhood. “You even got her smile right.”

Yusuf presses his lips together in a fond little smirk. “I will tell you, but you must agree not to share my secret.”

“Yusuf.”

Yusuf scoots that much closer, tucking a hand under Nicolo’s jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “I know how she smiles because I know how you smile. Because she’s your mother. And she lives in you, even if she’s been dead three hundred years. Even if you forget her to some small degree, she will stay with you. Here--” Yusuf touches the corner of Nicolo’s mouth. “And here--” His pointer swipes over Nicolo’s cheekbone. “And here.” He presses a thumb under Nicolo’s eye, and it comes away wet. He makes a small noise. “I was kidding about the tears of gratitude, Nico.”

The sketchbook almost falls off of Nicolo’s thighs in his urgency to pull Yusuf into a hug.

Yusuf returns the embrace with a huffing little laugh, arms wrapping around Nicolo’s waist and hauling him in close, the sketchbook folding closed between the press of their bodies, the beat of their hearts against each other.

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Nicolo murmurs into the crook of Yusuf’s neck, endlessly sincere. His fingers hook into Yusuf’s tunic, over his back, already pulled tight by the muscles there.

“Happy anniversary,” Yusuf responds cheerily. “To three hundred years, eh?”

“And three hundred more,” Nicolo reminds him.

“Fuck, Nicolo.” Yusuf leans back, hands lingering at his waist. He catches Nicolo’s eyes, his brows pulled together. “To three thousand more; Andromache doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Nicolo frowns, recalling Yusuf saying something of the sort in the hall. “What did she say?”

“What did she say?” Yusuf repeats thoughtfully. “I don’t remember-- some nonsense about us getting tired of each other.”

“Oh.” Nicolo does remember that. “I don’t think she meant it like that, Yusuf. And after all, she is rather the authority on how the relationships of immortals work.”

“The authority!” Yusuf repeats, mocking. “When Andromache kills a man with her bare hands and comes out the other side of the experience loving him, I will give her credence to the idea that she’s an authority over our relationship.”

“I didn’t say she was an authority over us. Just that she may understand better.”

“What, do you think she’s right?” Yusuf’s brow furrows, voice lowering. “That we shall grow tired of each other?”

“No,” Nicolo immediately insists, his desire to assure Yusuf strong and instinctual. He lets his hand slide to his shoulder, gripping there. “At least,” he admits on second thought, “I’ve never once felt anything to give me the impression that I will. But it may happen, Yusuf.”

To be completely honest, Nicolo can’t imagine such a thing. He’s woken up every morning for the past three hundred years of his life at Yusuf’s side, and he can’t even begin to understand what kind of drastic shift in his heart would inspire him to grow tired or restless of doing so. Of Yusuf’s hands, of his voice, of his glittering eyes and his loud, joyful laugh-- and the way he furrows his brow when he’s thoughtful, like he’s doing at Nicolo right now.

“Because Andromache says so? I think not,” Yusuf argues. “Andromache is wise, but she’s known us barely more than a hundred years. Her experience does not allow her to see to your heart, or to mine. I will love you forever, Nicolo.”

“Forever is a long time, Yusuf,” Nicolo responds, smiling.

“Well, I will,” Yusuf insists. “When we are twice as old as Andromache is today, and the memories of our childhoods, and our warring, and even our three hundred year anniversary will be nothing but dust, I will remember loving you with certainty-- and that will be because I’ll have done it every day of my life.”

Yusuf shrugs and presses closer, bowing his forehead to Nicolo’s. “And if we forget every bad time and every good time with it,” he murmurs, looking down, “I will not care; it will all wash away in the sands of time eventually, but I have no intent to be separated from you. I won't let memory or time or violence take you from me. I don’t care what Andromache says. The only thing that will end us is your word, Nicolo.”

Amused, Nicolo lets out a throaty little huh. “You will be waiting a long time for that, Yusuf. Maybe even forever.”

Yusuf grins at that, eyes flicking up, and Nicolo has that split second thought he always has --you’re hiding dimples under all that beard-- before Yusuf tilts his head up and kisses him, leaning forward with all the drunken weight of his body.

Nicolo catches Yusuf’s jaw in his hand, shoulders bunching up as he shifts so that Yusuf doesn't topple them both; tilts his head and grips Yusuf’s shoulder and kisses him back.

It is not, admittedly, their best kiss. But Nicolo’s found over the years that a kiss with Yusuf is a kiss with Yusuf, which is to say no matter how much their teeth clack or their mouths miss their mark, it is still Yusuf, so none of them are actually bad.

And Nicolo is distracted. Yusuf is one to spew pretty words whenever the mood takes him, but his aptitude for the spoken word even in the worst --or most drunken-- of times always catches Nicolo off guard; even three hundred years into their relationship.

Every day of my life, Yusuf had said, and Nicolo finds himself giddy and weightless at the idea. Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks to himself, unable to fight off a smile as Yusuf pulls him in closer, a hand at his neck. Every day.

~

It is a fair while later --after Nicolo has pried Yusuf’s boots off, after the lantern light was blown out, and after they are both under the admittedly threadbare blanket-- that Nicolo lies propped up on his elbows on his side of the bed, admiring the drawing of his mother by moonlight. Yusuf lies on his back beside Nicolo, either asleep or drifting, arm thrown over his eyes and mouth pulled into a frown.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” Yusuf asks groggily after some time, revealing himself to be awake. “Or must I compete with my own drawing for your attention?”

“You made a mistake giving me this,” Nicolo replies, closing the sketchbook and leaning over to set it carefully on the floor. “I will do nothing but admire it for eternity.”

With a huff, he settles under the blanket, facing Yusuf, crossing his arms to his chest. Yusuf responds with only a smile, and after the silence stretches for a moment, Nicolo adds, “I wish I could give you such peace in regards to your own mother.”

Yusuf drops the arm from his face, squinting sideways at Nicolo. “Pfft. You have already brought me more peace than any other living being on this earth. Give making me the happiest man alive a rest for a few minutes, Nicolo; you’ll give yourself a complex.” He rolls onto his side. “But also roll over. What are you doing lying all the way over there, anyways?”

“Giving myself a complex, apparently,” Nicolo grumbles, doing as he’s told and shuffling onto his side. Yusuf throws an arm over him from behind, snuggling forward and pulling Nicolo back in unison until they are pressed against each other, shoulders to thighs. 

“I am being truthful,” Yusuf murmurs after a moment, low and intimate and close, tired words slurring into each other. He yawns before butting his forehead gently against the back of Nicolo’s neck. “My mother-- I have many good memories of her, and some bad. I would like to forget some and cherish others, but in the end I will likely lose all or most of ‘em, as Andromache has. That’s just the truth of it all.” He yawns again, shifting his grip on Nicolo. “I could draw her if I wish, but I don’t know if even a thousand drawings will ease her memory. And losing memories is a simple trade-off of the life we live, even if we didn’t choose it. I may not keep my memories, but as long as I can keep you, I am at peace with it all.”

Nicolo considers that, tucking his own hands into his sides. As much as their immortality was not a choice-- it was nothing either Nicolo or Yusuf asked for or even really wanted, three hundred years ago, but it was gifted to them anyway. They didn’t ask for each other either, and yet Yusuf was given to Nicolo and vice versa in the same breath that their immortality was thrust upon them.

But of course, unlike the immortality, and unlike all the other positives and negative consequences that came with it, they did choose each other. They chose to put down their weapons. They chose to stay at each other’s side. They’ve chosen that every single day of the last three hundred years. Hopefully they will do so for the next three hundred -- thousand-- years.

He will lose his memories eventually, one day, one way or another. It is like Yusuf said: it is a simple trade-off of the life they live. 

But if it had been a choice-- well. Even the innocent comfort of his mother’s memory, of those late afternoons picking seashells-- those memories are not nothing to him, but if it ever came between keeping them and keeping Yusuf… the choice is obvious.

But there is no choice. The memories will fade one day whether he wants them to or not, whether Yusuf draws a thousand portraits of his mother or not.

Yusuf will not fade. Yusuf will be here. Yusuf has been here, for three hundred years.

Every day of our lives, Nicolo thinks, and smiles.

“You know,” he says quietly into the dark room. “You are a very wise man, Yusuf.”

“Don’t tell Quynh and Andromache,” Yusuf mumbles into Nicolo’s nape. “It will ruin my image.”

Nicolo snorts, smiles, and, eventually, falls asleep in Yusuf’s arms.

#Anonymous #joe x nicky

[thickenmyblood]

wow thanks for clarifying and thank you for that response!! if you don't mind, i was wondering about auguste's two love interests: uncle says auguste did something to victoire before he had her hung, but someone cuts him off; my mind jumped to having her stripped or raped or something but i truly don't think auguste would go there. what do you think? and do you have any headcanons for his new wife and what their marriage is like? her dad watching her consummation was 🤮 (and on point for Vere)

Hello! Thank you for asking. Here’s another long response, sorry.

His uncle being cut off before he can say what happened to Victoire was a deliberate choice on my part. I like dark themes, but I find that they work especially well when they’re vague enough to keep you guessing exactly what happened. One of the reasons I liked Captive Prince so much is that despite most people’s reviews that it was a “horribly explicit” trilogy, it left a lot to the reader’s imagination. 

Originally, I was going to explain what happened to Victoire. Laurent was going to be the one who offhandedly told Damen about it and Damen being Damen was going to be horrified and repulsed by it all. However, a lot of people were starting to view Auguste as completely insane around the time those last few chapters were being written. This influenced my choice of not saying what had happened to Victoire because I personally don’t think Auguste is crazy, and so I wanted to control other people’s views on him. This was the wrong approach and it cost me a lot aesthetically. There was a lot of telling in the epilogue and not enough showing (I will make sure to edit out the scene where Laurent tells Jokaste that Auguste isn’t crazy. That was just me being controlling.)

