Why I Love Descendants
It’s such an amazing franchise. The world is so interesting and expansive. Conflicts are deep and intense. It isn’t all black and white. The characters are so three-dimensional and have personalities, dreams, and destinies all their own. The friendship between them all is so palpable, I can feel the love. The themes explored are rich and give powerful messages. At its heart, this story is about four kids who come from a broken place, are broken themselves, and learn to be better and rise up to the point they’re able to help other kids like them. That is such a beautiful and important message and I hope it’s analogous to my own life.
The ships are incredible and full of love. Jarlos is so sweet, they adore one another, and I love that the two shy, mousy characters found comfort in each other. Devie is amazing, Doug loves Evie so much and will follow her wherever she goes. Evie loves him in return and will stay by his side, no matter what. And Bal is so, so extraordinary. Such a different pair, but they are perfect for each other. They’ve had ups and downs but they made it through, and now they’ll live happily together, forever.
I love the Core Four for their chosen family (what I call found family, seems like a more accurate term), their friendships, and their development. They’re all so amazing in their own ways, and even better togethier.
(Including Ben cause I want to) Ben growing into such a wonderful king, even if he struggles sometimes. He’s so kind to everyone and wants everyone to be the best they can be. He found is own way to balance being king and being himself. I think we should all strive to be more like him.
Jay was a thief who only cared about himself and what he could get. He learned how a team worked and became someone who is very thoughtful of his friends.
Carlos was constantly bullied and was his mother’s slave. He grew more confident, and learned to stand up for himself. He knows who his friends are and will stand by them through anything.
Evie was taught to only care about her appearance, that that was the only part of her that had value. But she learned the things she did mattered more and she doesn’t need a prince to make her happy. She has her friends, her work, her boyfriend, her wonderful home, and helping the Isle kids. She’s so compassionate, and is on her way to big things and I hope she gets there.
And Mal. The one who was supposed to be the evilest of them all, but ended up finding love and not wanting to let go. Having wrapped her whole identity around being bad, she definitely struggled to figure out how to be good. But with Ben and her friends’s help, she was able to learn and allow herself what she wanted. I love that she became queen through good instead of evil, and did it for love, not power. I know she’s going to do great things, and I love her.
Descendants is my favorite franchise. It’s the first one I’ve really fallen in love with. I kinda just wanted to write a little thing attempting to express my feelings and how I see (some of) the characters (and let me add that I don’t hate/dislike any of the characters). Descendants is super important to me and I hope I love it like this for a long time 💜
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Men in Uniform
It took a long time for the tremors to subside.
John stood in front of the mirror above his dresser, and he watched his body quake. His hair was still damp — tousled where Mom had dried it for him, like she used to do when he was little.
“You okay there, kiddo?” she’d asked him before she went to put his clothes in the wash.
Kiddo. Maybe it should’ve been a comfort, but it felt like an insult. He was a grown man. A man who’d fought for his country. He shouldn’t need that kind of comfort, and didn’t know how to accept it when offered.
“I’m fine,” he’d told her. Just like he’d told the others, back at the hospital.
Fine. Fine. Always fine.
Sometimes it was even true.
Right now? Not so much. Every time he let his eyes fall closed, he saw the jungle. Whether it was the jungle belonging to the war he’d fought or the god he’d fought… didn’t even matter. Different continent, same bullshit.
As the tremors finally quieted, he sat listening to the sounds of the house around him: the creaking in the eaves. The chatter and canned laughter of some sitcom Mom was watching downstairs. I Love Lucy reruns, probably. The two of them used to sit and watch Lucy together, Mom's arm tight around him while they giggled at the antics on screen.
Maybe he could go down there and sit with her now. Pretend, just for a little while.
But no. It wouldn't feel right. Not with the memory of blood on his hands and screams in his ears.
Like Simon & Garfunkel said, I know I'm fakin' it. I'm not really makin' it.
He still sat listening when the TV shut off and he heard the familiar tread of Mom’s feet coming upstairs. He’d never forgotten exactly which stairs creaked, and how to step so as not to make any noise.
As soon as he heard the door of Mom’s room shut and the light inside click off, he made good use of that knowledge. He slipped down the stairs and into his jacket. Went through the front door without a sound.
In the forecourt, the lights were off for the night, the filling station deserted but for a ‘64 Pontiac GTO that had been left for Mom to fix.
Once upon a time, this used to be his favorite playground. He’d be underfoot constantly, asking Mom every little thing about each car that came in. He’d wanted to know what made them special and how to take good care of them, because one of Mom’s favorite opinions had always been that people who don’t take care of their cars probably aren’t worth a damn.
