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spartanguard · 4 years

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even death won’t part us now (3/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | part 2 | AO3 | 5.8k words

A/N: So I’m not entirely sure what my posting schedule will be like but it’s looking like every 8 days. This chapter is a ton of CS goodness that I hope you like! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair for her amazing art (LOOK AT THIS NEW PIECE OMG); and to @kmomof4 and @cssns for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

sorrynotsorry for the Hamilton references; I couldn’t resist

I know they’re not actually singing but the movie is still awesome

part three—tonight, tonight; it all began tonight

Emma couldn’t help it; she was entranced. After so many years thinking she’d merely dreamed of their existence, to suddenly see those blue eyes—and the handsome face they belonged to—it kind of made the world seem to slow. The music, the moving bodies between them—it all seemed to hit some sort of decrescendo, and she found her feet moving toward him without her telling them to.

His gaze hadn’t left hers since they locked eyes, and it was almost as if the crowd was parting around them, leaving a clear path for her to finally meet the man who’d haunted her peripheral vision the last 15 years.

Then, suddenly, he was there in front of her. She breathed; she could smell him—something warm and spicy and vaguely like rum and leather—but there was no heat radiating from him like a human would have. Despite that, there was a solidness to him that proved he wasn’t a hallucination.

“You’re real,” she breathed.

“Aye,” he said in an accented voice. “You’re still here.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” she answered, slightly confused but more enamored than anything.

“I’m glad,” he said, then reached for her hand. She continued to stare, entranced, as he brought it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. If her stomach was still capable, it would have flipped. Part of her wondered if he’d walked straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but the odds of him being that old (or older) were significant.

“I apologize if I kept you waiting,” he continued.

“I’m patient.”

“So am I.”

Without further ado, he stepped into her space; normally, she would have moved the opposite direction, but not tonight. Whatever that feeling was she’d gotten earlier—a warning, a sign, an omen—this was what it was bracing her for; she knew it.

(Apparently, she could be a hopeless romantic when she really wanted to be. Suck on that, Snow.)

He wrapped his free arm around her and she felt hers slip up to his (firm) shoulder, like some long-lost muscle memory was taking over. Then he took a step, and she followed. Then another, and another, until they were dancing in their own little circle in the middle of everyone.

“What is this?” she asked, the haze of her shock finally clearing a bit.

“It’s called a waltz,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And the only rule is: pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

Innuendo was dripping off that statement, and Emma decided she wouldn’t mind figuring out what else he knew how to do—at some point, at least; not here, not with all these people around.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you out of the corner of my eyes for years,” she confessed as they continued to step and sway.

“I wish I could say you have, but I’ve been abroad the past several; there’s no way I would let a woman as lovely as you pass me by without giving her my full and prompt attention.”

She smiled; god, how long had it been since someone genuinely flirted with her? Someone who wasn’t looking for just a one-night fling. (Her sense for these things had only gotten sharper over the years—he was genuinely interested in her, she could tell. And the feeling was mutual.)

“It was you, right?” she asked, moving in a bit closer. “From the night I turned?”

Before he could answer, though, a firm hand was on her shoulder, pulling her away and rudely tugging her back into reality—David.

“Dad, what the hell?” she complained as he moved in front of her, almost like he was shielding her.

“Get back, Emma; he’s not safe,” David commanded, not taking his eyes off of—shit, Emma didn’t even know his name yet. But he too was surrounded by a couple other vampires, and Graham quickly joined the fray.

“He’s with Aurum,” Snow whispered in her ear, suddenly appearing at her side. “And Regina is here with him.”

Oh, shit—Regina was the one who turned her parents. Which meant she could control them, if she was so inclined; just another reminder of how lucky Emma was that her sire was gone.

“We need to go—now,” Snow hissed, grabbed Emma’s arm, and started to pull her from the crowd.

“Dad!” Emma shouted, because it looked like he was confronting one of the Aurum guys. She knew he could hear her, but he was locked in a tense conversation, albeit brief; she couldn’t hear their exchange over the thumping dance music, but it was obvious from their body language that the tone was tense. She and Snow were nearly out the back door before he and Graham caught up to them and Snow finally loosened her grip on Emma’s arm.

Emma shook off her mother and peered through the door before it mechanically shut behind them. She got one last look of those too-blue eyes, still staring at her from across the bar, before the door closed.

Just her luck: the first time a guy actually gets her attention in at least 25 years, he’s completely unavailable to her due to some stupid ancient rivalry.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Killian raged as he was unceremoniously pulled away from Emma and out of a fog of enchantment—by Robin, of all people.

“Saving your skin,” Robin answered sharply. “She’s with Coroza.”

Fucking hell—he’d completely forgotten who he’d left her with. Bloody stupid ageless feud. But sure enough, when he looked back, he saw she was still with the Nolans. At the very least, his instincts there had been good.

She was being dragged away by Snow, but David and another guy—Gary? no, Graham—hung back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” David barked angrily.

“I could ask the same of you,” Robin snarled back, showing his descended fangs and approaching David. “Should have known this club would be trash.”

“Then maybe you should get back to your side of the border and leave us be.”

“Or maybe you should find another feeding ground altogether; I’m sure the fare in New Jersey is cheap enough for your palate.”

“That’s enough. This ends tonight,” David spat. Killian was pretty sure David didn’t have the authority to proclaim that, but he didn’t know the hierarchy in Coroza (and certainly wasn’t up to date on it) well enough to call his bluff.

“Fine,” Robin snarled. “Meet me at Granny’s tonight, 3:00. We’ll set the terms there.”

“Fine.” David turned and left with no further comment; Graham was quick to follow, but leveled a withering glare at Killian first that, if he wasn’t mistaken, was tinged with jealousy.

Whatever. Killian looked past both of them, through the back door of the establishment—where he caught one last glimpse of green eyes and blonde hair before the door closed. He prayed that wasn’t a metaphor.

Robin was quick to usher them all out, and Killian followed, not wanting to make a scene. But he quickly wracked his brain for his old recollection of addresses, and just had to hope the Nolans had the same habit towards moving (or rather, not) that the majority of vampires held.

That was not the last time he saw Emma—he was going to be sure of that.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Emma was mature enough to admit that by the time they got home, she was sulking; that teenager feeling she had earlier was definitely still relevant. Her dad and Graham were talking strategy, it sounded like, and her mom was trying to comfort her, it seemed—though over what, she wasn’t sure.

Finally, they reached the townhouse; the boys disappeared to the downstairs office while Emma and Snow headed to the little-used kitchen. At least there was a bottle of black-market blood vodka in the fridge; Emma needed something to take the edge off, her drinking plans being interrupted.

She poured a shot for both her and Snow and quickly downed it. Snow, though, looked at hers a bit pensively.

“I’m sorry your night out got ruined.”

“It’s fine; it happens,” Emma shrugged off. “I’ve got plenty more to come.”

“I know, but...god, I hate it when they show up like that.”

Emma didn’t let her mom see her roll her eyes; again, she didn’t give two shits about the rivalry—it was the way it seemed to bring out the worst in people that she had issue with. That was what ruined the night; not the mere presence of someone she was supposed to hate.

(Someone whose name she still didn’t know and was most likely the reason she’d been reunited with her parents in the first place—but that wasn’t something she was going to bring up right now.)

“Well, did you at least have fun with Graham?” Snow asked, happy to change the subject. Emma was less receptive.

“I barely even talked to him,” she scoffed.

“I wish you would. He’s a great guy.”

Emma didn’t hide her exasperation this time. “Yeah, he is—as a friend. I just...don’t like him like that.”

“Emma,” her mom sighed, then stepped close enough to wrap her in a hug. “That wall around your heart...it may keep out pain, but it can also keep out love. I just don’t want that for you.”

Emma’s mind immediately jumped to blue eyes and the sense of being drawn in by some unseen force. “I know, Mom, but—you’ve gotta let me do it on my own,” she said, rubbing Snow’s arm.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed.

Emma gave a loving pat on Snow’s bicep, but then pried herself out of her mom’s embrace. “I’m going back up to the roof; I’ll be down later.”

“Alright; be safe.”

Emma chuckled; she was far more dangerous than any other predator out there. But she promised she would and headed up the stairs.

The sounds and smells of the city enveloped her again as she exited on the roof, hints of stars twinkling past the light pollution. It was a balmy and clear enough night that she’d probably consider staying up here for the rest of it, but for now, she was content to sit on the ledge overlooking the alley behind the building. It wasn’t particularly picturesque, but every now and then, a person would stumble through and Emma would feel a bit less alone in the world.

Despite the family she’d found, being a vampire—and only truly walking the world during the dark—was far more isolating than she’d ever imagined.

Movement in the alley caught her attention; something was sliding through the shadows. It was usually just a stray cat, but this figure was much larger; despite her enhanced vision, it was too far away to make out until it came into the small bit of light that came from the streetlamp a quarter of a block down.

And then she gasped: it was him. Even in the faint light, she could see the sharp blue of his eyes—and they were staring right at her.

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?” he said softly, loud enough for her to hear clearly but not for the average human. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

If she could blush, she’d be blushing.

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,” he continued, moving closer to the building and carefully stepping onto the fire escape’s ladder. “Who is already sick and pale with grief.”

“Don’t tell me you’re so old that you actually knew Shakespeare,” she teased; she’d heard rumors that there were a few around here who did, though (including someone in charge of Shakespeare in the Park).

“She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head.” He carefully continued the recitation as he climbed gracefully and almost silently.

“Wait—watch out for the—!” she whisper-yelled—but it was too late. He wasn’t looking where he was reaching and grabbed for the loose rung three from the top with his left—hook? She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed the prosthesis in the bar, but steel met rusty iron, which immediately gave way, leaving him dangling from his right hand. She hopped off her perch, saying “Shit—let me help!”

He chuckled; a low rumble that went straight to her core. “I’m fine, love; I’ve got this.”

And in a move that had no business being either physically possible or as ridiculously hot as it was, he somehow vaulted himself onto the roof with only his right arm.

She just gaped and blinked, her jaw literally dropping, as he landed in front of her with bent knees and then rose to his full height. He smirked, revealing a dimple in his scruff that was far too adorable for the far-from-innocent expression.

“How are you even real?” she blurted out.

“Well, many years ago, I was born, and then—”

“No, no, no,” she cut off; of course he was a smartass. “I know you’re real—I can feel it, felt it—but like...it’s like you walked out of the pages of some fairy tale,” she stammered.

His smirk fell a bit. “If I did, it certainly wasn’t a happy one—perhaps the Grimms’ version?” he posited, stepping toward her.

“Our lives certainly are as graphic as one,” she agreed.

“I’d say,” he added, then waved his hook for emphasis. Oh god—he’d definitely know better than she would, clearly. She was totally messing this up, wasn’t she?

“Sorry; I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he waved off. “I know you didn’t.” There was no resentment in his voice; he meant it. In a city full of pissed-off assholes, it was nice to find one who wasn’t easily offended.