Victoire’s punishment was brutal, not so much because Auguste was personally angry at her (which he was) or hurt by her betrayal (which he also was). In the past (pre-19th century), punishment was about setting a public example. It also served as a ‘divertissement’, although that wasn’t its original goal. Auguste could have had her hanged and called it a day, but that wasn’t brutal enough to really carry out the message he wanted everyone around him to understand. To betray the King is not just to die, but to do so horribly and in pain. There’s a difference.

Given that Vere is a very sexualized society, I think it’s fair to assume in Victoire’s case her punishment was sexual. And I don’t think Auguste participated in it, unlike what happened with Benoit. Again, this is just my personal headcanon, but if you wish to interpret it any other way, feel free to do so.

Élise and Auguste’s consummation was very frustrating to write, mainly because I kept arguing with someone in my life about whether or not it was “too much” to have Laurent be present in that moment. This person kept telling me it was necessary for historical accuracy, and I kept saying it would be wrongly interpreted by readers who were already upset because there were “incest undertones” to Laurent and Auguste’s relationship. Élise’s dad watching them have sex was purely self-indulgent since what I really like about public consummations is the weird mixture of shame and pleasure. 

As for how their marriage will go, I don’t think they’ll ever be in love. Auguste doesn’t care about her beyond what their union means politically, and I don’t think he’ll learn to care about her any time soon. 

We only ever see her through Laurent’s POV, who describes her as bovine and easy to silence, but we all know Laurent’s POV in that fic can’t be trusted. However, Jokaste says something that could imply she’s not all Laurent has made her out to be:

“I spoke to the Queen,” Jokaste said. Mother is dead, Laurent thought, and then remembered Élise existed. “She’s interesting.”

“Have you come here to gossip?”

An elegant, one-shoulder shrug. “I was curious after last night. She was definitely a surprise, what with her taste for bed slaves.”

She’s the Queen of Vere, but she’s also a southerner. She had no choice but to marry Auguste, who we know doesn’t care about her and is, maybe, expecting her to die in childbirth after giving him an heir. But she has an exotic taste for bed slaves. I think that’s pretty interesting. It certainly means she doesn’t share Auguste and Laurent’s dislike for slavery. Also, following Veretian traditions, she’s not allowed to bed male slaves. That means she willingly chose to bed women. Which is… Interesting.

The point of Élise as a character is to show that despite Auguste’s struggle for control and his desperate want to bed only those he personally chooses, he can’t escape his royal duties. He isn’t free of his obligations, and he’ll never be. Kingship is something he’s good at, according to teen-Damianos, but I don’t think it’s something he enjoys doing. 

My best guess is that they’ll live apart if Auguste ends up moving the capital. If she dies during childbirth and the baby is a boy, Auguste might avoid marrying again (which I mean… he shouldn’t, because if his kid dies he’s fucked, but apparently in the books no one was too worried about having a lot of kids lol). If she dies and the baby is a girl, Auguste will be forced to find another wife. 

To summarize, Auguste’s life sucks. Élise’s too, in a way. When the sun is on again should have been titled ‘Everyone’s lives suck, especially Aimeric’s’. 

Hope this was entertaining to read. If not, I apologize <3

#anon

[biihoebi]

@newsiesgiftexchange

for @what-goesaround-comesaround for the Newsies Winter Gift Exchange 2020

aaaah ok so this unbetad because usually I bully you into betaing my stuff so it's quite stream of consciousness but whateverr. also maybe I took some creative liberties on the historical accuracy but who cares

(its kind of a shit show but shhhh Irish Spot)

——————————————————————–

read on ao3 here

——————————————————————–

While it was Jack's father who taught him not to starve it was his mother who taught him the value of his heritage. Which is why when the new kid at the lodging house was sitting at the end of his bed, distressed over a throwaway comment Albert had made, Jack was doing his best to comfort them.

"He said I was losing my accent" Rua had all but wailed. "How can I be Irish without me accent. And Granda said he used to have flaming hair like mine before it went dark with age. Then I won't even look Irish." they continued.

"But yer Irish by blood not by hair or by voice. I mean my hair ain't red but you'd be hard pressed tryna tell me I isn't Irish." Jack sighed. "Look, I've never stepped foot in Ireland, youse is ahead of me there, but my Mam kept it alive in the stories she told. Some were legends and some were just memories of her and her siblings getting into all sorts of trouble in the fields. And I can speak Irish just as good as the next guy, no matter what Spot Conlon says" he finished. Rua let out a short sniffle.

"But my Mam works in a factory. I never see her no more" they said wiping their face with their sleeve.

"We ain't the same, I'm Irish sure but I was born here. Youse is better off asking Spot about this, he was born in Dublin, didn't come here til he was about 8. And seeing as Albert started this whole mess he can be the one to go to Brooklyn to deliver the message after he's done selling. Now it's time for newsies to go to bed, you ain't no use selling if your half asleep." Jack declared.

——————————————————————–

To a bright eyed and bushy tailed Rua morning couldn't come soon enough and neither could the circulation bell nor could the final sell of the day. By the time Albert left for Brooklyn every newsie in Manhattan knew about it and was sick of hearing about it.

"Just because Albert's gone today, don't mean Spots gonna visit today. Heck he mightn't even visit at all. Do youse really think this is a big enough deal for the King of Brooklyn to take time out of his busy sche-

"Stop shit stirring Boots" Jack interrupted sternly. "Just because Spot doesn't like Brits like you doesn't mean he won't help out a fellow Paddy" he joked. At that Boots straightened his back

"I'll have you know Mr Kelly that Spot Conlon said I's is the best 'Brit' he knows" he said, smugly straightening an imaginary tie.

"Best of a rotten bunch" a new voice chimed in. Every newsie in the room suddenly started scrambling to look half presentable. "I got your message Kelly, now where's the young wayne?" the person continued. In response Jack stepped aside revealing Rua, who had been hiding behind his legs.

"I-I'm Rua" they stuttered out. The man crouched down to their eye level.

"I'm Spot Conlon, but I thought youse was supposed to be Irish. Where's me 'dia duit'? It's like you ain't even tryin'. No wonder youse losing yer accent" Spot said. That did nothing to help the already nervous wreck that Rua was.

Spot shot up suddenly, shooing everyone but Jack, Rua, Crutchie and Race out. He sat down on the middle bed and kicked his feet up, gesturing for everyone to follow. Ever the rebel Race decided to lean against the bunk instead while the rest settled into the surrounding beds. "Look, Jack says youse is struggling with moving on with yer life while staying Irish. I went through the same thing when I first came 'nd look at me now, King of New York"

"King of Brooklyn" Race coughed out which Spot shot daggers at him for.

"I'se is the King of New York, don't let no street rat tell you otherwise" he spat "but I wasn't always, I was once a youngin like you, fresh off the boat with only my poor parents and a sack full of stuff between us…"

——————————————————————–

The dock bustled with workers and passengers alike. Some leaving but most stepping off boats and into their new lives. Among those coming off was a young Seán Conlon. With wild hair and big eyes filled with the wonder and excitement of seeing somewhere beyond the slums of Dublin. It was an outbreak of TB amongst the tenements that did it in for his parents.

Seán didn't have long to admire the new world he had just entered before his hand was grabbed and he was dragged off into a long line filled with fellow immigrants. Hours passed before the tired young boy would make it through the front door to his new home. It was a small one room apartment completely unlivable by today's standard but to someone from the worst slums in Europe it might as well have been Buckingham. "Go bhfoire Dia orainn, tá sé linne!! Níl aon theaghlach eile ina gconaionn liomsa?" Seán gawked in awe.

"Tá, ach bí curamach, níl cead agat bí ag caint as gaeilge nuair a tá tú taobh amuigh" his father responded.

"Cén fáth?"

"Mar ní maith a lán daoiní, duine eile ag caint as gaeilge agus sin é sin a bhfuil."

"Ceart go leor"

That night Seán lay awake in his bed wondering why anyone could dislike speaking Irish. Well besides the British but Uncle Seamus always said that their opinion didn't matter and that he and a few of his friends from the Irish Republican Brotherhood would soon rid Ireland of them. Whatever that meant. His father would always laugh alongside and say 'that would be the day' while his mother would give out to him for encouraging Seamus.

It wouldn't be for a few weeks that Seán would find out what his dad was talking about. He was out selling papers to help make ends meet, as small as the room was all three of them had to work hard in order to pay for it. He stood there waiting at the gate for the circulation bell to ring, when it happened. On his first day one of the older kids taught him a few tricks and gave him a few pieces of advice. One of those pieces was 'stay away from Acton Williams'. An unspoken rule he had managed to avoid up until that point.

Acton had walked right into him, dropping a strange wooden item in the process. Seán liked to think that his mother raised him right so he apologized and bent down to pick up the trinket

"Brón orm" he mumbled as he crouched, item in hand.

"The fuck you say to me?" Acton grunted. Seán froze realising his mistake and everyone went silent at the sound of Acton's voice.

"I was just saying sorry" Seán rushed out, trying desperately not to get baited so soon after joining the newsies. Acton let out a laugh.

"That's not what you said though is it?" he said " see I think youse was speaking some stupid language from the stupid country you came from. So I'mma ask again 'the fuck you say to me?"

"I said 'brón orm', you heard me the first time," Seán said, gaining confidence. It was one thing to be intimidated by an older kid who would definitely knock your block off but his Nan taught him better than to let someone talk shite about Ireland. Acton scoffed.