Now, as he passed that Pontiac, all he could see were places for something to hide. In the shadows beneath the undercarriage. In the backseat. In the trunk, with the lid lowered just enough to make it seem like it had latched.
In an effort to reset his thoughts, he made the crucial mistake of closing his eyes.
Out of nowhere, the gasoline-and-laundry-detergent stink of napalm filled his nostrils. The cool night air of Kansas turned sticky jungle heat, and the gleam of streetlights off the pavement was the spark of fear in Carlos’ eyes after he'd stepped on the grenade.
“John?” he’d said, so quiet. Surprise and a sense of an ending.
Just like Murph.
John pressed against the nearest wall, waiting for his lungs to draw breath again. The tremors were back. They seemed to be traveling upward from his hands, shaking him through and through. He watched the street, and he waited for Mars Neto himself to stride down it.
Until he remembered: Mars Neto was dead. A god, dead by his hands.
I know the anger you have inside you. Set it free.
“Fuck that.” John pushed off the wall, nostrils flaring as he forced himself to walk it off, to keep pushing air into his lungs.
When he’d left the house, all he’d wanted was to move, no matter where. But he found himself unsurprised when his feet followed the route to the Campbell house. It was a decent walk — nearly two miles — and by the time he got there, his breath came easier and his body felt his own again.
All along the streets, the lights were out in the houses. No surprise maybe — it was well past midnight by now. But it was easy enough to pick his way by the streetlights until the Campbell driveway came into view. Mary’s car was parked there, and Carlos’ van behind it.
Just past the van, there was a spot of brightness in the midnight dark: the Campbells’ porch light. It illuminated a lonely silhouette rocking back and forth gently on the porch swing, its outline unmistakable: a full head of curls, flowing down past the person’s shoulders.
Carlos seemed lost deep in thought, in a way John had never really seen. As far as he could tell, Carlos was the clown, the king of improvisation, chaos personified.
Except, no. John thought back to group, and to how Carlos had talked about being on watch, watching the red tips of the Viet Congs’ cigarettes light up the jungle night. He’d looked a little bit like this then: turned inward, like the mere act of sharing those things out loud was helping him look at them differently.
Maybe John shouldn’t disturb him. Maybe he ought to turn around and go back home. He wasn’t even sure what he’d come here to find — other than a bit of company, maybe. But as John turned to go, his weight shifted, and his foot landed on a dry branch.
Crack.
Carlos’ head snapped up. “John?”
(John? The fear in it, the uncertainty. He blinked away the memory and willed his hands to stop shaking.)
“Oh, uh. Hey.”
He stepped forward reluctantly, until the pool of light that streamed from the porch enveloped him.
“What are you doing here?” Carlos asked.
John shrugged, embarrassment rendering him mute. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Same.” Carlos motioned at him to come closer, putting his entire arm into the gesture. Maybe nobody ever taught him that gestures ought to be subtle and economical, just enough to get the point across. Or maybe he’d unlearned that lesson on purpose, since the war.
John considered, but he couldn’t think of a polite reason to refuse. He’d already given himself away by being up this late and having walked here in the dead of night. It was stretching credulity just a bit too far to claim he’d ended up here by mere accident. (Why had he come though? To see Mary? It seemed the most logical answer, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t the true one. He’d come looking for a different kind of companionship: someone who understood the horrors that lived behind his eyelids.)
And so John made his way up the porch steps.
“Sit.” Carlos patted the seat next to him on the swing. John sat, leaving as many respectable inches of distances between them as he could in the narrow space.
While he was still trying to adjust his position, Carlos set down his feet and pushed.
The swing rocked forward, knocking John's feet out from under him. His hand flew to the armrest, the other landing on Carlos’ knee as he fought to steady himself. “Fucking hell, Carlos. What was that for?”
Carlos cackled. There was no other word for it. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
John made a disgruntled noise. He planted both feet on the porch slats and folded his hands between his legs, trying not to show the way his heart beat in his throat from the sudden rush of adrenaline. He kept his eyes straight ahead, on the van in the driveway, but he could tell somehow that Carlos was looking at him. Studying him.
“So what’s got you awake?” Carlos asked.
John shrugged. “You know.”
Carlos’ shoulder bumped briefly into his before withdrawing again. “Your eloquence is truly a wonder to behold, John Winchester.”
John refused to be baited. "How about you? Thought you’d be taking full advantage of having a proper bed to sleep in for once.”
“So did I,” Carlos said, sighing as he leaned back. He lifted both feet off the ground and stretched his legs out in front of him. If John had wanted to set the swing rocking as payback for earlier, it would’ve been so easy. “Turns out when you’re used to sleeping on the road, it’s hard to get used to the luxury of a soft mattress.”