For a long moment then, silence fell over them (as much as anything could be silent in the city) but it wasn’t awkward; his eyes flitted over her as if he was studying her, so she tried to do the same, but had a hard time getting past the bit of chest hair revealed by the open buttons at the collar of his dress shirt. But then she could tell he was smirking again, which made her realize she was staring.

She averted her gaze to a cracked concrete tile she’d been meaning to fix for...at least 10 years. “Um, sorry about earlier—in the bar, what happened; my dad, he can get—”

“It’s fine, love; my friends are the same,” he interrupted. “Frankly, I'd forgotten the rivalry was still a thing.”

“Oh shit—are you going to be in trouble for being here?”

“Not if I’m not caught,” he shrugged off. “'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.”

She smiled at how smooth he pulled that off. “Except I don’t even know your name,” she tossed back.

“Oh, bloody—” he cursed to himself, running his hand through his dark hair, then straightened back up. “Killian Jones,” he said, adding in a slight bow, “at your service, ma’am.”

God, even his name sounded too fancy to be real. Although, there was probably something equally fantastical about hers. “Emma Swan,” she replied.

“I know.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You do?”

“To answer your question from earlier—if you’re referring to the night that Walsh Baum died after turning his last girlfriend, then yes, that was me who found you.” So she was right—she knew she was, deep in her gut, but to have confirmation was nice. “I’d been sent to follow you to make sure that didn’t happen. But obviously, I wasn’t successful there.”

She tilted her head, assessing the way he was decidedly not meeting her eyes on that last part. “That’s not the whole truth, is it?” Her ability to sense a lie, particularly in humans but also in other vampires, was a well-honed tool.

“You’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?” he rebuffed, still focusing on his hook instead of her.

“When I need to be.” She didn’t feel like she was in any danger; but her curiosity demanded to know.

“I was supposed to kill you,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t.”

Well. That was not what she expected.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian’s memory hadn’t failed him; the Nolans still lived in the same quaint little Hell’s Kitchen home. The view from the alley across the street was little changed in the last 15 years; just different cars parked on the street; different adverts glued to the utility poles.

He made his way to the alley alongside the building, clinging to the shadows to avoid being seen; he was very good at that. But then a golden spotlight drew his attention: Emma, perched on the edge of the roof, looking fully ethereal in the glow of the yellow streetlight.

And, well, his more theatrical side took over from there. (Yes, it was completely showing off by using only one arm to leap onto the roof, but he hadn’t gotten this far without knowing how to impress a lass.)

He was a little surprised at how well Emma was able to read him; but it was a firm reminder that despite his tracking her (and subsequent years of daydreaming), and despite their intense moment earlier, he really didn’t know her.

Oh, but he wished to.

“I was supposed to kill you,” he reluctantly revealed. “But I couldn’t.”

Her green gaze had already turned suspicious, and with that statement, he could almost see the physical walls going up behind them.

“So, what, you’re here to finish the job?” she accused.

“No,” he vehemently assured her. “I had no desire to kill you then, and even less now.”

Her features softened, but only slighting. “Should I be worried about someone else coming after me?”

“As far as Aurum knows, you’re already dead. If they knew you weren’t, let's just say neither of us would be here to have this conversation.”

The tiniest sparkle of amusement ticked at the corner of her mouth. “I mean, technically I am dead,” she joked. “But...why didn’t you?”

That same familiar expression was in her face as he saw it 15 years ago. “You had that look in your eyes—the one you get when you’ve been left alone. And I...I know what that’s like, and I didn’t think you deserved to die like that.”

He hadn’t intended to make things so heavy, but he also knew he couldn’t withhold the truth. Although he was surprised at how easily he told her; it had taken nearly a decade to reveal anything of his past to Robin, and yet something told him he’d be spilling his full backstory to Emma over the course of the night.

On her end, she seemed to be slightly overwhelmed by the statement; her eyes had gone wide and she was taking unnecessarily deep breaths (unnecessary in that she needn’t take any at all). “Thank you,” she said resolutely, and he could hear the weight in her simple words.

Even after two and a half centuries, he still hadn’t learned to accept gratitude, so he just nodded and ducked his head a bit, trying to hide the blush that wasn’t there. “I can’t say it was entirely selfless,” he continued in an attempt to shrug it off. “There’s something to be said about finding a way to disobey the man who’s controlled you for the last 200-plus years.”

“Yeah, but sending me to the other side?”

He had to roll his eyes. “I hardly care about some petty, pointless rivalry that’s stretched through the centuries. While I may be under the thumb of Aurum, I don’t give two whits about sides.”

“Thank God someone else doesn’t,” she blurted out. “Like, I get why my parents do—Regina is the one that turned them, and not gonna lie, that is a bit of a sore spot for me—but that’s a personal issue. No reason to join a gang.”

He chuckled a bit at her simple but rational logic. “Aye; I’m likewise not much a fan of Cora—she killed my love, many years ago—but I only hold that against her; not the rest of her coven.” To this day, he still didn’t know if Cora had singled Milah out because of her connection with him, or her connection with Gold; either way, she had been murdered, and there was naught he could do.

“Eesh, that sucks.”

“Aye, it did.”

“It doesn’t anymore?”

“I was angry for a very long time, but the pain dissipated over the years—and I’ve had many of them. Plus,” he added, stepping towards her, “I found someone else has caught my attention recently.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, even though she seemed to know the answer, and smiled. “Who?”

“Well, you see, there's been this fierce blonde running through my dreams the last 15 years or so, and now that I’ve properly met her, I must say—she fascinates me.”

“What a coincidence; you fascinate her, too.”

“Aye?”

“Yeah, and she’s been seeing your blue eyes out of the corner of hers for years now.”

She had moved into his space on that last statement, and the air between them was full of a static tension Killian had never felt before, as if it was drawing them together. This wasn’t the same as what had happened in the club—this was electric, begging for release, and—

—And suddenly his lips were on hers, or perhaps the other way around, but it didn’t really bloody matter because she was soft and warm under him, against him, pressed tight against his body and he knew—he didn’t know how, but he knew—he’d never kiss another pair of lips again.

O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Holy shit—Killian could kiss.

Emma wasn’t entirely sure who initiated it; just that she couldn’t resist it (him) anymore without touching him. It was like the opposite ends of a magnet being drawn together: inevitable and forceful.

(Which, given the whole rival teams thing, was probably appropriate.)

Emotionally, her walls weren’t entirely down—they didn’t fall that easily, not anymore, if ever—but she could tell they weren’t going to last, and not just because of his make out skills. She’d known him all of ten minutes and already he understood her better than anyone ever had—more than Neal, more than Walsh, more than her parents even.

That said: his scruff left a delicious burn on her lips and she could taste the blood rum he’d had earlier, sweet and spiced and so like him and she wanted to get drunk on it (especially since her shot at actual inebriation for the evening had gone out the window).

And the one nice thing about making out when you were technically undead: you didn’t have to come up for air. She tilted her head to deepen the kiss, ready to settle in for a while, pressing her entire body against his (and liking what she felt). A rush of arousal washed over her and—

—And her fangs dropped down of their own accord. What the fuck? That had never happened.

She pulled back when they did, instinctively not wanting to hurt him (though logically, she doubted she could). “Sorry,” she apologized breathlessly. “That’s never happened before.”

Killian let his forehead rest against hers. “I thought that was the guy’s line?”

She chuckled and lightly slapped his shoulder, then shifted her weight back a bit, trying to put some space between them—and the evidence of his own arousal, which was doing nothing to tamp hers down.

Honestly, she was kind of embarrassed; she felt like some horny teenager losing her cool in the presence of an elder statesman. She’d had a few one-night stands since she turned, but nothing serious—and never felt anything as intense as what she felt right now, and they’d barely even touched. It was kind of overwhelming; not in a bad way, just not in a way she was ready to address just yet—at least, not seriously.

“You kiss pretty good for someone old enough to be my great-great-grandfather,” she teased, a smile playing at her lips while her hands, which had somehow ended up on his shoulders, pressed against the preternaturally firm muscles below them.

“There should probably be a few more greats in there,” he quipped back, his hand squeezing her hip and the brace of his prosthesis pressing against her other side.

“Oh really? Just when were you born?”

“The Ninth of April in the Year of Our Lord 1750,” he answered rather officially.

Emma whistled. “Damn. Good thing I like older men. How old were you when you were turned?”

“31.”

“Okay, still older.”

“It’s good to know that’s your entire criteria in seeking a partner.”

She snorted, but only to cover up the way she instinctively balked at his choice of words; she couldn’t deny that it was headed that way, though. Even if it had barely been an hour since their first exchange, it felt like forever ago—or maybe it was just because she’d been unconsciously chasing him for her entire afterlife.

Still—it felt like the world was starting to spin, and she needed it to slow down. She grabbed his hand and stepped away, but tugged him along with her. “Come here; I want to show you something.”

He followed without hesitation as she led him to her tent, but hesitated when she tried to drag him down onto the cushions.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’d hate to intrude on what’s clearly something of a sanctuary,” he explained, nodding at her modest fortress.

“You’re not; I’m inviting you in.” She hoped he understood the double meaning there.

An adorably shy smile took over and he followed, falling gracefully to her left onto the mound of pillows. She reached to her other side and fiddled with some cords, and suddenly, light filled her makeshift tent as power flowed to the twinkle lights she’d rigged up along the crude wooden framing.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Killian gushed—genuinely, not placatingly—as he stared around.

“It’s better if you lay down,” she told him, then let herself fall back against the cushions; he followed suit.

“I wasn’t talking about the tent but I do agree—I can think of any number of enjoyable activities that involve a woman on her back.”

“You’re just full of one-liners, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had quite some time to accrue them.”

“Fair.”

A thick sheet of clear vinyl formed most of the top of the tent; if she spent time up here during the day, she’d have stuck with something opaque, but given that she never used it when the sun was most at risk of frying her, it was perfect for dark, wet nights. “I love to come out here when it’s raining,” she explained, “and watch and hear it coming down above me. I could almost fall asleep.” You know, if that was a thing she could still do.

She turned to look at him, but he was staring up, a wistful smile on his face. “Aye, I can only imagine; I used to love the sound of it falling on the deck when I was in lower quarters.”

“What, were you a pirate?”

“Eventually, yes; but prior to that, served in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

“Which ‘his majesty’ was that?”

“King George the Third.”

“Wait, like, Hamilton King George?”

“One and the same.”

“Shit, you are old.”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I dunno; street cred?”

He chuckled. “That’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

Now her curiosity was piqued. “So, did you fight in the Revolution?”

“Aye, though we didn’t exactly call it that on our side.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have.”

“No, but I did find my sympathies changing sides while stationed here.”

“What, liked it so much you decided to stay?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘decided,’ exactly,” he countered, then turned his head to look at her. Even with the change in angle, it was easy to see that his previous cockiness had given way to trepidation. “Is this where we divulge our tragic backstories?”

She grabbed his hand. “It can be, if you want.”

“Okay.”