"I pity the Mum who raised such a rude brat " he spat taking a step towards Seán.

"Yeah well I pity the Mam who gave birth to such an ugly ogre"

And they were off! Acton could easily outrun Seán's tiny legs so his only hope was to lose him with twists and turns through the back alleys and busy streets. After what felt like hours of running, Seán finally ran into a deadend. Turning to face a panting Acton, Seán gulped and started reciting any and all prayers he could think of to any saints that popped into his head. In fact it wasn't until Seán went to clasp his hands in prayer that he noticed what he had picked up earlier.

A slingshot!!

Grabbing the nearest rock Seán loaded the sling. 'Dear St Anthony, pleeaassee help me find the ability to aim well' he prayed as he scrunched his eyes shut and released.

The next thing Seán heard was the large thump an unconscious Actons body made as it hit the ground. Opening his eyes to examine the noise he had heard Seán was shocked to see his feeble attempt at fighting back was actually a success. Seán quickly pocketed the slingshot and left before Acton had time to wake up.

——————————————————————–

"...and that's what it means to be Irish" Spot finished proudly

"Beating up British people is what it means to be Irish?" Rua said in awe of Spot's story. Spot grinned.

"See, this kid gets it" he joked, ruffling Ruas hair.

"That was a lovely story yer highness but how is that surppsoed to help 'em keep their accent" Race chipped in.

"Well what about you then Higgins if you have so much to say? D'you have any stories worth listening to?"

"What about being Italian? Well I-"

"Italian? Are ye not Irish?"

"No? What made you think that?"

"Yer surname is Higgins"

"Yeah, Higgins is a classic Italian name"

Jack and Spot made eye contact for a good minute before bursting out laughing. "Yer telling me this entire time youse never knew you was Irish?" Jack choked out between laughs. Even Rua stifled a giggle.

"My own mam was a Higgin, Racetrack" Spot roared. "Yee just can't make this stuff up" he said wiping a tear from his eye. Race's face was a brilliant red as he sputtered out excuses.

"Yer just joking, right guys? Right guys??"

——————————————————————–

BONUS :

At the gates the next morning Seán stood there absolutely shitting bricks. What had happened yesterday had been a stroke of luck but if Acton decided to continue the fight he was dead meat.

"Wait, is that Williams? No way what's with the giant bruise on his forehead?" a voice spoke interrupting Seán's train of thought.

"No way that's a bruise, he doesn't get those" another shot back. Soon a whole symphony of voices were arguing over whether it was a bruise or not.

"Wait a minute, weren't you getting chased by him yesterday, newbie? How come there's not a scratch on ya, and why's there only a big bruise on him?" the first voice said piecing the puzzle together. Soon everyone was crowding around Seán, looking for the story of what happened.

"Look nothing really happened" Seán reassured trying to downplay the situation "he chased me for a bit before I eventually shot him with this sling and he passed out on the spot."

Apparently telling them he knocked out the bully of the newsies was not the right thing to say to defuse the situation. Some started cheering for him others just rolled their eyes at his story.

"He clearly made that up on the spot" one voice chiming in.

"Nah, look at Acton, that's a massive bruise, obviously from being shot with a sling" another rebutted. Eventually the crowd settled a bit and someone had the common sense to ask for his name.

"Oh! I'm Seán." he responded. Everyone groaned.

"Not yer real one, yer newsies one" someone said. After Seán told them he didn't have one, everyone put their thinking caps on.

"Let's call him Spot, 'cause we'll never really know if he knocked him down on the spot or made up that story on the spot."

#boots newsies #jack kelly #livesies #newsies live #crutchie morris #jack newsies #race higgins #racetrack higgins #albert newsies #albert dasilva #spot newsies #spot conlon #newsies holiday exchange

[josieandthepussycatsofficial]

i have done my classic thing: i have started pride and prejudice 2005, i am 7 minutes in, and i am disgusting with this bastardization of the text

my liveblogs below the cut

elizabeth is a man-hating love-hater? not according to any book jane austen wrote!

elizabeth is too silly and improper, mrs bennet, kitty, and lydia are not at all silly enough

this sucks

lizzy is upset that mr darcy didnt find her attractive? that is a devastating mischaracterization and sets the whole plot and their relationship off on terrible and incorrect footing.

also wtf are they sitting under some benches at a dance?

hate that darcy immediately looks at elizabeth (in a way we’re meant to assume means he finds her attractive) as if his attraction to her comes from her initially from her appearance. he really was not interested in her until he began observing her behavior and interacting with he

when mrs bennet says, “it’s a shame [charlotte lucas] isn’t more handsome,” a terribly improper and humiliating thing to say, mr bingley snorts a laugh. mr bingley is not supposed to be improper at all. he has good breeding, he’s rich, he’s just also very nice and friendly. he would never laugh at that

i do not know enough about the regency era to comment, but it seems to me that there are certain liberties with historical accuracy wrt clothing and such in this film that you don’t see in the bbc miniseries. for instance, elizabeth coming to netherfield with her hair down? i don’t believe women ever wore their hair down at this time (*edit* the bbc series and this movie take place in different periods. bbc series: 1813, movie: 1797)

why is mr bingley so awkward? i mean i know why, it’s to make him seem charming and unthreatening and cute and relatable or whatever, but it’s just inconsistent. his character is extremely warm, friendly, polite, not terribly intellectual, but not a bumbling mess who can’t execute a thought without backtracking because he’s so nervous around his lady love

the book has comedy to spare, you don’t have to cheaply manufacture it in this way just because the director’s scared that his audience won’t understand the original humor/scared that he won’t have the ability to make the original humor understood/doesn’t understand the original humor himself because he doesn’t understand the source material!!

i also hate the sharpness and vitriol that this darcy puts in his language. he’s supposed to be uber-polite but cold and haughty. propriety doesn’t permit active hostility (such as when he’s bemoaning the liberal use of the word “accomplished” when applied to women) in regular conversation. that’s intense and insane 

why does he speak so quickly? also they really should not have cut the whole netherfield drawing room scene, at least not the conversation between darcy and elizabeth about teasing and pride. they actually now that i think about it cut his whole thing on how a great man can never be too prideful. that’s really fuckin important character stuff! for both of them!

the comedy in this mr collins scene is not landing. they’re like laughing at him before he’s gotten too outrageous. and the actor is such a quiet, mild-mannered dude that he’s not really grating as he should be. this is supposed to be an extraordinarily annoying character, so annoying that the bennets can’t stand him for literally one meal.

ugh they have mrs bennet suggest to mr collins that he should pursue lizzy instead of jane. that’s not out of character for her at all but it misses the opportunity to show how scuzzy mr collins is, and also how fucking little he cares about who his wife is, assuming she meets the criteria of lady catherine de bourgh

ew mr wickham is so skeevy! lizzy’s into him because he’s hot and picked up her handkerchief? that’s it? is she an idiot? he’s not charming or good-natured or fun or funny at all. lydia: he’s a lieutenant! wickham: an enchanted lieutenant (referring to being enchanted to meet lizzy). like scream! what a gross pick up line!!!!)

and their flirtation is based on banter (no!) and him being self-deprecating (maybe, but not in such an obvious way “ignore me i’m next to nothing” what a fucking weird thing to say)

he literally charms her by pulling a quarter out of her sister’s ear. are you kidding? is she 8?

this dance scene btw elizabeth and darcy is all wrong. she immediately jumps on him with “it’s your turn to say something” after it’s been .1 seconds since he last spoke, and he spoke way more amiably (”indeed, most invigorating”) than would be his wont.

oh my god they’ve stopped dancing to angrily talk to each other in the middle of the dance floor? this is so incoherent with the characters (so improper!) and the time period. just cultivating more drama. this scene’s already juicy, they don’t have to be spitting angrily into each other’s mouths for it to come across

so silly and melodramatic that twice in this movie the entirety of a loud crowded drunken ballroom has screeched to a halting silence immediately for some minor drama. the first being the bingleys and mr darcy simply entering the room. the second being mr collins introducing himself to mr darcy (that one is especially ridiculous)

oh god why are they portraying mr collins as so sympathetic and sweet? he’s a fucking asshole! he’s not just annoying he’s a dick! that’s important, otherwise elizabeth is really unjustly mean to him, especially while she’s rejecting his proposal

oh i disagree with the way they play charlotte’s reasons for marrying mr collins. instead of her just not being romantic and marrying for practical reasons because that’s her nature, they make it a biiig thing like she has to marry because she’s old and ugly and otherwise she’ll go to the poorhouse

it’s not surprising that a lot of my critiques have to do with them pumping drama that doesn’t make sense into the story. making characters shout or spit words etc, because of course that’s what a hollywood film was going to do with a 19th century novel of manners

i guess i should say some good things about this movie. the cinematography is very lovely, obviously. i think it’s well cast, especially judi dench, with the exception of kiera knightley and the actor who plays mr collins. i think matthew mcfayden could’ve been a great darcy had he actually known anything about the character beyond the script

actually i take it back, judi dench isn’t quite amping up the ridiculous nature of this character like she should. they keep a lot of her silly lines but she doesn’t hit them to emphasize just how silly they are. she’s almost too stately to play this woman who, despite her great rank, enjoys spending her time being condescending to lower rank people

here comes my agreement with the grand critique of this movie: they make darcy out to be socially awkward rather than a haughty ass. he’s leaning in and whispering that he has trouble conversing with people, as if he means he has social anxiety and doesn’t mean, “small talk with simpletons bores me”

oh no they cut the delicious piano practice scene! they rewrote it and lizzy just says, “you should practice,” and we don’t get to have this famous, witty misunderstanding that elucidates darcy’s character so well!!!