“I can see that.”
For a moment, they both sat silent, listening to the katydids’ night song and the occasional snatch of engine noise off the distant highway.
“Also, every time I close my eyes, I think about…” Carlos trailed off, but John didn’t need him to finish.
John?
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
“So… in group,” Carlos said, and John stiffened. His hands weren’t shaking yet, but he tightened their hold on each other preemptively. “While I was gone. What did you talk about? If it’s okay to ask.”
John’s hands tightened further, knuckles pushing white against his skin. He was still looking straight ahead, his eyes unfocused and not seeing a damn thing, but still he could tell Carlos was looking at him.
“Forget it,” Carlos said. “I didn’t mean to—“
“Murph.” The word was out before he could snatch it back. “My friend. He died… that way. Stepped on a grenade. I saw it happen.”
His next breath felt barbed. Maybe he’d been holding the air in his lungs too long and failed to notice.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said.
John made himself breathe in through his nose this time, nostrils flaring with the effort of forcing oxygen into his body. “You ever… you ever lose a friend?” Immediately, he amended, “Fuck, sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
But Carlos said, “Yeah. There was this guy Tom. We used to smoke up together. He always had the best shit for some reason, but he never told me how he got it.”
There was something about the tightness in Carlos’ voice that made John want to look at him — assess what might be going on. So he did.
Carlos was smiling, as it turned out, but his lips were tight with it. Not a real smile then.
“We helped each other out another way too, if you know what I mean.” There was a teasing lilt to the words, but it was all façade, no substance. John wasn’t sure if he was meant to react, and if so, how. He waited for Carlos to keep talking.
“Anyway.” Carlos breathed out through his nose. One of his hands came up to sweep his curls over his shoulder, like none of this mattered in the least. “He got himself shot. I tried to put pressure on the wound, bandage him up, but… it didn’t work. He’d lost too much blood.”
John couldn’t figure out what to say. He fixed his eyes on his clasped hands, trying to think. Nothing people said about Murph ever seemed right. Ever seemed like enough. He ought to tell Carlos he was sorry, maybe. But sorry wouldn’t bring back Carlos’ friend — or whatever they’d been to each other. John knew that better than anyone.
He still wasn’t sure what he’d say when his mouth opened and words came spilling out. “Murph and I, we… just the one time.”
Fuck. Fuck. Abort. Change the subject. Now.
Carlos huffed another breath through his nose. This time, it sounded like a laugh. “Like I said," he sing-songed. "Men in uniform.”
John recognized Carlos’ words for what they were: an offer to downplay the whole thing, turn it into a joke. He clutched at that offer with both hands, forcing lightness into his voice. “I mean, nobody ever tells you how fucking boring war is, you know? When you’re not scared out of your mind, you’re just… waiting around. And there’s nothing much to do, to pass the time.”
When Carlos chuckled, John felt it vibrate through his shoulder and further inside, all the way to the gaping darkness in his chest where Murph used to be. Carlos must’ve moved closer at some point, because if John was certain of anything, it was this: when he’d first sat down, they hadn’t been touching like this, thigh to shoulder.
“Nothing to do,” Carlos agreed solemnly, “but men in uniform.”
It was the strangest thing, but John felt a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He couldn’t have held it back if he tried. It burst out of him, shaking all through him just like the tremors had done earlier.
When he finally hiccoughed his way to silence, Carlos was watching him. This time, the smile on his face was a real one. “You have a nice laugh, John Winchester,” he said quietly. “I like that about you.”
“Thanks, I guess,” John said. He was smiling down at his lap, his cheeks hot and his hands rock-steady.
“I believe I’ll be going to bed,” Carlos said, stretching the words into a cat’s languid purr as he raised his arms above his head, working out the kinks in his muscles. “You have a good night. And don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah,” John said. “Night.”
He kept his eyes on his lap as Carlos hopped off the swing and brushed off his pants, getting ready to walk away.
Except Carlos didn’t walk away. He stood still, and John found himself looking up after all. As soon as he caught John’s eyes, Carlos bent down close. His curls tumbled over his shoulder, so close that John could’ve twisted one around his finger if he wanted.
One of Carlos’ hands came to rest on John’s cheek, and he leaned closer still. John’s blood rushed in his ears.
He felt the smallest, gentlest brush of lips against his cheek. Plausible deniability in the shape of a kiss.
“Like I said,” Carlos whispered in his ear, the ghost of his breath raising the hair on the nape of John’s neck. “Don’t be a stranger. And feel free to watch me walk away.”
John did.
When he was sure Carlos had gone, John left the porch, beginning his long walk home. Around him, the night was quiet, and his hands were steady.
He thought maybe he could sleep.
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