It almost seemed like historical fiction, the tale he told her: born in a poor fishing village, losing his mother when he was young and his father leaving them later, joining the Navy with his brother to get out of a terrible situation, being sent to America to fight the ‘rebels’, falling in love with a woman he met in a tavern in Boston, losing his brother and his hand in battle, and then all hell breaking loose.

“Milah was nursing me back to help when, lo and behold, her husband located us. Gold.”

“No,” Emma gasped.

“Aye. He was...less than pleased, as you can imagine, but she managed to talk him down. But we were out on the town some weeks later when Cora cornered us and murdered her. At that point, I had little to live for, and despite my injury, volunteered for the next battle; how my officer accepted me, I’ll never understand.”

“What battle was that?”

“Yorktown.”

“1781,” she automatically finished; she and her mom really listened to the Hamilton soundtrack way too much.

Thankfully, he laughed. “Yeah, that was the year. That was also where I was turned.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s still my favorite song.”

He went on to explain how he was a bit too close to cannon fire from a Continental Navy ship, delivering a fatal blow to his chest that sent him overboard. If the internal bleeding hadn’t gotten him, he’d have likely drowned—except Gold was waiting nearby. “He’s never told me why he was there—if it was the general chaos or me explicitly—but I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

Killian was dragged through the brackish waters of Chesapeake Bay by Gold to the rough shore of a then-unpopulated island and turned; he wasn’t lucid enough to protest (to even notice who his would-be savior was) until it was too late. “My first meal was another soldier who’d washed ashore,” he admitted.

If she could still cry, she’d be wiping tears from her face. Holy shit—what a traumatic way to be turned—to even live. “God, I’m so sorry,” she told him, and squeezed his hand.

He shrugged. “It is what it is; ancient history now. I’m having a hard time complaining if that was what it took to bring me to you.”

Emma had to avert her gaze at that; he was not only telling the truth, he was wearing his damn heart on his sleeve, and it was intense. “Please, you hardly know if I’m worth that yet.”

“Emma,” he said softly, then gently turned her face back to him with his hook. “I’ve met thousands of people over the past two and a half centuries, and not one has made the impression you did in a fraction of the time. I feel...I feel like even if you were following me the last several years, I was chasing you my whole life.”

She needlessly swallowed; it was funny how physical reactions lingered even when they no longer served a purpose. But that was what she did when she was overwhelmed in life, and she was extra-whelmed now.

Especially because, “I feel that way, too.” It was only a whisper but somehow the loudest thing she’d ever said.

Slowly, reverently, he pressed his lips against hers; she was still reeling emotionally, but his kiss was a welcome balm to her aching mind (or something vaguely poetic like that; she was too focused on how good it felt to come up with a good analogy). He deepened the kiss a bit and pulled her closer, but it wasn’t heated, just—she hated to say this so soon—loving.

It didn’t last long until he broke it, but he stayed close, his arms around her. “And you? I’d love to know more about your beginnings.”

“Not much to tell,” she shrugged. “Not as exciting as yours, at least.” She explained what happened with her parents and growing up in the foster system; her first love, her stint in jail, and the baby she gave up; and a brief summary of the years in between her release from jail and that night in Walsh’s apartment.

“Wait—so the Nolans are actually your parents? They birthed you?”

“Yup. I guess I should be thanking you for that, too.”

“No, love—that’s my pleasure. I mean, I had no idea, but I’m glad you were reunited. I had no idea their history with Regina.”

“It is what it is, but we’re making the best of it. Although I definitely feel like a teenager sometimes.”

“I can only imagine,” he chuckled. “And look at you now—hiding a boy from them and everything.”

She laughed, but it turned into a groan. “Ugh. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.”

“Don’t think of it, then. We have all the time in the world to figure that out.”

Just then, Killian’s phone started vibrated, making them both jump; a perfect reminder that things were not as simple as either of them would like.

“That’ll be Robin,” he muttered, then dug the device from his pocket and began replying to the message he’d received. “Shoot; I have to be at Granny’s in 10 minutes.”

“Can’t you do something to convince them to call this off?” she wondered. “We can’t be the only ones to think this is a petty feud.”

“I can certainly try; but we know how hot the tempers of our kind can run.” It was true; it sometimes felt like emotion had replaced bodily functions. Instead of her heart beating, she filled that void with pure emotion.

“I know, I know; but—try?”

“I will.”

They spent a few more minutes in the tent making out (and maybe a bit of dry humping, but Emma was cautious to not let it go too far lest her fangs make another unexpected appearance), and then stole any number of kisses as they made their way back across the roof to the fire escape.

“I hope it’s always this hard to say goodbye to you,” he murmured between a few last pecks.

“Then let’s not—how about ‘see you later’?” she proposed.

“When?”

“Granny’s, at dusk; I’m working tomorrow and I usually stop there to eat beforehand.”

“It’s a date.”

She grinned and gave him one final kiss, before he made a careful climb back down.

When he was firmly on the ground, he looked up and said quietly, “Not a moment will go by I don’t think of you.”

“Good,” was her simple reply, and he disappeared into the night.

(Something else was on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn’t ready to say it yet. However, it wouldn’t be much longer until she admitted it to both herself and him: she loved him.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @profdanglaisstuff @wingedlioness @word-bug @distant-rose @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @fergus80 @killianmesmalls @sherlockianwhovian @ineffablecolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes @donteattheappleshook @lfh1226-linda

#cs ff #cssns20 #cs vampire au #even death won't part us now #cssns 2020 #my ff

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mastrrt · 6 years

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The Tigress Dilemma *fanfiction*

Usually, fanfic writers (such as I) have a hard time depicting complex characters such as Tigress, ergo this lack of this understanding about our characters can lead us to defile their original personalities and characteristics. I'm pretty sure most, if not, all of us are victims to the Tigress Dilemma, and this problem can only be resolved once Dreamworks has finished Tigress's arc. The Tigress Dilemma is basically what I mentioned above. We misinterpret Tigress and that could lead us to writing imposters instead. Now I have seen many fanfics, and all of them vary in the extent of how terrible their Tigress imposter is. I would say that for my fanfics, my Tigress imposter is pretty far off from the original character, but I feel I am getting there... it's a very slow progress, but every increment of time is making me better as a writer. Anywho, I'll be addressing some Tigress Imposter stereotypes. These stereotypes are the ones we want to avoid as much as possible. And if we do so, we can get closer to the original Tigress. Now, disclaimer, I am not here to tarnish the pride of any of you fanfic writers. I'm just here to point out my opinions and hopefully my opinions can do more good than harm. Also, to bring this blog a more positive vibe, I will be writing some Tigress stereotypes that we should all follow. But that'll be on the next post. 1. The 'Punk Girl School Bully' Type of Tigress. (LoA Tigress) Sleeves are for wimps... fat muscles... I got huge front teeth... i'll put your head on the toilet... pig anatomy on the facial region... you punk!... ILLL BEAT YOUUU UP!... girl that looks like a man... Those lines are all inside the ambit of any typical Buff School Girl Bully. And yeah, these types of people aren't the most likeable. Mainly because of their terrible ego and pride, their unmanaged temper, their constant screaming, and the fact that they bully. And these types of characters usually act upon their anger, and these types of characters are usually defeated by their own caprices. Now a lot of times, people usually confuse 'Punk Girl School Bully' as Tigress's characteristics.

For example, a lot of fanfictions tend to write this: Tigress was clouded with anger. How dare this cocky prick make fun of her name like that? She charged at him, trying to land a double fist strike on her belly, but it has seemed that her muscles were so angry that she suddenly turned into an amateur fighter and totally missed the cocky mite's stomache. Now she was even angrier. She gave a frustrated yell and pounced at the prick, driving her feet into a powerful tornado kick, but the man has sidestepped and she was too angry to use that momentum to execute another kick upon landing. Oh she was so so SO angry that everything turned red. Even though the man was merely a stranger, his smart remarks was enough to somehow make Tigress want to tamper him, as if her anger was derived from personal matter. Oh yes, Tigress was so weak that her peace has succumbed so easily to something as superficial as an empty insult. It isn't like she's a warrior who learned integrity, who lived by virtues and proverbs, and learned to swallow her pride the hard way. Nope. She was just the average hot head. "You! You idiot!" She yelled, driving her fist into arbitrary turns and twist with the speed of a toddler's fist in a fit of frenzy. And yet, after delivering such 'efficient' attacks, the man had avoided her punches the Muhammad Ali way. What's next? The rope-a-dope? Is that how weak Tigress became because of her anger? Oh, and since she's sooo angry, she also became majorly stupid! Since she's losing, she might as well become more desperate to win and because of this, she kinda lost 9/10 of her damn brain. It isn't like she had experienced worst before. It isn't like she's been in a tower surrounded by hundreds of adversaries, outmatched, outgunned, out everything, and still managed to escape through a genius idea to catapult her and her Enterprise out the flaming tower THROUGH the toppling flaming tower.

Look, Tigress can be hot head, but she doesn't allow it to manifest in a way that hampers her during battle. She's a warrior who for sure learned patience. Yes, she might have let herself succumb to her anger during the first movie (by trying to fight Tai Lung despite her master's efforts to stop her) but do understand that it was because of that cursed snow leopard that her father was just outright terrible to her, and 20 years of desperation and overwhelming commitment to kung fu led her to think that defeating Tai Lung is the key to Shifu's heart. Watch the Second movie through and through, with the eyes of a scrutenizing critic. If she is angry, it is usually to appear intimidating or lethal. It's a great strategy, escpecially now that her opponents would surely hold back once they hear the low baritone of her growl. But never, never, never, never, I assure you, did she appear angry and let that rage make her a haphazard, stupid, mess.

Also, fanfic writers tend to also write this: Tigress crossed her arms and growled. Po was so annoying! He wouldn't stop babbling about his new dumpling recipe. If he says 'broccoli broth' one more time, she is sure her dormant side would burst. "SHUT UP PO! YOU ARE AN IDIOT! YOU ARE SO CHILDISH! YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE THE DRAGON WARRIOR!" And then, Po cried and ran away from the kitchen. The rest of the five gave her a look that could compare to the menacing glare of a thousand men, and they all left her to find the weeping Po. She sneered, she didn't need them anyways. She didn't have a family. And they were no friends of hers.

Tigress is not like this! She values her friends, and she talks to them like friends. Do no potray her the LoA way, because she's not always grumpy... and she is, by chance, grumpy, it's mostly for a reason. When the other five are irritated or even disgusted of Po, you can see that only Tigress smiles. And when she is in an argument, she usually deliver herself in a calm and threatening. Yeah, calm and threatening can be together. Tigress works as a paradox. I think the problem here is that people mistake seriousness and grumpiness as neigh synonyms. DON'T mistake those two different words with the same definition. Tigress is serious, but rarely grumpy in the way LoA/ fancfictions potrays her (just compare KFP 2 Tigress to LoA Tigress (there's a big difference I tell you that (mostly because she doesn't haphazardly turn into a big bish (is this even grammatically correct?))))