oh no no no in this scene where colonel fitzwilliam tells lizzy that darcy split up bingleys attachment he tells her that the problem wasn’t the lack of fortune but the family! why?????? that’s half of the big reveal of darcy’s letter????? it’s when she realizes that oh his intentions weren’t so bad

i know i already said it but fuck darcy speaks fast. it sounds like shit. why doesn’t he just shut the fuck up and slow down? it’s weirdly inconsistent with his character. though i guess if they’re trying to rewrite him as socially awkward this could be part of that. but they shouldnt be! because it invalidates the whole premise of the story, their romance, and his character arc!

whoa whoa whoa and in the proposal scene when she says “why did you propose by telling me you’re doing this against your better judgement” he interrupted apologetically, trying to explain. what!!! no!!! he is an asshole! he’s insulted that this low rank woman would dare reject him. he didn’t suspect for one instant that she would. he’s fucking fuming from her first word

wow they’re chopping up this iconic proposal scene huh. i guess to make darcy still seem like a Nice Guy. he didn’t get to accuse her of only rejecting him because she was insulted by his proposal, she had to say that line. this movie is like, let’s make lizzy seem as insane as possible, and darcy as sweet as can be.

you’re not supposed to realize how wrong lizzy is, it’s supposed to creep up on you very slowly. youre supposed to feel like she’s been very reasonable up to this point, and you’re as shocked as she is when she reads the letter.

even his face! so shocked and sad like a kicked puppy standing there in the rain (we won’t even touch why the fuck they’re standing outside in the pouring rain). he’s angry right now! he’s so mad! he’s supposed to be fucking mad, because he’s a proud, arrogant, asshole!

oh my god and look he’s saying the lack of fortune of the bennets had nothing to do with it, and lizzy wow she’s sooo crazy for suggesting it, even though 20 seconds ago he just said it sucks that i’m in love with you ‘cause you’re so low class. god this scene sucks

there’s a reason this is all written in a letter in the book, it works much better that way. this is not a back and forth, lizzy doesn’t get to ask questions and poke holes. he offers his defenses and is still kind of a dick, and lizzy has to read it all without responding or rejecting it, really has to sit with it, the way you can’t do in a fight

oh and he just apologized for accurately noting that elizabeth’s family is often really disgustingly improper! how fucking out of character! both in general and in the scene because, and i can’t stress this enough, HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE ANGRY

oh ok i have to redact some of my former criticism. he finally gets mad at the very end here, and makes the comment about “did you expect me to rejoice in your low birth?” though he still didnt say the crucial “perhaps you would have accepted had not the manner of proposal offended you”

wait what the fuck??? did they just lean in for a kiss and lean away?? like a whole, i’m angry at you i’m hot for you let’s fuck thing? what the fuck? not only is that cheap romance melodrama but also lizzy HATES this man. not like oops i love-i mean hate you but really hates him

why do they choose to have elizabeth not tell jane about the proposal? i can’t imagine there being any reason? except of course that’s she’s secretly already in love with him and doesn’t want to admit it! gag

this scene between elizabeth and mr bennet about lydia going off with the forsters is well done imo

ugh god but they’ve given lizzy’s “what are young men to rocks and mountains?” line to mary, making it seem stupid and platitudinal, because that’s mary’s character

oh good, elizabeth is going on another “all men are trash” rant that is a thinly veiled reference to darcy. they’re just fucking taking a wrecking ball to this character’s credibility and intelligence huh?

this is really devastating actually because at this point the movie is telling us that lizzy is fighting through the anger and hate and realizing she loves darcy, after their sexy confrontation and his letter. in reality, she’s realized she was wrong and is doing some deep self-reflection.

she feels a little sheepish about how she boldly she accused darcy of things she was so wrong about but she still isn’t in love with him because he’s still a fucking proud ass! he just happened to be right about some shit that she was too prejudiced to realize

it doesn’t make sense if she falls in love with him before he grows and becomes a good person. it shows a weakness of character on her part and makes his eventual character growth just a cherry on top. oh that’s nice, they’re in love *and* he’s not gonna treat her like shit. totally invalidates the whole point of the story, overcoming personal defaults and finding healthy love that way

wow they make lizzy so stupid! she objects so stupidly to visiting pemberly! oh let’s not. he’s so…. he’s so… he’s so rich! wtf are you talking about? in the book she’s just kind of like eh idk…. do you really want to go? i guess if you think we should go… oh he won’t be there? oh cool let’s do it

ok so i’m 1:21:54 into the movie. i have 45 minutes left. i’m stopping. i’m angry and getting no joy from this so. this was a humiliating project for me, thinking i could enjoy this movie. never again

#pride and prejudice

[roidespd-blog]

Chapter Sixteen : THE QUEER KING RECOMMENDS

The Queer King recommends THE DEATH AND LIFE OF MARSHA P. JOHNSON (2017) No one knows what really happened to activist and trans pioneer Marsha P. Johnson the night she died. People still trying to understand. Why do you need to see it ? Marsha P. Johnson is an icon and learning about her is learning about Stonewall and our culture.

The Queer King recommends FAGGOTS, Larry Kramer (1978) Fred Lemish, looking for love, gravitates in a New York City full of glory holes, BDSM, orgies and becomes disillusioned along the way. Why do you need to read it ? It’s Kramer’s first novel. It’s ruff. His writing doesn’t shy away from the reality of gay life and he does not take any prisoners alive. A must read.

The Queer King recommends TANGERINE, Sean Baker (2015) On Christmas Eve, Sin-Dee discovers her pimp boyfriend has been cheating on her. With her friend Alexandra, she goes searching for him Why do you need to see it ? Shot on an IPhone for a ridiculous amount of money, this dramedy puts trans women up front with incredible narrative audacity.

The Queer King recommends A LITTLE LIFE, Hanya Yanagihara (2015) Jude, Willem, JB & Malcolm are best friends living in New York City. From college to middle-age, with most focus on Jude, you will learn to care for them like no other fictional characters before. Why do you need to read it ? I can’t stress this enough. This novel is extraordinary. 18 months later, I’m still not over it. It will break your heart.

The Queer King Recommends PLEASE LIKE ME, Josh Thomas (2013–2016) Josh discovers he’s gay, putting a spin in the lives of his girlfriend, his lazy best friend, his newly-wed dad and his depressed mother. Why do you need to see it ? This Australian comedy achieves in tone and heart what Looking never could. And also, there’s Arnold. Oh, Arnold.

The Queer King Recommends HEDWIG AND THE ANGRY INCH, John Cameron Mitchell (2001) Hedwig, an East German gender queer rock singer, is waiting for her operation that will get rid of the one-inch mound of flesh between her legs. Why do you need to see it ? Poignant, full of incredible tunes and an extraordinary performance from writer-director JCM. Sugar Daddy, Bring it Home.

The Queer King Recommends THE PRINCE OF SALT/CAROL, Patricia Highsmith (1952) Young Therese meets Carol, an rich older woman. The “friendship” that will follow will change her life forever. Why do you need to read it ? An unprecedented feat in literature, a lesbian love story in which the protagonists are not punished in the end. The movie adaptation by Todd Haynes is also a must-see.

The Queer King Recommends 120 BATTEMENTS PAR MINUTE, Robin Campillo (2017) France, 1990s. Act Up. The AIDS Epidemic. Love. Revolution. Why do you need to see it ? To remember what happened. It’s earth-shattering. Silence = Death. What are you waiting for ? Go see it, now !

The Queer King Recommends ONE DAY AT A TIME (2017–2019) A family of hispanic descent tries to survive in today’s America. Why do you need to see it ? For the greatest coming-out storyline on television. So perfect. Bring the show back!

The Queer King Recommends GIOVANNI’S ROOM, James Baldwin (1956) David, a young american who lived in Paris, remembers his complex relationships with the men in his life, particularly a bartender named Giovanni. Why do you need to read it ? Top-3 greatest gay novel of all-time. The first time I read it, I couldn’t finish it. I read the last 30 pages 4 years later. It’s THAT powerful.

The Queer King Recommends A VERY ENGLISH SCANDAL , Stephen Frears. (2018) Three-part miniseries about the Jeremy Thorpe Scandal. Why do you need to see it ? Three words. Whishaw. Davies. Frears. Funny as fuck. I’m starting a Ben Whishaw fanclub BTW.

The Queer King recommends THE ADVENTURES OF PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT, Stephan Elliott (1994) Three drag queens take a road trip across Australia to get to a paid-job. Why do you need to see it ? One of the rare 90s positive representation of LGBT+ people, it’s funny, gorgeous looking. A classic. PS The soundtrack is IN-CRE-DI-BLE.

The Queer King recommends JUST KIDS, Patti Smith (2010) The chronicles of a love story beyond societal restrictions between Patti Smith and revolutionary artist Robert Mapplethorpe. Why do you need to read it ? Aside from the historical accuracy of the 60/70s, you explore what it feels like to really love someone. And Mapplethorpe is a fascinating man. I cried multiple times.

The Queer King recommends THE X PORTOFLIO , Robert Mapplethorpe (1978) A series of photographs that shade a light on homosexual practices (most of them extremes). Why do you need to see it ? A lot of Mapplethorpe’s work is great, but this is beyond. Not for the sensible soul. Hardcore.

The Queer King recommends SHORTBUS, John Cameron Mitchell (2006) An extremely diverse group of people are desperately trying to connect in a vibrant New York City. Why do you need to see it ? That little miracle isn’t shy about sex. ALL kinds of sex. It’s very much like a Robert Altman movie, if Robert Altman shot a lot of oral sex in his career.

The Queer King recommends LESS, Andrew Sean Greer (2018) As his 50th birthday is coming up, writer Andrew Less is traveling around the world to avoid going to his ex’s wedding. Why do you need to read it ? For the exploration of a gay man’s psyché while his youth and opportunities are behind him. As a gay man, it made me sad. Then it gave me hope. Also now, I want a blue suit.

The Queer King recommends CLOSET MONSTER, Stephen Dunn (2015) 18-year old Oscar tries to figure out his sexuality and face his childhood demons Why do you need to see it ? The Buffy references and great acting. Duh.

The Queer King recommends THE WAY HE LOOKS, Daniel Ribeiro (2014) Blind high school student Leo meets new classmate Gabriel. He starts developing romantic feelings towards him. Why do you need to see it ? Desires and self-realization are themes very well exploited in this movie. The two main actors are phenomenal. I almost wished I was 16 again (but not really).

The Queer King recommends WHEN WE RISE, Cleve Jones (2016) A complete memoir about the journey of activist Cleve Jones, following into the path of Harvey Milk to keep fighting for LGBTQ+ rights and against the AIDS Epidemic. Why do you need to read it ? An in depth look at life at the fore front of activism, with gorgeous interludes of romance, sex and heartbreaks.

The Queer King recommends KILLING EVE, Phoebe Waller-Bridge (2018-present) MI:5 Eve Polastri’s pursuit of International killer Villanelle. Why do you need to see it ? Because lesbian desires are still mostly unseen on mainstream, award-winning programs. It’s very, very, very good.

The Queer King recommends ZIGGY, STARDUST & ME, James Brandon (2019) 1973. Jonathan meets Web. He’s not supposed to. He needs to change. Sweet Ziggy won’t help him now. Why do you need to read it ? It’s not out until August (but I have a proof copy). It’s not great literature (it’s YA after all) but it did fill my heart with feelings of love and hope. Everything Bowie is good for the soul anyway.

The Queer King recommends PRIDE, Stephen Boresford (2014) 1984, Brittain. A strike is breaking the country apart. Lesbians & Gays decide to give their support to the miners. Why do you need to see it ? Because it’s still rare to see a funny movie about gay people which is not condescending.

The Queer King recommends ANGELS IN AMERICA, Tony Kushner (1991–1993) A complex, metaphorical examination of American life, the AIDS epidemic and homosexuality in the 80s. Why do you need to read it ? The writing is glorious, full with incredible characters. A very sensitive approach of flaws in the human spirit. It’s epic.

The Queer King recommends LE ROSE ET LE NOIR , Frédéric Martel (1996) Everything that happened to the Queer community in France from 1968 until the arrival of the PACS. Why do you need to read it ? Information is key. You won’t get a deeper source of information.

The Queer King recommends LILTING, Hong Khaou (2014) A mother tries to understand who her son was after his death, co-existing with his grieving lover. Why do you need to see it ? A story of death, acceptance and race, Lilting is a delicate piece of filmmaking. And again, Ben Whishaw. Goddamn Ben Whishaw.

The Queer King recommends MOONLIGHT, Barry Jenkins (2016) The youth, teenage years and adult life of a black gay man struggling with his identity. Why do you need to see it ? Black gay men are not a common subject. It won Best Picture at the Oscars. Fucking Amazing.

The Queer King recommends POSE (2018-present) The tribulations of gay and transgender characters in the ball scene of the late 80s. Why do you need to see it ? The first of its kind — where representation is limitless, it’s an homage to a fabulous and terrible time in LGBTQ+’s life. As I said in a previous article, it’s essential.

[forestwater87]

A1 A5 A10 D10

READER MEME READER MEME READER MEME

A1: When did you start reading (and writing, because I got kinda off-track answering this question) fanfiction?

I was around 10 years old? I joined fanfiction.net in 2006 with the most awful thing ever written at around 13-14 yes the 87 in my username is a lie because I wanted to get on deviantart and had to lie about when I was born, but I’d been reading Legend of Zelda fanfic for a while before then, and writing it all down on an old Windows 95 laptop that didn’t have an internet connection, and a slightly-less-old Windows 98 laptop that didn’t have an internet connection. 

I had to save my fics to one of these guys in order to upload it to a computer with actual working internet:

(Those fics still exist; I haven’t had the heart to delete anything I’ve written since 10 years old, though I have gone back and edited some things . . . which, since so much time has passed, I’d probably want to go and reedit by now. They are tragic, but they make me smile for all their flaws. I wish I’d kept the unedited versions though, because yikes. Please, save all your cringiest stuff, because it’s so much fun to look back at.)

A5: Who was the first author you subscribed to?

That was probably Rose Zemlya, who wrote this . . . well, gosh, at the time it was this mind-blowingly excellent fanfic for LoZ: Ocarina of Time. (I’ve never successfully beaten those games nor am I all that interested in them anymore, but baby Forest’s romantic awakening came from a man in a green dress and tights, and so I devoured fanfic about them. Link/Zelda was the original OTP of my dreams. Since I didn’t play the games, I alternated between scouring wikis for canon accuracy and not caring because I was a tween and just wanted to share my dumb OCs.)

I don’t actually know if I’d still think the fics were particularly good or not, because I haven’t bothered to go back and reread them -- and I fell off the wagon when she got interrupted by college or grad school and stopped updating regularly -- but she was the first author who really made me feel something. 

I did just find out she’s still active on tumblr, though I don’t know if she’s still writing either for that fandom, or for fandom in general, or even at all. But I’m glad to see she’s still out there, because she was hugely formative to getting me to actually start writing. (Which means, Rose, it’s all your fault I’m like this. Apologize to the fanfic community for what you’ve done.)

A10: Who did you have your first fanfic-related conversation with? What was it about?

Oof, now we get mildly depressing. When I was a kid (as in, ages 4-16 years old), I had this . . . extremely codependent and borderline abusive relationship with the little girl who lived next door. She and I no longer speak, and there’s a lot of extremely negative feelings built up around what were in retrospect a pretty awful time in my life, but she was also the one who introduced me to fanfiction -- she actually played the Zelda games, and wrote fic for it herself and wanted a writing buddy; I kinda gave zero shits about the games beyond it being a nice convenient generic fantasy world with pretty characters. And while we were highly competitive in the not-fun way that still leaves me really fucked up over not being the Most Popular Author in Any Given Fandom because it triggers some horrible flashbacky feelings, I owe her a lot for being someone who showed me this entire culture existed, that it wasn’t weird or lame, and helped me get really excited about writing.

D10: What is one story idea you really want to read but no one has written yet?

God, I don’t know. I’m not really an “ideas” person -- eagle-eyed readers may notice that none of my fics really have plots to speak of -- but for Camp Camp at least, I do think some sort of immortal/groundhog day/time loop AU would be fun. The writers have said that the series is meant to be an endless summer that exists largely outside of time, right? So what if the entire camp, or the lake, or Sleepy Peak did as well?

I’m not sure exactly how this would work -- are the adults just random wandering immortals (vampires, what have you) who found a job somewhere where no one questions why they’re not getting older, and the campers are normal people who never stick around long enough to notice? Are we talking a Brigadoon-style situation where time stops for whoever’s in the camp but keeps going outside of it? Is there a dimensional rift? 

Fuck, I dunno. I’m not an ideas person. I’d just enjoy the fuck out of an “It’s All Been Done” situation, but fanfic. (And resemblances to two particular angels who keep meeting and falling in love over the course of forever and palling around in various fun historical moments are entirely coincidental.)

#campcamp #ask forest #reader meme #sort turned into halfway a writer meme and halfway a 'listen to forest talk about her sad childhood' meme #not sure i should put this in a main tag #but i really do like this au idea and so i want people to see it and think their thinks about it #thesherlockdavenger

[sittingoverheredreaming]

Girls’ Night

Happy Valentines Day! Who’s ready for a fic that has nothing to do with the holiday or even romance? This turned out very different that what I set out to write, and it hits some personal notes for me (warning for slight butch and homophobia). Yes, it’s just under 2K words of Haruka starting to connect with the Inners beyond Mina.

_____

None of the girls knew what to expect when Minako announced-- and she had announced, rather than asked-- that Haruka would be coming to their next sleepover. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say they all had expectations, but knew them to be incorrect and somewhat less than kind.

Makoto felt preemptively defensive. If Haruka dared deride any of their activities as too girly or childish, she was ready to fight. Ami was nervous that Haruka would not come without Michiru. She could not tell if she specifically did not want Michiru there, or if she thought a couple would be inappropriate. Likely, she conceded privately, it was both.

Rei braced herself for another boisterous blonde in the group. Usagi worried everyone, including herself, would be too flustered to have fun.

But when Haruka arrived, she did not appear boisterous or haughty or even suave. She looked nervous, shoulders raised, a plastic bag of clothes in one hand and a value-sized tub of cheese puffs in the other.

“I, um, brought these,” she said, handing the later to Usagi. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Usagi smiled and did not say she hadn’t invited her. “Of course, we’re glad you came! Everyone’s in here.” She took Haruka and the cheese puffs into the living room. They had their usual set up, squeezed just a little tighter to ensure a sixth person could fit. “So what sort of movies do you like, Haruka?”

Usagi had meant it as an innocuous question, but everyone’s attention shifted to them to wait for the answer.

“Oh, um.” Haruka scratched the back of her head. “I like about anything, really.”

“You can tell them, buddy,” Mina said from her spot on the couch, without looking up from the fashion magazine she’d filched from Rei.

Haruka flushed. “Really, anything is good, I don’t want to throw you guys off too much.”