2. The Morally Deficient Tigress. I hate you!... you've always been terrible to me Shifu. So I hate you too!... you guys are not my family!... i have no family!... brat times twenty... your spoon is stupid... everyone is stupid... I don't wanna do this anymore... i'll turn evil in six seconds if you don't assuage my ego... cold hearted... insults everywhere... long sullen silences followed by mean comments followed by even more long sullen silences... angst angst angst for no reason... teenage i-have-20-pounds-of-eyeliner-under-my-eyes prototype. this type of imposter Tigress is probably one of the worst forms of Tigress out there. You cannot just ignore that she has been raised by two kung fu masters, one has morals that are so polished and perfect, and the other one with flaws but regardless still wiser than most. She's also follows a regimented schedule of supreme discipline throughout the course of her twenty-eight years, so surely she has been taught hardwork, patience, determination and other virtues that any average olympian athletes would typically have. Despite being called cold-hearted, stoic, perhaps even mean, do remember that she is also a HERO. With a hero's heart and the strength of a hero's mind. You can not simply ignore that she's a good person who had saved, quite possibly, thousands of lives, expecting nothing in return except the heart of her father and a place to reside. Do not mistake badassery with idiocy. Do not make her morally deficient like she's a little child with the mindset of a brat on a bad day.

Here's some examples of this nightmare: "Why do you keep these stuff? You're so childish, you don't deserve to be the Dragon Warrior!" Tigress looked around his loft, threatened by the action figures and the posters of the masters that adorned it.

Po frowned, "But... but... items like these have very big value to me Tigress. Especially my action figures, I cherish them because it's a large fragment of my childhood memories!"

Tigress did not understand. Of course she did not, not only is she whimsy, grumpy, angry and stupid, she also lacks understanding and lessons that can usually be self-taught at the age of twenty. She acts like a little child and that's all her morality is limited to. "No! They're wooden things with no value whatsoever. Stop being a fanboy. Stop being yourself! I can't support you! You idiot."

And she left the room with grandeur ---Sharpei Style with the hint of swagger. Five days later... "It's all your fault why we're here Po! All your fault. It isn't like you made a wonderful plan and I kinda destroyed it after this cocky douche made me angry and I decided to fight him and ditch your plan. And since my dignity got the best of me, it isn't like I'm blaming you 100% on our unfortunate demise when I know 200% that i'm to blame." Po tried to speak, but Tigress continued, "Ya'll should have listened to me! Me me me me! Me me me me!" The end!

Okay okay, it's a little too exaggerated, but you get the point right? Tigress doesn't act like this. She is kind and nice, she's truly supportive even with her doubts, and she loves and values her friends, albeit these traits are not exposed because it's overshadowed by her stoic demeanor. Whatever... sometimes light filters through her facade and you can see her vulnerabilities.

3. The Profesional Becomes the Biggest Amateur. Gets defeated by a few alligators who could barely fight... can't get unstuck from a rope THAT ISNT EVEN KNOTTED NOR THICK ENOUGH TO CARRY TWO POUNDS... can't get out a sticky situation even though she has been through worse... pathetic tiger... no longer has super strength that she has been gifted with. Now I'm just a thread's breadth away before typing a full fledge rant. Yes! I get it. She has been defeated by people who Po can defeat. She has been defeated by Tai lung and Po was able to defeat Tai Lung. But that was because Po was in a special situation, and it was truly only Po who could defeat Tai Lung (I'll adress this in a new post.) Have ya'll ever of this rule, in both film making and book writing, that authors must refrain from degrading everyone's intelligence so that a single character can appear in the caliber of a genius? Basically, what I'm saying is that you cannot make the five (escape Tigress) leagues weaker than their original selves just for the sake of making Po or your main OCs appear stronger. One, that's a terrible illusion that even a blind man can see through. And two, that's just disrespectful for a The Five. Not only are the five overshadowed, but ya'll also heavily disregarded the fact that they are warriors that did a lot. You're forgetting that Tigress can do this

Do not forget that she is the person who can do so much more. If you want a story where Tigress becomes a damsel in distress, and Po is the one to save her, DO NOT get her kidnapped by five wolves. Or ten. Or even twenty. Because this tiger can handle of them easy. Make sure she is defeated by a whole fudging army, or a bunch of hooded warriors who are thousands of years old and are as good as Shifu in kung fu. Make sure her defeat is reasonable and respects what she can do. KNOW what she can do, so that you learn her limits. Give her a challenge, give her a run for her money. Don't make her pathetic just because you want someone else to seem not pathetic. Us fan fic writers say that Tigress is hardcore. Awesome. Badarse. So maybe we should write her that way. Some fan fics I read write that Tigress got defeated because she was hungry or tired and couldn't fight against a few adversaries. I roll me eyes. Bro! You cannot make hunger the reason why she's defeated😂 have you seen what she ate during the first KFP movie? Her meals consists of tea and a small, chewy block of tofu. Please. She had trained her body and mind to resist pain in a way that wouldn't affect her during battle. And don't go destroying her stamina either. If she can go the whole night just battling a bunch of wolves, without even so much as passing out then pulease, don't make tiredness as an excuse. But there are some exceptions though. Like maybe she got tired because she drained her chi. Then that's understandable. So much work.

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hannahindie · 6 years

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Breathe - Part 3

Pairing: Dean x Reader Series Warnings: Fatal illness, character death, blood, canon violence, language, eventual smut, kidnapping. Word Count: 3,109 Square Filled: Fatal Illness Summary: A year ago, the reader makes a decision regarding her treatment. Present day, she finds herself in over her head, and Sam and Dean are about to find out just what she’s been hiding. A/N: This is the third part of my SPN Angst Bingo Card, hosted by @spnangstbingo. It will be seven parts, and the schedule has already been posted. It will post twice a week (Monday and Friday) until it wraps up.

Beta’d by my beautiful waterbear writing soulmate, @trexrambling: “I love it when Sam gets sassy.” So do I...sassy Sam makes my life.

My twinny, @pinknerdpanda: “I read this in your voice and it made me so happy.” I like to indulge myself and put myself in things, so it always makes me happy when you find it. :)

And my beautiful, sweet angel, @masksandtruths: “Yea, it’ll be fine.” Snerk. Sure.

As always, tags are at the bottom. If you’d like to be added, please let me know!

One Year Earlier…

“No.”

My mouth is forming the words before I even realize my brain has thought them.

“I’m sorry?” The doctor looks at me, her brows raised in surprise. I would laugh at how absurd she looks if the situation at hand wasn’t so serious.

“No...I don’t think I want any of those options.” My heart is racing; I’m basically telling this woman I want to die. But that’s not entirely true, is it? I don’t want to die, but now that I’m presented with options, if I’m going to go, I want to go with some dignity.

“Y/N, there’s a chance-”

My laugh interrupts her and she frowns, her lips pressed thin as she stares at me. “I-I am so sorry,” I clear my throat as I try to calm down the hysterical laughter bubbling just below the surface, “but I just find that ridiculous. You already told me that the five year survival rate is eight percent.” I sigh, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I am very tired. I am a deep, soul crushing tired, and honestly I just want...I want to go out the way I want to go. Do you understand? My job is hard and, honestly, I’m lucky I’ve made it as long as I have.”

Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ of surprise, and I realize that’s the closest I’ve ever come to telling someone outside the life the truth about what I do.

“But at the end of the day, I love it. It’s everything I’ve ever known, and I get to help people, and that’s what this world is about, right? So if this is going to happen, if I’m going to die, I want to be able to do so knowing I have done everything I can before I’m gone.”

“I have to strongly advise against that.”

“I know,” I smile as I stand up from the cozy chair that I’m sure is there to be a small comfort when people are receiving bad news, “but it’s what I want. I understand the repercussions.”

She nods, then pulls a sheet from the pad in front of her and holds it out to me. I reach for it, and she holds it back slightly and raises an eyebrow, “I will give you this if you promise that you will at least get checked once a month. I understand that you aren’t going to accept treatment, but I expect you to be in this office once a month for the foreseeable future. In return, I will make sure you are kept comfortable, in a responsible manner. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yea, doc, we’ve got a deal.”

She nods once, then lets the paper slip into my hand. I give her one more smile, then leave the office and head to the closest pharmacy.

The bell above the door dings as I push my way into the building. Pharmacies always have this weird vibe to them; the overhead lights cast a yellowish glow on everything, and most likely one of them is buzzing, flickering slightly as it tries to decide if it’s time to quit. The music playing quietly in the background at this particular one is some cheesy Muzak that would make any hotel elevator jealous. I hand the pharmacist my script then sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs lined up in front of the window. He looks at me, looks at the wrinkled piece of paper, then back at me. I smile, and he gives me a sad look in return. I know what that looks means. Dead girl walking.

“Not too reassuring when your pharmacist looks at you like that, is it?” I look over to see an older man, at least in his eighties, sitting several seats down, one leg crossed over the opposite knee and a cane balanced against his arm rest.

“No, not really.”

“What are you in for?”

I'm usually not much for small talk, but the glint in this man’s eye has me intrigued.

“Lung cancer. You?”

“You name it, I got it, though I do believe you got me beat on that one, sweetheart. Today it's my sugar, but I’m sure tomorrow will find something else. Then again, I like to believe that I didn't fight the Nazis and survive for something like that to take me out.”

“I like the way you think, sir.”

“Sir’s my daddy, you can call me Frank, Frankie if you're feeling cheeky.”

I wink, “I'm always feeling cheeky, Frankie.”

He grins, “Oh, to have met you in my heyday. We woulda had a ball.”

I cock an eyebrow, “Who says we can't now? As long as you don't mind my broken lungs, I think we could have some fun adventures.”

He holds up his hand and wiggles his ring finger, “I don't think my wife would approve. She's cheeky, too.”

We fall silent and I wonder what his wife is like.

“I'm sorry about your lungs, sweetheart.”

I shrug, “In my line of work, it's just a matter of time. It's a little...less violent than I assumed it would be, so that's nice.”

Frankie frowns, and again I realize I've let something slip. “What kinda job do you do?”

“I hunt monsters.”

“I understand that. Someone's gotta do it, huh?”

I know we are talking about two different kinds of monsters, but the sentiment is still there.

“Mr. Duvall?”

He stands slowly, then leans on his cane for a moment to balance himself. “That's me,” he says as he gives me one last look. “You take care of yourself.”

“You too.” He shuffles to the counter and gets his medicine, then disappears around the corner. The pharmacy falls silent again, except for the occasional pop of that one, slowly dying light.

Now…

Simple hunt my dying ass.

Sam should have been right. All his research pointed to the ghost of the husband being the culprit, stuck in a loop in an attempt to save his children.

God, I wish that was true.

Instead, it’s the entire family, including the murderous bitch that killed the rest of them. She is not having our interruption, and I suddenly find myself trapped in an upstairs room, my only defense the iron poker I had grabbed as I ran past the fireplace and up the stairs.