There was a flash in Rei’s eyes that clearly said Too late, but no one voiced the thought. Haruka squeezed in to sit next to Mina, doing a poor job of feigning interest in the article she was flipping through on the summer’s hottest dress styles.

Makoto looked on from her other side. “You ever wear stuff like that?”

“Um, not really, no.” Haruka’s neck and ears flushed pink. “It’s just not really my thing? I mean, I had to wear dresses when I was younger, but…”

“Mhm,” said Makoto, and Haruka felt this was somehow the wrong answer.

Mina threw an arm around Haruka’s shoulders. “Haruka likes pizza though! We should get to ordering.”

Haruka tried to relax into her embrace. “Yeah, pizza’s great. Any kind of pizza is great.”

“Everyone loves pizza!” Usagi held up her phone like it was a holy sword, ready to order. “Pizza is the great uniter of the people.”

Haruka couldn’t help but laugh. “Actually, would you believe Michiru doesn’t like pizza? I didn’t think it was possible.”

No one else found it amusing. “She does seem the type,” Ami said cooly. Rei and Makoto nodded. Usagi still held her phone in the air, face contorted as she tried to process the words doesn’t like pizza.

“Why don’t we get two large pepperoni?” Mina said as though nothing at all had transpired. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ravenous.

Five uncomfortable murmurs of assent, and she declared the pizza would be on its way. For a long stretch, they all pretended to watch the pizza tracker. Their order had been received. The restaurant had not begun preparing it. Mina tapped her screen to keep it from going dark.

“You know, I’m pretty good at painting nails. Mi…” Haruka shifted and cleared her throat, sensing at the last moment that mentioning Michiru again was not the best course. “I could do it for you guys, if you wanted.”

“Maybe after the pizza,” Rei said. “If our nails don’t dry, it’s hard to eat.”

“Okay.”

“Look.” Mina tossed her phone to type side and pressed her palms against the table. “She did mine the other day.”

Her nails were a simple red. It was the most Haruka could do, but it was hardly impressive to anyone besides Usagi.

“That’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell us Haruka did them?”

Haruka had sworn Mina to secrecy, but she knew better than to say that. “It’s her secret power.”

“I’m jealous. I always get it all uneven.” Usagi pulled off her socks to wiggle her toes, where polish clumped at her cuticles and stuck to the skin around her nail.

“You just get too impatient.” Rei smacked at her socks. “If you just took your time--”

“I do, Rei, I do!” Usagi swung her socks in Rei’s face. “I go so slow! You’ve seen me, I just can’t do it good.”

“You only think you can’t.”

“Reeeeeiiiiiiiii.”

Makoto chuckled and leaned back on the couch. “You sure got them started.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean--”

She waved Haruka off, feeling momentarily charitable. “They get like this no matter what. It’s what you signed up for just by coming.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of nice. You guys are, I mean, when you’re just…” Haruka trailed off.

Makoto softened a little, loosening from the animosity that had built between them. “It’s always nice when people stop being on their best behavior for you.”

Mina beamed behind Haruka’s back. Even Ami, on the other side of the room, looked more comfortable. By the time the pizza arrived, she was sure this was going all according to plan. They all dug in happily, and for a moment it seemed nothing could go wrong. Usagi tried to match Haruka bite for bite-- a simple, yet admirable feat-- while Rei berated them both for their manners. Mako laughed at them all, big and loud, and Ami laughed small and quiet.

But as Mina knew very well, a victory so easily won was just as easily lost.

“It’s movie time!” Usagi declared when the pizza boxes were put aside in favor of various snacks. “What should we watch?”

Everyone-- besides Haruka-- threw in their ideas. Ami got groans for suggesting an Einstine documentary, but so did Rei for her historical drama. Mina, for once, did not suggest anything risque, but instead put forward a rom-com everyone had liked the last time they’d watched it. Makoto also suggested a rom-com.

And then Usagi pulled out a dog movie.

“Mama said this was really good!” She pointed at the cover art. “And the dog is super cute.”

“I heard they did a lot of research on dog behavior for that, it’s supposed to be very accurate.”

Rei nodded as though she was just as interested in scientific accuracy as Ami. “That’s my vote.”

“I’m down.”

Everyone looked to Haruka and Mina. “Um…” Haruka looked at the floor. “Wouldn’t you guys rather watch something more romancey?”

“Why?” Makoto asked, bristling again. “Is that all you think girls like?”

“No, I just like them, and--”

“What, you think the women are hot?”

If looks could kill, Mina would have murdered Rei on the spot.

“No!” Haruka waived her hands in front of her face. “I mean, sometimes, maybe, I don’t know, but probably not any more than you do.”

“Than I do?” Rei went tense, and the room went tenser.

“Than any of you, I mean.”

As soon as she said it, she knew it was a misstep. Ami blushed very red. Makoto looked to the ceiling. Rei crossed her arms, mouthing the beginning of arguments and shaking her head. Usagi didn’t look shaken, at least, just thoughtful, like maybe the idea just hadn’t occurred to her before.

“Well I guess the closet walls are coming down tonight, huh?” Mina said, too loud and cheerful. She clapped her hands. “We don’t have to unpack this right now, so why don’t we--”

“I think I’m gonna go.” Haruka grabbed her bag. “I’m making everyone uncomfortable. Sorry.” She was out the door before Mina could stop her.

“What the fuck, you guys?”

“Don’t what the fuck us. What the fuck you, you brought her.” Rei pointed an accusatory finger. “None of us wanted her here.”

“Yeah, you made that painfully clear. You could have been nice and gave her a shot.”

“I did and she accused me of--”

“Rei Hino you are a lesbian and everyone knows it, she didn’t accuse anyone of shit.”

“She was making fun of us,” Makoto said, tone terse and measured. “She thinks we’re too girly.”

Mina took a breath. “Firstly, projecting much? Secondly, she does like rom coms, and painting nails, because she’s a complex human being, and she just didn’t want to watch the stupid dog movie because she was gonna cry when the dog died, and she’d get all embarrassed about that.”

“THE DOG DIES?”

They ignored Usagi. Ami looked around, and, realizing it was her turn, shrugged sheepishly. “I just don’t like her much.”

Mina rose a finger, but then dropped it. “You know, that’s actually pretty fair. Thank you for being honest.”

Usagi, being ignored already, took the opportunity to slip outside. She was happy to see Haruka hadn’t gotten any further than her car, having taken a moment to brood behind the wheel. She forced a smile as Usagi approached. “You shouldn’t be outside barefoot, kitten.”

“I want to apologize for everyone. Can I come in?”

Haruka shrugged, so Usagi climbed into the passenger seat. “I didn’t know the dog died. In the movie, I mean.”

Haruka chuckled. “That’s okay.”

“I would have cried too.”

Haruka flushed, and they were silent for a long stretch.

“It’s hard to think of you as just one of the girls.”

“Yeah, I know. I get that a lot.”

“Not… not just that.” Usagi stared at the dashboard. “You’re only a year older than us, but you seem so… so far ahead. I don’t think Michiru would be any less intimidating. You know parts of yourselves we can’t even fathom yet. And you’re like, practically married.”

“And you and Mamoru aren’t?”

“That’s different, we have a whole other life and destiny tying us together. You just chose each other.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Haruka folded her arms over the wheel and rested her chin on them. “I don’t feel older than you guys, though. You guys have built this whole thing with each other, and I don’t have that with anyone. I mean, Mina likes me alright, and we hang out, but that’s it. I haven’t had a group like this since I was real little, and even then it was mostly boys.” She smiled weakly. “They stopped liking me when I started beating them at sports and not kissing them.”

Usagi laughed. “Well, you can beat me at all the sports, I’m sure, and I won’t stop liking you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Her eyes widened and she pumped her fists. “Let’s have our own sleepover in here!” She leaned back her seat and started to pull up movies on her phone.

“It won’t be comfortable.”

“It’ll be better than spending the night with meanie Rei. Here, this is a movie I’ve seen, nobody dies and it’s real cute” She balanced her phone on the window so Haruka could see. “We can have a nice little girl’s night.”

Haruka sighed and leaned her seat back to join her. “I guess this could be fun.”

Mina looked on from the front step as Usagi hit play. The others would come around with time, she was sure, and if nothing else, this was a good start. She slipped back inside to make sure no one would interrupt Haruka’s sleepover.

#sam writes #yo Usagi and haruka are kind of a loaded pair but I love them as friends #And while I love Mako and Haruka as the secondary friendship to the broTP #I think Usagi would make the connection sooner

[freyalor]

[For the headcanons:] Of all of heavenly bodies, the fairest; the moon shifting from full to crescent to new. The Earth’s most trusted servant, my dreams orphic larcener… Am I being clear enough? :3c

You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You KNOW I can’t do THAT in 100 words. Well, you’ve asked for it. 

Headcanon A:  realistic

I think my most realistic headcanon is my bipolar disorder diagnosis for Armand. It is timidly shared by one or two specialists among the handful that ever considered the question, but not enough to make it a serious historical fact. So at this point, it’s still headcanon. 

There are traces of him going through phases of reckless, ecstatic dominance, followed, at the slightest failure, by a rapid crumbling of his health and mood, with significant symptoms of self-harm (self-starving, refusal of medicine…). Medici herself once said that though he could be shot down by the mere misfortune, he was “worse than a dragon” when the wind blew his way. Success was likely to trigger feeling of supreme power and invincibility in him, pushing him to headstrong extreme “conquest” behavior, as in La Rochelle, or in the Huguenot wars that followed around 1629/1630, where he took drastic military and political measures without a sign of hesitation, building schemes and systems, overworking himself with no regard for his own health. Then, at the (false) news of Medici gaining the favor of the King in November 1630, he crumbled in one day from all-victorious to sickbed, stopped working entirely, refused all food or care, and called for death. 

He is also likely to have developed, as consequence or in addition to his bipolar disorder, a form of anxiety, with his paranoia, insomnia, and general state of agitation clearly growing over the years (his conduct during the Cinq Mars plot very much beyond reason at this stage of his life).

As mental illness is my work and my passion, I of course emphasize the disorder in my writing and art, adding the finger biting to the self-harm symptoms, because GOTHIC AESTHETIC, and low self-esteem/ extreme guilt to his self-punishment behavior.  It doesn’t make him more interesting than the original, it only makes him more complex for me to handle, and I enjoy that so very much. It might be Cardinal abuse, but I swear I only gave him more sickness to make the therapy and care (might it be from Treville, or Louis) more epic.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

((It’s kinda hard to be funny with my Richelieu, I now realise. He is many things, but fuck he ain’t fun at all. ))

BUT. I have been keeping this headcanon for a while without ever finding an opportunity to insert it into my writing. My headcanon is Armand does try to be funny from time to time, but it’s always in very subtle, very sarcastic way, and almost always in private. With Joseph, by example, he really can put on a show. He quotes the words of an annoying diplomat earlier in the day with dreadful accuracy, ridiculous accent included. He’s quite gifted with impersonations actually, and it send Joseph rolling on the floor in tears of laughter. By example, as Richelieu led a French diplomatic delegation to the Court of Frederic-Henri of the United Provinces, known for his avarice, he bit his lips real hard not to laugh in front of the wealthiest man in Europe yelling “PARCIMONY” to his servants every time they poured wine to the guests to encourage them to be thrifty. He keeps using this word for YEARS after, dropped under his breath from time to time as wine is poured in his glass, with a perfect imitation of Frederic-Henri’s accent at the most unexpected times.

(Joseph, distractedly)-“Do you want more wine, Eminence?

(Richelieu nods, but as Joseph pours wine he suddenly mutters: )-“Parcimony!

(Joseph, snorting VERY LOUD)-“PPPRRFFTT !

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Since the summer of 1620, Armand has been doing these discrete journeys to Anjou at least once a year. He had to grow more careful as years went by and his rise to power unfolded, but hiding things has never been a weak point for him. He goes alone with a trusted carriage driver, and crawls around daybreak through the back door of that miserable castle of Milly. He never wears robes for those visits, and may it be summer or winter, he hides his shoulders under the same nameless brown coat. He never looks up in this doorframe, he keeps his eyes low, with the same soft sadness hung around the corners of his mouth.The valet knows him, he doesn’t ask questions. He simply nods, and leads him to the same small room, to the same thick gates where every year one more lock has been nailed. The room is dark, because the windows have been broken too many times to be replaced, and the shutters are locked forevermore.

On the wide bed, between medicine and torn gazettes, someone lies there, curled on the side and humming softly.

-“Bonjour, Nicole” Armand says, but she never looks at him.

She sings, most of the times, she sings or recites shattered verses of a Bible only she knows of. She prays, most of the times, ignoring the gentle touch of Armand’s resigned care.

Then at some point, she screams at him.

She screams, spitting on his shoes, spitting on his hands, and she insults him so loud, so violent, that three valets need to barge in to pin her down. She shouts, twisting in her sheets, and the solid ropes around her wrists creak in their effort. Armand just steps back, lowers his head and looks aside.

Every year, she gets thinner. Every year they have to tighten up the knots. Every year she gets dirtier, her eyes wild and her hair thick. Every year she steps further into darkness, that darkness Armand knows so well, because every day of his own life, he spends dancing on the edge of it.

-“Bonjour Nicole”, he breathes, but she doesn’t recognize him anymore.

He sits, then, on that chair next to the bed, the same chair every time, and for one hour exactly, he just watches that woman die, swallowed by madness, inch by inch, day by day. He sits in desperate silence and watches, for one hour a year, over what remains of his younger sister.

What remains of his family.

Henri and Françoise, both dead and buried. Alphonse, barely coherent. Isabelle, exiled.

Nicole is all he has left.

And she’s tied to a bed twisting and shouting in her own excrements. He watches, for one hour no less, one hour no more, and eventually he gets up to leave.

-“Au revoir, Nicole” he tells her every time, but she’ll never answer.

He’ll walk out in a sigh, eyes low, wrapping his frame in that same cloak. It happens every year, even in his busiest times, until the shortest of letters, written by the local physician, informs him, 1635, that there is nothing left to visit anymore.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

I think the biggest twist I inflicted to history is Richelieu’s sexuality. He was historically very straight and that’s a fact, the gonorrhea he caught in his early life with tavern whores and his ambiguous adoration for his niece D’Aiguillon might be enough evidence. 

But for my own devious purposes I erased D’Aiguillon from existence and made Armand more opportunistic than straight, feeling sexually attracted to people he looks up to, for virtue or power, and if they happen to be men, well, so be it. I added a whole system of submission kink to that, all of it derived from the fact that his only purpose was to serve France and the King, and this is of course pure invention, because I find the idea of the most powerful man alive in France at this time kneeling in front of the man he loves because he craves for relief from responsibility and power ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. 

It adds contrast to the character, it adds surprise, and it makes him more real, more conflicted. He actually struggled and schemed and plotted to gain himself absolute power, all of this because he wants to serve the absolute. The moment of switch between the almighty Generalissime Minister Richelieu and the lovely devoted whimpering creature he can be in bed is pure beauty to me. The sigh of relief, the floof of robes as he drops on his knees. Unf.

That also allows me to insert more GOTHIC AESTHETIC such as soft BDSM and the active search for pain. It blends smoothly into the mental illness patterns I made up for him and creates intense emotional porn, which is My JamTM.

#Cardinal Richelieu #Prompt fill #don't make me talk about him #i never can stop #You know how IMPORTANT he is #what have I done

[2nd-rate-film-school]

Why Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End Is Actually a Masterpiece of Modern Blockbuster Cinema

This is a review written by my friend and fellow filmmaker, @kubrickking. It’s a bit long, since she is a huge fan (and good film critic, imo), but it is definitely worth the read.

Since my sisters and I saw Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl in 2003, we have all shared a sense of undying loyalty to the franchise. As BIG Disneyland people, the ride was a staple in our short lives long before we even understood how the concept could become a movie. Thus, we’ve enjoyed going to the midnight premieres, viewing the ride updates, and gathering pirate merchandise through the years. At this point, however, I think it’s fair to say that while we will see whatever film they release, we consider ourselves more fans of the original trilogy than what has followed with Dead Men Tell No Tales and - what was that fourth one called again?

To that point, this review is going to be biased as shit. I was an impressionable kid when I first saw these films and I will always remember them fondly. That being said, I just rewatched them at the age of twenty and feel my reaction is very similar. I was only fourteen when I saw the fourth film and was able to admit that it was terrible. In addition, know that this is not a reflection on Johnny Depp or any of the recent publicity he has faced. I am, and would hope you are as well, able to separate his work as an actor in this series from the recent revelations about his personal life.

As a side note, I am operating this review under the information given in the films, not the historical accuracy of pirates during this time. I don’t know if pirates regularly helped transport slaves and I acknowledge that the themes related to pirates having duality as both savage criminals and good men shows undeniable moral ambiguity regarding the historical truth. Jack, along with Will, is a romanticized version of a “good” pirate for the sake of a family-friendly protagonist in a story about pirates. And this analysis operates under a full awareness of that fact.

Regardless, one of the things that has always bothered me is the dismissal of the third film subtitled At World’s End. Common criticism of the film labels it as too long, too odd, and too exaggerated with little at stake and even littler sense to it. I do agree that any viewers expecting a simple, enjoyable action flick will be undoubtedly disappointed with the third Pirates offering. However, if you’re the part of the audience that is at all invested in Jack’s dive into the Kraken at the end of Dead Man’s Chest and is smart enough to realize the film is only truly 15 minutes longer than the other two, At World’s End delivers more than you could ever ask for as a conclusive chapter.

While the first film is obviously the most efficient and coherent on both a plot and tonal level, the third film acts as a bridge for cohesiveness between the entire trilogy without shying away from taking risks. And I firmly believe these risks pay off. Unfortunately, a majority of viewers feel it is more madness than brilliance. And to them I say, “It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide.”

The film begins on such a dark note that it’s easy to see how people get the initial impression that it will not be a “fun ride.” A montage of hangings with a somber pirates hymn that ends with the murder of a child who can’t even reach the noose without a barrel to stand on is quite a way to open a film. And those are the kinds of risks you will see taken throughout the entirety of the movie’s 169 minutes. And I intend to prove to you that they are worth it.

From that first moment onward, you are given a direct association for the villain which up to this film is still underdeveloped and has done the majority of his evil actions off screen. The actions of Lord Cutler Beckett - or the pathetic cousin from another Keira Knightley film: Pride and Prejudice - now have tangibility. He’s no longer just the plot device for the evil Davy Jones, but a bastard in his own right. While Jones did senselessly murder sailors with the Kraken, his actions were motivated by a personal and justified search for Jack. But he never murdered children during a crackdown on pirate conspirators. Beckett’s actions serve as a power play, but also as revenge for Jack's refusal to transport slaves for the East India Trading Company; okay I’ll admit, Beckett’s motivations are still a little glossed over. But the film is juggling so many of the series' villains, anti-heroes, and “bloody pirates” with selfish motivations that a further explanation just isn’t necessary. Let me clarify that. Beckett’s specific personal motivations beyond greed for fucking everything up would simply distract from what we all really care about: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner, and Elizabeth Fucking Swann.