I look around for another way out, but there's no use. This room opens into a nursery, but there's no doors in that room and all of the windows are nailed shut. I'm gasping for air; the run from one side of the house to the other then up the stairs was too much. I cough into my hand and can tell before I even look that there's more blood.

Dammit.

I hear a thud from downstairs and a muffled sonuvabitch, then the loud bang of a shotgun going off.

“Come on, this is ridiculous!” I wiggle the doorknob, knowing it's pointless. On a good day, I might be able to kick it open, but as it is, I'm having trouble standing. Kicking doesn't really seem like an option right now. Suddenly, the air is frigid, and I can see pathetic little breath clouds trying to form in front of me. I turn slowly to see the wife slowly appear, flickering in and out of existence like some kind of video cassette from the eighties.

“You are a raging bitch, you know that? Sam is going to find your bones and he's going to burn your ass. You won't be hurting anyone else.”

It's then I realize that there's one way to get that door open. It's not a good plan, but I have to try something. “Come on, get me! I'm not moving!” I hold my arms out and drop my poker. “Look! All yours! C’mon, bitch!” Suddenly, she throws her arm out towards me and I'm airborne. I close my eyes and brace for the impact, but nothing could have prepared me for how much it was going to hurt. I hit the door and it yields with a sickening crack. For a second, I'm honestly not sure if it is the door or my spine that's making the sound, but there's not much time to think about it as I finish my descent and slam into the floor. It feels like my entire body is curled around something the wrong way, and I lay there and try to force the air in and out.

It feels like I'm drowning on land, like the air I'm trying to desperately suck in is going to be the very thing that kills me. “Dean…” I can barely speak, but I manage to roll over to my hands and knees. “Holy shit….bad...idea…” Good news, the cracking sound is the door, not my spine. The bad news, there's blood dripping from my mouth and I know I didn't get hit in the face. I spit and grimace at the amount of red on the floor. Not good.

“Dean!” A little louder this time, and I hear footsteps taking the stairs two at a time. I manage to get to my feet in time to see Mama Murder appear, less flicker and more violent than before. Great.

“Duck!”

I turn to see Dean pointing a shotgun at me and drop to my knees with a groan; it's a shame, considering I'd just managed to stand up. While he's preoccupied, I swipe my palm swiftly across my mouth and wipe away the evidence. No need for him to see that. The blast makes my ears ring, but the ghost is gone for the moment, so I slump against the wall and let my chin hit my chest.

“Thanks,” I force out, biting back the scream of pain that I want to let loose. I can feel the bruise forming on my back and it feels like my lungs are on fire. Breathing is like swallowing glass shards, and I’m worried that I may have broken a rib, which just adds insult to injury, honestly.

“What the hell happened?” he asks as he kneels next to me, taking a moment to look at the now destroyed door.

I give him a weak shrug and look up at him, my attempt at the usual smartass smirk failing as blood drips from my lip. “Well, I had to get the door open somehow.”

“Are you okay?”

His eyes are on my mouth, and now would be the time to tell him that I am not, in fact, okay, but instead I spit, then wipe my hand across my lips again, “I'm fine. She got me pretty good, I must have bitten my lip when I hit the door. No big. Help a girl up, would ya?”

He stands, offering his hand, and I grab it. It’s warm in mine, rough and gentle at the same time, and for a second my mind flashes back to another time with those hands...which is not helpful now. I gather myself as well as I can and stand with a groan. “I am getting too old for this shit.”

“You and me both.” He stares at me, his eyes traveling from my face down to my toes and back up, narrowing as he realizes how carefully I'm holding myself. “Seriously, are you okay?”

I straighten up, ignoring the way my entire body is protesting the movement, and let go of Dean’s hand. “I’m fine. Let’s just gank this bitch and get out of here. Where’s Sam?”

“I don’t know. I heard him yell something about burning bones, I guess he figured out where she is. I haven’t seen him.”

“Well, let’s go downstairs, there’s nothing up here-”

I’m cut off by what feels like a hand around my throat and then suddenly I’m airborne again. Only this time, there’s no door to slow my fall, or a wall to crash into. I hit the floor, and before I can scramble to catch myself gravity betrays me and I literally bounce down the stairs. I always thought it looked ridiculous when people on television fell down the stairs, and I have a few seconds to contemplate how stupid I must look until the wall at the bottom abruptly stops me. For the second time in five minutes, the air is knocked out of me. This time, my vision starts to go black around the edges and spots start dancing in front of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on getting my lungs to cooperate. In. Out. In. Out. Dean shouts and suddenly his shotgun slides down the stairs and lands at my feet. I look up to see him held against the wall, and I gauge the distance between us.

It’s too far.

The shotgun’s range with normal ammunition wouldn’t be enough, but this is rock salt. I’ll have to get closer, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I don’t move the lie I have been telling could get Dean killed. I grab the gun and crawl to the steps and begin dragging myself up, the shotgun in one hand while the other hand grips the worn wood. He’s looking at me, his eyes rolling as he tries to catch his breath, and I pump the shotgun one-handed, another television trope I wasn’t sure actually ever happened. I manage to climb half of the stairs and stand up shakily, leaning back against the banister as I aim the shotgun.

“Let him go, you bitch,” I snarl, then shoot. She disappears with a high pitched screech, and I collapse on the steps and let the gun fall from my hand. When I look up, Dean’s on his knees, his chest heaving as he stares at me. “When I said to go downstairs, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Dean shakes his head and laughs, “I was gonna say, that was a dramatic exit.”

“Well, I have to keep it interesting.” A crash comes from above us, and we both look up.

“Did you know that this place has an attic?”

I shake my head, “No, but I guess I do now.”

Sam shouts, and before Dean can run to the source of the sound, we hear a muffled found you and then feet hurrying across the floor above.

Sam pops out of one of the rooms, “We need to go.”

“Why? What did you do?” Dean asks as he gives me his hand again and I stand up gingerly. At least this time Dean isn’t going question it; I did just get thrown down the stairs.

“The better question is where the hell did you even come from?” I grimace as we start down the stairs and Dean’s brows furrow as he tightens his grip around my waist.

Sam grabs the shotgun and takes off for the front door, “Let’s talk about this outside. Actually, better yet, let’s talk about it in the car, as we’re leaving.”

We stumble outside and I turn back just in time to see the second story burst into flames. “Someone’s got some explainin’ to do.” I look back at Sam and he shrugs, and the puppy dog look on his face is nearly too much to deal with. “Was that absolutely necessary?”

Sam tosses Dean his keys, “Well, from the sounds of how hard she was kicking your asses, yes, it was necessary.”

Dean rolls his eyes and lets his arm slip from where it was resting around my waist. I’m sad, both because it was comfortable and because I can feel my body start to give up as my adrenaline begins to wear off.

“She wasn’t kicking our asses, we had it handled.”

“Right,” Sam scoffs, “if you consider Y/N getting thrown down the stairs and you getting choked out ‘having it handled’.” He air quotes that list bit, throwing a bitch face to beat all bitch faces at Dean.

“How would you even know? You didn’t see what was going on. And how did you even get up there anyway?”

“Guys…” Everything is getting blurry, and I can’t catch my breath. I reach out for Dean but my fingertips barely brush his arm; my depth perception is pretty much gone.

“Well, if you’d even tried to look around, you would have seen there was a back staircase, and a hidden entrance in one of the closets.” Sam crosses his arms and, even with blurry vision, I can tell that he’s gloating. They're picking a fine time to act like normal brothers.

“Dean.” It’s all I can get out before wracking coughs take over. I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't speak. I can taste it, the bitter metallic taste of my body working against me, tearing me apart from the inside out. I'm choking on blood, and the thought of dying throws me into a panic. I'm not ready; I just found the thing worth fighting for, even if I'm in denial about it. I have family again, a life, and I regret the decision I made to give it all up.

“Y/N!”

I fall to my knees, and I feel someone next to me, a familiar warmth, and I fold myself into it. Dean's looking down at me, his eyes full of fear, and it's the only thing I can focus on.

“C’mon, hang in there. Sammy, help me get her in the car.”

“Shouldn't we call an ambulance-”

My gasp for air and another coughing fit interrupts him, and he looks at me in horror when he sees how much blood is on my face. I may not be able to see well, but I can tell. This is bad.

“We don't have time to wait. Come on.” Dean lifts me up and Sam rushes to open the back door. He carefully slides me onto the bench seat, and before he can move I find a little strength to grab his arm.

“Please...don't…” It's all I can say. It's Dean, though, and he understands. He's understood me since we were ten years old.

“Okay, I'm here, I gotcha.” He crawls in next to me and holds me across his lap, my head against his shoulder. Each gargling breath I take has him holding me tighter, and my heart aches. I shouldn't have done this to him. He holds the keys out to Sam, “Drive, fast.”

The last thing I feel as my eyes slip shut is Dean’s lips as he brushes them against my cheek. “Everything will be fine,” he whispers.

Everything will be fine.

Read Part 4 HERE.

Like what you see? Would you like to see more? My Masterlist is here!

Forever Tags: @trexrambling @pinknerdpanda @wheresthekillswitch @emilywritesaboutdean @arryn-nyxx @emptywithout @escabell @charliebradbury1104 @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @deanssweetheart23 @canadianjelly @super-not-naturall @aubreyreadsstuff @dean-winchesters-babydoll @melissaj616 @fandomismyspiritanimal @keepcalmandcarryondean @assbutt-still-in-hell @owllover123 @rosie-winchester @amionthetumbler @duubaduu @hiimaprofessionalfangirl @goldenolaf25 @authoressskr @nanie5 @mrssamfuckingwinchester @zincomms @kathaswings @crazynerdandproud @barbedwireandbubblegum @sandlee44 @boxywrites @justanotherdeangirl @smalltowndivaj @captainradicalpassion @myloveforyouxx @atc74 @mrsbatesmotel53 @there-must-be-a-lock @masksandtruths @thelittleredwhocould @jotink78 @amanda-teaches @ilsawasanacrobat @squirrel-moose-winchester @mjdoc90 @anticipate1003 @mrswhozeewhatsis @mindsunleashed @mogaruke @speakinvain @linki-locks11 @wildlandfox @rhochradel @lostnliterature

Dean Only: @akshi8278 @valkyrieslament @lavieenlex @highonpastries @wholelottajackles

Breathe: @rosethesupernaturalhunter @bitchof707official @waywardbaby @demondeantrash @gh0stgurl @kararanae23 @linki-locks11

SPN Angst Bingo: @thekarliewinchester @emptywithout @winchesterxtwo @aubreystilinksi @castianityislife02

#spn angst bingo #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean x reader #reader insert #angst

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ilikebigbooks-and-icannotlie · 7 years

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lol so I finished this at 4:30 AM, and queued it for 1:30 PM, hoping that people would actually be awake to read it... apologies for any mistakes I’m so tired jesus christ ugh @highlady-casandra and @miladyaelin surpriissseeeee!!!!! @snaps7 this is the extra thing I was talking about :) I need to go to bed kill me. Have to start Part 3 tomorrow - or today, I guess? Ugh.