The film proceeds to build characters and set up future plot efficiently as the setting moves to Singapore, which is not a “random” or “meaningless” choice as some would have you believe. Dialogue from Jack in the first film and during the search for him in the second have previously established Singapore as a hub for a significant band of pirates. Their journey there serves a two-fold purpose of procuring mythological navigational charts that will provide a course to Davy Jones’ Locker as well as a ship and crew to get them there. They do all the pirate-y things like misdirect attention to allow an alternate plan of stealing the charts including a crew below the floorboards ready to provide weaponry and the secondary motivation of enlisting Sao Feng in the meeting of the Bretheren Court. It also gives just a glimpse of the assertion and decisiveness that Elizabeth has carried over from her choice to sacrifice Jack to the Kraken at the end of Dead Man’s Chest.

The number one thing I love about the romance at the center of Pirates is that Elizabeth and Will still have their individual character arcs, motivations, and plot. Even after the revelation that Elizabeth indeed left Jack, they do not immediately fall back into the simple conflicts related to their affections. A confrontation below deck parallels the scene from the first film as secrets and feelings are once again revealed. But instead of making this the focus, they both decide to carry on their journeys making their own choices. In fact, the root of their individual character arcs can be traced back to the first twenty minutes of the first film, Elizabeth’s being a more internal struggle and Will’s a more external one. Elizabeth continuously evaluates her own evolving moral beliefs and desires for her life; does she condone, participate in, and forgive the actions of pirates or does she condemn them. Meanwhile, Will must focus on the familial promise and connection with his pirate father Bootstrap Bill Turner that has been a source of conflict for him since the opening sequence of the series.

Just as it has always been, their love story at the heart of it is pulled apart and put back together by the choices they make and, thus, the people they choose to become. Neither needs the other for fulfillment per say - this is why Will always waits until the last moment to profess his love or insist they marry - but they work better together than they do apart. And that is why their ending is both ironic and essential. Their marriage being officiated by Barbosa in between sword fights with cursed pirates is the only appropriate setting for the unification of the two and one of the best damn scenes.

Call me dumb or sappy, but this romance still feels honest and emotional to me in its restraint. Even though I know it was cooked up in some board room meeting of Hollywood execs, I still genuinely feel invested in it. I think it comes down to the fact that they don’t hit you over the head with it. They allow the female character room to breathe and grow independent from the romance; which is perhaps why you can interpret her ending as either the greatest or worst conclusion to a character arc. Elizabeth’s speech to the crew of the Black Pearl before they enter into battle with the Flying Dutchman gives me chills every time. Because of her heart, dedication, and true duality, she is able to understand and act on the conflict with a decisiveness and purpose that none of the other pirates can. She has allegiance to her beliefs unlike the fickle criminals around her. She fights with and for values and a purpose, enjoying the adventure and adrenaline along the way.

In a similar way, Jack Sparrow’s character is fairly consistent through this film. There is justified criticism about Depp’s performance becoming a parody of the original idea as the series has progressed, and I would agree that it has never been as pure as it was in the first film. However, I don’t feel that Sparrow becomes a full caricature until the fourth film onward and I will tell you why.

Sparrow has always been defined by equal parts wit and luck. The details of his plans or the existence of them at all has always been left up to the interpretation of the audience, with rather blatant characterization from British soldiers about if he “plans it all out or just makes it up as he goes along.” While we can assume he gets lucky a lot and doesn’t always win - i.e. the mutiny that is ingrained in his character’s history - there is obvious intelligence lurking underneath all his actions. He’s persuasive and charming in the way a dirty, murderous pirate shouldn’t and doesn’t need to be. For example, Jack spends most of the second film convincing others that the only way to get what they want is to help him first. He weighs their desires and presents ultimatums, using whatever he has as leverage against them. Jack’s long-winded dialogue scenes where he talks someone around his finger function in the same way that deduction scenes do for Sherlock Holmes.

What makes this most impressive, or the laziest writing ever, is that the people around him are often not unintelligent people. Elizabeth, Barbosa, and Will have all outsmarted Jack on screen by the beginning of the third movie, Elizabeth’s trickery even proving fatal for him. Because of this, Jack’s character is only half what’s written for him.  He is also half Depp’s performance, which does not feel strained in the original three films. Some classic Jack Sparrow moments you may have forgotten actually take place in this film include the canon firing springboard onto the pearl with Beckett’s toy figure in the mouth of the barrel, the discovery and following flipping of the ship to return home, and the manipulation of the Bretheren court to approve a vote for pirate king and subsequent battle with Beckett.

Also, if your argument is that Jack became the main character when he should only be a strong supporting character, HE DOESN’T EVEN APPEAR ON SCREEN UNTIL THIRTY-TWO MINUTES INTO THE FILM. He is a supporting character in this movie. That is tremendous restraint considering the major draw for most viewers, which was heavily capitalized upon by Disney, was Depp’s performance as Captain Jack. And when they finally do show him, it is a lengthy eight minute sequence of him arguing with himself, eating peanuts, licking rocks, and rocks becoming crabs that roll the Pearl over sand into an ocean. Not necessarily the audience-catering character re-introduction you’d see in a Marvel film. Jack is in a mythological purgatory or hell that represents the silly and truly odd essence of pirate lore, and the filmmakers honor that. From the moment Jack is back with the crew on the Pearl, his comedic moments hit every time - with the exception of the angel and devil shoulder Jacks. His interactions with everyone from Barbosa to Will to Davy Jones to Beckett are spot on. Jack is witty, wily, and wondrous as ever while twisting the desires of those around him to spare his life time and time again.

But it’s not just the comedic moments this film gets right, it also nails the emotional and dramatic ones. Particularly Will’s final moments after being stabbed by Davy Jones and Jack’s confrontation with the now dead and beached Kraken hit perfectly. Still, my favorite scene of the whole film has to be Elizabeth’s speech which leads the Pearl into battle with the Dutchman. Dialogue from three male characters plays out in the background as the camera circles Elizabeth, in solemn reflection over the release of Calypso and the impending fight. “Then what shall we die for?” she questions Barbosa. Then she continues with the fiercest fifty second monologue, throwing Barbosa’s words back at him and using them in a way he never could to inspire the pirates aboard the Pearl to rise to the occasion and “hoist the colours” - effectively answering the plea of the chain gang in the beginning of the film.

As with many blockbusters, there is a dramatic scene where the audience typically laughs out of turn. So let me be clear: if you even laugh a little bit during Elizabeth’s desperate attempts to bring her ghostly father aboard, you have no heart whatsoever. It is quite obvious to the audience, who has already been told the people in the boats are dead, that Governor Swann is beyond help. However, to the eye of someone who has seen the mythical Kraken devour the living person beside them, it may not seem so impossible that her father can also be saved. As a matter of fact, why couldn’t they save him?? I am still crying during this scene ten years later. Not because I loved his character, but because I can easily imagine my own parent afloat in one of those boats and my own hysterical attempts to reach them. Take a moment, please, and imagine your parent in this position. Not so stupid now, is she??

And this brings me to my favorite thing about the film: the visual language. Working with supernatural fables and period piece restrictions, At World’s End utilizes an array of solid and effective visuals that stimulate on levels of both the studium and the punctum. An Asian pirate ship floats on still water like glass that reflects the starry night into a mirror image, as they travel into a dimension of suspended time and space at the world’s end to retrieve a dead soul from eternal purgatory. Jack Sparrow gazes into his own reflection in the dead eye of the rotting beast that killed him and contemplates the true nature of freedom in relation to immortality. “The world used to be a bigger place,” says Barbosa and Jack responds, “The world’s still the same. There’s just less in it.” The wrath of a scorned lover materializes into a swirling maelstrom that becomes the setting for the separation of another pair of lovers. Jack holds the heart of a monster in his hand, blade at the ready, and hesitates in completing the task for fear that he faces his own future cruelty. These images as well as others in the film elevate interesting and elaborate themes into dynamic expressions of consciousness. Don’t even get me started on the coloring. And you get all those layers with an amazing dose of action and thrills.

Also, the effects in this movie still look great because they are 90% practical. Wait, you mean the series with skeleton and fish pirates has practical effects? Yes, you asshat, CGI was only used to supplement the majority of the special effects you see. While certain settings and the crew of the Dutchman are obviously computer generated, all the scenes involving ship effects were either done with the built-to-scale, fully functioning set pieces or models before receiving any post-production visual effects aid. The scenes underwater were actually shot underwater with all the lead cast and the final twenty-minute storm battle was shot on the ship decks with manufactured torrential rain for 10 weeks straight. Not cool enough yet? They also actually blew up Beckett’s ship and layered the shots of him and the other soldiers on it. That Singapore set they blew up was indoors with at least four feet of water and an entire series of buildings on stilts. And honestly that’s almost nothing compared to the shit they actually did in the second film.

Okay. I think I have to wrap this up now because if I even get started on Hans Zimmer’s score, this could double in word count. If you can’t tell already, I really enjoy this super under-appreciated film and I absolutely adore this series as a whole. It has flaws, it can be stupid at times, and sometimes moments fall flat. But the code for a “good” film is "more what you’d call guidelines than actual rules." I still feel my love for this series has been well-founded and well-intentioned for 14 years strong (nearly 70% of my life). Now if you remember "Pirates 3” as being a dud, I encourage you to rewatch and rediscover the magic within. If you were waiting for the "opportune moment," this is it!

#pirates of the caribbean #at world's end #potc 3 #film review #jack sparrow #will turner #elizabeth swann #davy jones #cutler beckett