Based on the first prompt of this post.

Warning! Lots of vague smut coming your way, as well as vague mentions of drugs and abuse.

It was not quite Lysandra’s day. But what more could she expect from a day that began with her waking up incredibly late in a stranger’s bed.

Thank god that for her, late meant 7 AM, which was still significantly early for most people. She’d gently untangled herself from the gorgeous man’s arms as quickly as possible before throwing on whatever clothes she could find from the night before. Her bra and skirt were easy enough, having been the last clothing items to go. The latter of the two hadn’t even made it off the bed, still hanging off of the edge.

To be fair, it hadn’t even made it off her body when he’d skillfully brought her to her first orgasm, the tight pencil skirt roughly pushed to her hips as his fingers masterfully dragged long breathy moans out of her soft pink lips. His own lips had closed around one nipple though the soft lace of her bra – biting, sucking, tugging – and then the other, pinching the first between his thumb and forefinger.

It had been pushed even further up her hips later, when he’d lifted her against him, her legs crossed tightly against his ass, pulling him impossibly tighter against her as her nails dug into his scalp, moans echoing through the small room as he pounded into her against the wall. His strong arms were the only thing holding her up, as his lips left a trail of bruises along her collar bone. The skirt had made it to the bed about the same time they had, leading into round two of their sexcapades.

As she glanced around the messy bedroom in search of her underwear, flashes of rounds three and four flooded her memories, causing her face to flush as she glanced over at the sleeping sex god. He had rolled over, and the sheet had slid just enough to reveal the red lines her nails had left trailing down his broad perfectly-sculpted back. She quickly looked away, the red flush on her face crawling down to her neck. There was absolutely no way she could be in that room when he woke up. She could live without underwear, but she couldn’t live without dignity.

Her shirt should have been easy - the bright purple blouse kind of hard to miss. But that proved be false, and the search was far too time consuming for her to bother. She grabbed his white button down off the floor and slipped it on as she tiptoed out of the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

Still on her toes, she lightly ran to the door of the apartment, grabbing her strappy heels and her purse on the way, before quietly making her escape. After slamming the elevator button three times, she finally felt comfortable enough to stop and step into the designer heels. She didn’t really have time to let herself consider how disgusting the floor probably was, only how thankful she was that at least her daughter was at a sleepover.

God bless private schools who hold parent-teacher conferences in the mornings.

What felt like 5 hours later, the elevator doors finally dragged open, and Lysandra let out a sigh of relief as she quickly stepped on, a sudden gasp bursting out of her lungs as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored walls. She was a fashion designer for fuck’s sake, this was just a disaster.

Her wild sex hair proudly stuck out in every direction. The line of hickeys trailing along her collarbone was nicely showcased by the barely buttoned shirt. Last night’s perfect make up was well and truly smeared all across her face. Overall, she looked like a walking tragedy.

The elevator’s doors slid open on the first floor a minute later, and Lys smiled at the satisfying clack of her heels against the tile as she stepped out – the picture of cool perfection.

Her dark brown disaster had been pulled into a tight bun sitting neatly on top of her head. The oversized button-up was now buttoned as far up as was appropriate and neatly tucked into her pencil skirt, nicely accenting her curves. A few make up wipes had quickly taken care of her face – only leaving the smudged eyeshadow, which had somehow developed into a moderately passable smoky eye overnight. As she stepped through the revolving door of the apartment building, she quickly swiped some lip gloss across her lips, and slipped the tube back into her purse, completing her appearance. A small smirk grew on her lips as she peered over at herself in the reflection of the windows she passed as she quickly walked along the street.

If modeling had taught her nothing else, at least it gave her this. There was a lot to be said for the impressive ability to go from homeless chic to runway ready in under a minute.

The smirk quickly fell away as she recalled the rest of it, though. The bitchy girls, cutthroat atmosphere, harmful attitude – it wasn’t for her. And neither was her agent.

Arobynn Hammel had simultaneously been her saving grace – and also her worst nightmare.

As her agent, he’d been a blessing, efficiently thrusting her to the peak of her modeling career, as she did spread after spread, successfully funding her design school dreams. As a boyfriend – she didn’t like to think about those memories. The bruises in places no one would be likely to see – the pain, the tears, the rage – with no escape in sight. Until the day he’d overdosed in the room next to her.

Constantly going from one party to the next, Lys had definitely been used to drugs. But there was something about waking up to find a dead body with a face full of cocaine that really purges any desire to see them ever again.

Due to the circumstances of his death, the police took every dime of his that they knew of, and she’d willingly complied. But the eternally paranoid Arobynn had also had secret stashes of cash hidden throughout the city.

And it was from his cash, on the back of the name he’d built her, that she began her company. Busting her ass off, she clawed her way to the top from the ground up, and only 3 years later she quickly became known as one of the best break-through designers of her time. It was something about the feeling of it. After being forced into a certain image for years as a model, Lysandra now had freedom. She didn’t think she would ever get sick of sheer joy and beauty of being her own boss, and of building her own masks with which to face world.

However, it wasn’t long after that that she needed more. Not a husband – she’d had enough of overbearing men to last her a lifetime. Instead, she got herself a daughter. Evangeline was barely two and a half years old when Lysandra adopted her, and Lys would happily tell anyone that it was the best decision she’d ever made. Eva quickly became the most important thing in Lys’ life. Though fashion still stayed in her mind, she would have given it all up in a heartbeat for her daughter.

Now, five years later, Snow Leopard Designs were going to be on that month’s cover of both Vogue and InStyle, along with a special spread in Elle Magazine. On top of that, Lysandra was also about to be named of GQ’s “30 Most Influential Women Under 30.” To be fair, she was certainly toeing the line – but GQ didn’t need to be reminded of that.

But more important than all of that, was the fact that two weeks ago, Evangeline had finally started first grade. And today was the day Lysandra was supposed to go in and meet her new teacher. If she wasn’t late.

Throwing another quick glance at her watch, Lys clicked faster against the pavement as she desperately sped to the school. Her concern for her appearance began to waver as her bun loosened, and she slowly began to sweat. All that really mattered was reaching the meeting on time, though. The rest could be dealt with later.

When Lysandra finally reached the teacher’s classroom only one minute late and entirely out of breath, the first thing she noticed was that no teacher waited. Admittedly, she focused on this for a while, equal parts celebrating and irritated. Then again, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had a rough morning too. The second thing that Lys couldn’t help but notice, was the sheer number of wolves around the classroom. Nothing extreme, but definitely more than she expected in a first-grade classroom.

Her back stiffened as she heard footsteps echoing down the hall. Reasonably, she knew it had to be him. Everyone else’s meetings had already started. Glancing down at her phone, she glared in annoyance. 7 minutes late. Was this the kind of schedule with which this teacher taught class, as well? She let out a deep sigh as she quickly glanced down to make sure her hickeys weren’t visible, her back still to the door of the classroom.

The footsteps finally entered, the sound only briefly cut out by the click of the closing door before quickly continuing towards what she assumed was the desk at the front of the room. “So sorry,” a soothing baritone breathed out, as the familiar sound of a coffee tray hit what she knew was an old wooden desk. Barely listening, Lysandra continued to walk along the back wall of the classroom, growing angrier by the second. So he’d had time to get himself coffee, she seethed as the tantalizing scent gently caressed her nose, but he couldn’t be bothered to arrive to the meeting on time.

The school committee would definite be receiving a strongly worded email about him.

“-really sorry,” he clearly continued, not even noticing that she hadn’t been paying attention. “I just had a really late night, but I know that shouldn’t be an excuse.”

It was at this that she’d decided she’d had enough. She was not paying for this fancy private school only to have her daughter’s teacher to give “a really late night,” as his best excuse. Immediately, she snapped around, entirely prepared to give this idiot a piece of her mind. And then all words suddenly left her brain.

Before her stood an incredibly gorgeous blonde man with startling blue-gold eyes, and his forearms barely contained in a rolled-up button down which was a very similar style to the one she’d stolen that morning.

Probably because they were the same brand.

Standing in front her was the man from the bar last night.

The very same one whose bed she’d snuck out of earlier that morning.

He couldn’t help the smirk on his lips at the incredibly shocked expression on what he’d only witnessed as a perfectly composed face, except for when her carefully crafted mask fell apart at the mercy of his hands. “Well,” he drawled, sipping on one of the coffees he’d pulled out of the tray he’d brought as an apology to the parent he was supposed to be meeting. The parent that was apparently her. “You know all about late nights, I bet.” The smirk stretched as he eyed her, clearly impressed with what she managed to accomplish without heading home. “That, and shirt-stealing, it looks like.”

Her cheeks began to once again shift to a slight red as she stood there, unable to do anything but stare. Every time he opened his mouth, she wanted nothing but to hit him. But the other part of her wanted nothing more than for him to show the skirt another good time against his otherwise useless wooden desk. And as she watched his eyes darken when they met her own, it looked like he was starting to get the same idea. Her skin was crawling with the need to feel his hands on it again, as she watched his knuckles grip the desk tightly as though to balance himself, once he placed the coffee down on the plastic desk closest to his. Pure unadulterated desire flashed between them. The tension had almost immediately become a palpable thing as memories of their night together clearly played through both of their minds.

This she could work with. She felt herself comfortably slip into the mask as a small sensual smile slid onto her lips. She walked to him from across the room, the sound of her heels echoing through it with every step. “It was more of a trade,” she shrugged, finally stopping mere inches from him. She trailed a single finger down his firm chest, feeling row after row of muscle tense beneath her touch. Her voice was a soft purr when she finally spoke again. “In exchange, I left you my panties.”

He inhaled deeply as she slowly leaned toward him, clearly testing his resolve as she teased. But luckily, it didn’t take much for to snap. All it took was one of her breasts light brushing against his chest for his hand to go straight to her ass, jerking her whole body flush against him. The other hand reached up, tangling his fingers in her hair, and lightly tilting her head, granting him full access to her neck. His nose gently trailed upward, inhaling deeply. A small possessive part of him wanted to roar his pleasure at the smell of him on her skin.

“By the way, sweetheart,” he murmured pressing his lips just under her jaw as his hand reached down to meet the other. Both hands now lifted her against him as he leaned back against the desk, her legs easily maneuvering up and over it to wrap around his waist. She bit back a moan at the feel of him through his jeans, pressing against her once again as the same pencil skirt climbed to its familiar position high on her waist. “When you find yourself dreaming of detention with me late at night, Mr Ashryver will do.” His breath was hot as it blew across her ear, causing a shiver to run down her spine at his words. Her arms wrapped around the back of his neck pulling him tighter against her, and in turn brushing his lips against her ear. He bit down on it lightly, a light growl growing deep in his throat as he pulled back to look her in the eye. “But the next time I fuck you – the next time you come in my arms – I want to hear my name on your lips. I want you screaming – Aedion.”

#lysaedion #I guess I'm writing now #lysandra #lady lysandra #aedion #aedion ashryver #tog #throne of glass #queen of shadows #qos #eos #empire of storms #tog aus #tog au #aelin ashryver #aelin ashryver galathynius #oh look it's me #sassacas

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past3lp3gasus · 7 years

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I’ve been delaying this post because I haven’t been ready. I feel like I have so much to say and don’t even know where to start. Plus, some of it is painful to reflect upon.

It’s almost scary how my hair reflects my life and what I’m going through at the moment. I’m learning a lot about how to navigate through life by something that most say is “just hair”. Many women these days shave their heads because they are not their hair. My truth is a bit different. I feel like my hair is such an anchor in my life. Like Sampson’s was in the bible.

I began my journey with the embarrassing scraps. I went blonde shortly before I started, and my hair started snapping off. I looked like a little boy when my interlocks were put in. I was chubby as well and having so little hair, made me look even more plump. However, I was excited for the challenge. Excited to tackle the challenge of self love. I wasn’t the most fond to look upon at the moment, therefore, I refused to be hung up on my physical appearance. It was then, where I began to look inside myself for inner beauty. I began a lot of soul searching and was able to learn a good deal about myself and my passions in life. One of the things I’ve learned through this journey is how compassionate I am.

I kept my locks neat a lot through my last couple years of college. I was working full time at the restaurant job that I hated, but paid my school fees. I managed to hang in there for the better half of 2 years. Years of nothing but pain and struggle. I finally graduated in December and being able to quit my job in February was so rewarding and liberating. I was unemployed for a good 3 weeks. Luckily I had saved up enough money to keep me a float during the job search process. I applied for several jobs a day, which is funny because the job I ended up getting wasn’t even one that I applied for. I just kind of happened through word of mouth. However, had I not put myself out there, I wouldn’t have gotten this opportunity. I applied to be a preschool teacher, shortly before I quit the Z. My dad encouraged me to shadow a close family friend for a day because she had been doing this as a career most of her life. I rushed into her classroom from a job interview one morning. I was so late so we didn’t have as much time, but she was able to give me plenty of pointers in that short amount of time.

The next day was my trial shift at the preschool. I believe it went well, but I didn’t end up getting the job. However, I received a text message the following day from my family friend saying that her school was in need of an after school music instructor. She said the director was one of her great friends who works at the same school as her. She gave me his number and I called him right away. We had a meeting in his classroom to discuss the culture of the program and our philosophies on music. He hired me. I am so incredibly blessed to have a boss who is so genuine. He never tries to break my spirit. I have felt nothing but support and encouragement from Josh and it means the world to me. From such a terrible experience at Zingerman’s I almost don’t know what it feels like for a person in leadership to treat me with dignity.

The money from teaching was enough to keep me a float in a sense that I was $15 an hour as an assistant but only teaching 2 days a week. I continued to look for 2nd job and landed one subbing at Ann Arbor Learning community. This is not a coincidence. This is fate, because I used to run Lego club at that very school and my old manager put in a good word for me, along with Jhordan (my manager from the music school who stepped up and was also a reference that was the determining factor of my hiring). So now I am working at AACL whenever they need me. I love it because my schedule is not set in stone and I don’t “have” to come in if I don’t want to.

Eventually I got some private students through Josh. That is more money in my pocket. And he has also asked me to be a lead teacher next semester. Of course, I will, because it pays more.

Brad and I split recently for good. The crazy thing is my hair is all tangled up. Let’s be honest, it looks rough and like it has been through a war. HOWEVER, I have SOOOOOOO much new growth. My roots need to be touched up. Anthony will definitely be able to do it for me when I get back to Ghana, meanwhile, I’m booking an appointment at Textures to get my hair done with my next paycheck because I currently look like a cave woman. I feel like this is a symbol of my life at this very moment. A ton damage, but a good amount of growth. It is time for nourishment, refinement and maintenance.

I have started by cracking down on my diet. The biggest change I’ve made is cutting alcohol down to only on weekends, or if I go out. Now I only drink 1-2 days a week, versus the 5-7 days I used to while working at the restaurant. I was so stressed out after shifts and I used alcohol to cope. I’m proud of myself for catching that flaw and leaving the situation. Another change I’ve made is being more organized and more cleanly. I knew I needed to change when seeing the inside of lover’s homes and observing that they are way more clean, neat and tidy than I. I feel like a woman should always be clean. The 3rd big change I’ve made is exercise. I am now exercising about 5 days a week and sometimes I do 2 a days. I am in the process of healing myself and my body, so that it is prepared for what the future brings. I’m tired of caring all of this weight around. I have a vision of what my body will feel and look like in the future and I feel like it is so attainable, I can almost taste it. But I have to keep reminding myself that it’s a journey and a process. I didn’t get to be this unhealthy over night, so I will not be healed over night either. But the day I look in the mirror with a strong body, hair past my waist and a successful artist, I will feel like a champion. I long for that feeling, which is exactly why I’m holding myself so accountable these days. I am also proud that none of these goals involve men.

I am really aiming to be able to navigate through life without the company of a lover. I am striving to be my own lover, but sometimes I have weak moments. Actually many times. Like yesterday, when a guy left me his number. I have it saved in my phone. He’s super adorable, but I never texted him. I eventually will, but right now just isn’t the time. I also met someone last weekend at a party. We had a great time. He really showed interest in me. He lives in Chicago and was leaving the next night. He hit me up in the morning wanting to meet and say goodbye. We went to Hopcat for drinks. I’m very relieved that he had to go back to Chicago though. My heart is full at the moment and right now I just don’t have the space for anyone else. We text back and forth and ask about each other’s days. it’s nice. But i’m of course not completely feeling it because I’m still hurting. Plus, Brad gave me trust issues. Ali (the guy from the party) mentioned moving to Ann Arbor and I told him to not base his decision off of me by any circumstance. He’s a foreigner and so I’d imagine love is more simple for him. He definitely has experienced love at first sight, which sucks because I don’t feel the same. This is simply a fling, as terrible as that sounds. But I have to look out for me these days. I’m done putting my all into men who I’m not married to and I am very aware that many women even walk out of marriages over things that Brad put me through in the relationship.

One last change I am making is seeking help. Just like I’m going to get my locks done at the shop, I’m also looking to go back to therapy. I always feel ashamed to go back, but I guess it’s sort of the trendy thing to do these days anyways haha. So that makes me feel at least a little better. I want to bounce back physically and become more flexible. One day I’d like to start doing yoga. I also need to learn how to become flexible psychologically. I can’t allow life to dig deep holes that I can’t get out of. I want it to be more like a slinky instead, and not be so easily phased and affected by things that I can’t control and that are not worth my time/reaction.

I’m aware that this post is kind of a lot, but I really needed to get my thoughts organized by putting them in writing. I also hope that being so public with my life will inspire someone.

You are never alone.

I cringe at the thought of cutting my locks. I don’t think I ever will, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

#past3lp3gasus #life #thoughts #natural hair #locs #black hair #wonderlocks #dreadlock journey #journey #hair #rasta #black woman #black is beautiful #black girl magic

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charlesjening · 5 years

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Let’s Talk About How CPA Canada Totally F*cked Up Last Week’s CFE

Many years ago in another lifetime, I dated this total loser. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Adrienne, what the hell do your dubious dating choices have to do with accounting?” Bear with me, we’ll get there.

So, this loser. He was an adorable if grungy scamp with tattoos dotted across his body like scribbles on my middle school notebook covers and dirty blonde hair that managed to be both greasy and perfectly-coiffed at all times. Young me, not yet schooled in the fine art of red flags that subsequent years of dating would teach me, was weak to his charms despite the fact that he brought little to the table other than a killer smile and the occasional bottle of Remy, the latter of which impressed young me since I was too young then to buy my own and too lazy to stand outside of the liquor store waiting for some 30-year-old dorky sap to buy me one.

As I’m sure you can imagine by this point in the story, this guy came with more issues than National Geographic, not least of which being his attraction to substances — both licit and not. This generally wasn’t a problem as he was clever enough to weasel out of most predicaments his unfortunate choices got him into, and I clever enough to avoid him when he was on a bender. But every now and then, he’d find himself face-to-face with some cop who was sick of having to drag his drunk ass in every other week.

In one whiskey-and-who-knows-what-else-fueled incident I can recall, he called me from the drunk tank to inform me that A) I was a bitch for ditching him earlier in the evening, and B) he was in jail, possibly facing an actual charge for fighting or stealing or who the hell can remember, it doesn’t matter now. Given that I lacked both the bail money to get him out and the will to do a favor for someone who just called me a bitch, I let him sit there. A few short hours later, he was out. The time from arrest to his release couldn’t have been more than maybe three or four hours.

So why did I just tell this story? To put into perspective the fact that CPA Canada just treated the country’s future CPAs worse than police treated my loser ex-boyfriend who definitely deserved to be locked up for being an absolute waste of carbon.

Let’s get caught up on this, likely the worst professional examination debacle I think we’ve ever covered in our 10 years here on Going Concern. Because we’re a mostly American-based rag, I feel obligated to explain what the CFE (Common Final Examination) is and how it’s administered, if briefly. Unlike here in the good ole U. S. of A. where future CPAs can schedule exams with relative flexibility, Canadian accountants have to endure a three-day exam that is usually administered just once a year, though sometimes like next year they get lucky and have two chances. This year, the CFE started on Sept. 11 and, according to many reports, was already off to a bad start. But by Sept. 12, the shit had totally hit the fan.

9:15 in Vancouver on day 2 CFE. No one can load secure exam. from r/Accounting

On Monday, a tipster caught us up on the drama which we missed because A) we regrettably forget about our friends up north sometimes, and B) at least for me, I was too busy with Borderlands 3 to waste my time trolling r/accounting for something to write about last weekend and totally missed the complaining.

Hi there,

I am reporting on CPA Canada’s negligence in carrying out this year’s Common Final Examination (“CFE”) last week. This is a very important 3-day examination that prospective accountants must pass to obtain the professional licence to practice accounting in Canada.

There was a massive breach of integrity of the exam because of CPA Canada’s negligence to carry out their job properly. This resulted in many students (i.e. Edmonton location) where they were forced to sit inside the examination centre for 4 hours before the exam started. In other words, when the exam was supposed to start at 9AM, they started at 1PM. They were starved and asked to stay inside the examination centre.

Jesus, even my loser ex-boyfriend got a moldy bologna sandwich in the holding tank.

CPA Canada’s failure to administer the exam and treat candidates with the minimum of dignity while they waited to take what is quite possibly the most important test of their lives has been picked up by all sorts of media, including the Financial Post.

FP writes:

Another online poster, who spoke to the Financial Post on the condition that he would not be identified, described seeing people in Edmonton in emotional and physical distress on the second day of the exam, which was delayed for five hours, and which ultimately proceeded without access to a crucial digital handbook.

“Everyone was tired, exhausted and seemed in no shape to write” by the time the exam started, the poster said on Reddit, adding that a series of delays left the candidates in the examination room for about 12 hours and facing huge lineups for access to limited food and water.

“We study our butts off and stress for 8 weeks only to experience this?” the exam-writer wrote.

A statement we received from an anonymous collective consisting of Canadian Big 4 employees operating under the name Wayne Gretzky (LOL) details the CFE failures, disappointments, and plans to hold CPA Canada responsible. It also explains the situation far better than I can with far fewer tangents about greasy ex-boyfriends, so let’s check it out:

After a poorly administered examination took place last week, Chartered Professional Accountant (“CPA”) candidates across Canada are left to question the integrity and competency of their governing bodies. More than eight thousand CPA students wrote the annual Common Final Examination (“CFE”) from September 11, 2019 to September 13, 2019. The CFE is a three-day examination which requires students who have completed certain post-graduate programs to write four to five hours of simulated business cases each day, testing their competencies to be licensed as a CPA. The CFE is known to be one of the most challenging examinations to write—arguably on par with other professional examinations such as the bar exam for lawyers or qualification exam for doctors—with the majority of candidates sacrificing weeks of time off from work in order to prepare and perform at their best.

What students could not prepare for, however, was the myriad of unexpected technical and administrative issues during this year’s examination. These issues severely disrupted their ability to perform and compromised the validity of examination results. This is the first year that new examination software, called Surpass, was rolled out, and it appears that CPA Canada—the organization which governs the profession and administers the examination—had not adequately prepared themselves for the issues that would come along with this rollout.

This led a number of test centres across the country to delay the examination for up to five hours with limited access to food, drinks, and washrooms. It was likened to being held hostage, and those students ended up writing from 2PM to 7PM when they should have been writing from 9AM to 2PM. One student writes, “I came in that morning ready, […] but the fatigue from sitting and waiting for hours plus unnecessary stress resulted in what I believe to be a clear fail. I’m a good student, I studied like my life depended on it. In a normal exam condition, I’d have passed without any issue.”

In addition, some students were handicapped by being forced to write responses by hand as opposed to typing, with no access to reference material on their computers during the “open-book” examination. The examination was supposed to be written through the Surpass software, which saved typed responses and allowed students to view certain reference material, while locking down their computers from opening other applications. The software was ultimately used by only a fraction of students, and even so, these students faced slow response times and periodic glitches. There are also students falling in the last category of being told to write on Microsoft Word and access the internet for reference material, because the software did not work for the entire centre. To this point, one student wonders, “The test was going to be written at one point with three different groups having various resources […] How can you mark a test three different ways and make that fair?”

Not only are there issues in the fairness of marking, but students are convinced that examination results were also compromised due to the opportunities that opened up for cheating. A student from the West coast wrote, “Our start time was after when Eastern Canada [sic] would have finished their exam and there was no measure taken to ensure that there was no exam information leakage across the country.”

Indeed, some students from the Eastern time zones posted details about specific questions on social media despite having accepted a confidentiality agreement prior to the examination, and their posts benefitted users in the West who had unsupervised access to the internet during the delays.

The inappropriate handling of the situation by CPA Canada only made matters worse. Proctors appeared to not have been trained or communicated with properly because they made last-minute decisions and provided inconsistent instructions. One student recalls that “the staff in the room were very disorganized and clearly had no clue what to do.” To add on, another student expresses, “I’m mostly upset with the time it took to resolve the issues, and the lack of communication provided to the candidates.”

Social media sites such as Reddit were flooded with comments after each day, from students sharing their “disappointing”, “horrifying”, and “disastrous” experiences while expressing their thoughts surrounding the “lack of professionalism” by CPA Canada. The issues mentioned in this article make up only a small number of many more outlined by the accounts of hundreds of students. Even individuals who did not write the examination had something to say about the series of events: “As a mentor to a student, and a current CPA profession member, the way the CFE was handled and carried out this year was blatantly unacceptable. I’m ashamed of my profession for the way this was carried out. There is no excuse for this.”

The Surpass software mentioned in the statement was first used for last year’s exams and is supposed to offer “enhanced functionality and flexibility for examination writers and administrators.” It’s unclear at this point what part if any Surpass played in this debacle. That said, I’ve got a PDF of hundreds of candidate comments in front of me with countless complaints about the software, leading a reasonable person to assume it had a lot to do with last week’s drama. Since this is already running long and I know you guys, like me, have the attention span of a gnat, I’ll only share a choice few.

Surpass has been a nightmare. I wasn’t even able to upload my exam today. Day 1 they kept us for an extra hour after the exam due to technical difficulties with the software. We were advised not to use the cut function because it would freeze the software. The whole rollout of Surpass seems very poorly planned and basically exactly what they are teaching us not to do, as CPAs. I certainly expected better, considering the amount of money I paid to write the CFE.

And:

Surpass froze on me roughly 3 hours into the exam. A proctor took my computer and spent 30 minutes working on it without telling me what he was doing. I saw him with a back-up laptop and a USB key, so I assumed he was transferring my work, but when I asked him about it, he told me that the work I did was saved on the USB, and that I would have to finish the exam by hand.

And:

Please note that this is not the first time that there have been issues with the new software. I wrote my elective exam in December, 2018 and experienced the same issues (actually worse, because my computer crashed multiple times and I lost 20-30 minutes).

And my favorite comment of all:

As I said, the thing goes on for comment after comment. We’d be here all day and probably piss off our benevolent overlords at Accountingfly for all the server space we’d have to buy just to host every single complaint if I posted every single one. Let’s just say Surpass isn’t looking good at this point.

Like damn. As some of y’all know, I’m a day one Fallout 76 player and even Bethesda isn’t this bad when it comes to glitches, good Lord.

Oh hey, Mr Glitched Ghoul Guy

Of course CPA Canada was forced to make a statement, the entirety of which we’re including below because why not, this thing is already long as hell.

During the administration of the three-day Common Final Exam (CFE) there were technical delays resulting in a challenging exam writing experience for many students. We extend our sincere apologies to everyone who was affected as we know how much work goes into preparing and writing this important examination and how stressful it has been for our students.

In response to issues caused by technical problems with the CFE, CPA Canada is retaining a third-party expert to conduct an independent, comprehensive review. The mandate includes evaluating the integrity and reliability of the September 2019 examination process.

To inform our review, we are actively gathering information from students, proctors, and others to understand what happened and how it impacted the exam-writing experience. We are committed to maintaining the integrity of the profession and the Common Final Examination.

An independent board of examiners oversees the CFE evaluation process. Over many years, they have developed a robust system for taking into account extenuating circumstances that affect exam-writers. Given what occurred during this year’s exam, this CFE evaluation process will be supplemented by the third-party review.

We will proceed as quickly as possible, but our main priority is to provide the time necessary for a fair, accurate and equitable outcome.

At the same time, we are also immediately reviewing the technical issues that arose across the country and are working with our service providers to do everything possible to avoid a future reoccurrence.

We recognize what a difficult time this has been for many and we want to reassure exam-writers we have the people and processes in place to resolve the situation as quickly and effectively as possible.

Yeah, tell that to the poor bastards holed up in a gymnasium for hours on end last week.

This disaster comes just after CPA Canada released a likely multimillion-dollar advertising campaign on “The New Face” of Canada’s CPAs, making for an awkward discussion about CPA Canada’s priorities when they’re burning the future new faces this hard.

The post Let’s Talk About How CPA Canada Totally F*cked Up Last Week’s CFE appeared first on Going Concern.

republished from Going Concern

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monkeyandelf · 6 years

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New Post has been published on Buzz News from Monkey & Elf |

New Post has been published on https://www.monkeyandelf.com/why-we-should-consider-banning-social-media/

Why We Should Consider Banning Social Media

On December 3, 2017, 23-year-old Canadian porn actress August Ames became embroiled in a Tweet storm that would drive her to take her own life two days later. Her decision to drop out of a scene that she was scheduled to do with a male “crossover” performer (a guy who has sex with both men and women on camera) was perceived as homophobic by the masses of angry human beings that lurk on Twitter, even though she has appeared in many dozens of scenes with other women. Her ownership of a stance that others disagree with provoked a furious backlash.

One crossover star, Jaxton Wheeler, tweeted “the world is awaiting your apology or for you to swallow a cyanide pill. Either or we’ll take it” and he was backed up by an online lynch mob who peppered her with abuse and insults. On December 5 she sent out her final Tweet—”fuck y’all”—and was discovered by her husband, porn director Kevin Moore, soon after. Silicon Valley might peddle utopian propaganda that frames social media as some sort of dreamy promised land where information is freely shared and connections made for the purposes of our collective enlightenment, but over the past couple of years it has become abundantly clear that it has become an utter cesspit and the death of August Ames is a far more accurate representation of the reality of internet discourse. This is why, in my opinion, we should consider banning social media.

JGI / Tom Grill / Getty Images

Although August’s death cannot solely be attributed to Twitter—indeed, Ms. Ames was candid about her battles with depression and the sexual abuse she suffered as a child, so she was quite clearly a particularly vulnerable individual—I firmly believe that had this incident happened 15 years ago, she would still be alive. As someone prone to making controversial, provocative statements, I’ve endured a sizable share of abuse online. Just several weeks ago an old article that I wrote pondering whether Japan might be the world’s most overrated travel destination got a second wind of life, and I opened Twitter to find over 100 notifications from disgruntled Japanophiles who took issue with the fact that I voiced an opinion that they disagreed with.

For hours new notifications kept rolling in, many of which contained insults and ridicule rather than reasonable rebuttals or well-thought out counterpoints. Their tone was overwhelmingly combative. Now I don’t expect any sympathy because I knowingly brought such a reaction upon myself, but even as someone who gets a kick out of poking people in the eye, I couldn’t help but feel the back of my neck tense up every time a new flurry of tweets came my way.

just being so candid and one with nature and my phone and shit omg vegans amirite 🌸

A post shared by August Ames (@msmaplefever) on Sep 10, 2017 at 9:25pm PDT

Social media platforms are designed to mimic slot machines as a way of getting users addicted to them. As a result, overstimulation on social media feels like sensory overload. I couldn’t help but feel mildly overwhelmed and a degree of aversion began to creep in. There’s something about Twitter that made all this hate feel much louder than a silent notification icon at the bottom of my iPhone screen. If someone with a lot less Twitter followers, much less of a profile and not nearly as many issues as August Ames can feel themselves begin to look away, I can only imagine how cornered she must have felt. Communication before social media lacked that instantaneousness; there was a buffer that made it seem more distant. Maybe Twitter and its users can’t conclusively be blamed for Ames’s death, but they can’t absolve their conscience completely.

I’m sure there are those who would accuse me of hysterically overreacting, but this is so much bigger than a solitary tragedy: over the past couple years we’ve seen social media distort our very perception of reality as it became a vehicle for fake news. Russian spy factories weaponized social media during the Brexit referendum in Britain and throughout the U.S. presidential election in order to undermine the western political order. Soon after Donald Trump’s victory, The Guardian pondered whether the Internet has become a failed state. Peer down the wormhole of Breitbart or 4chan or the myriad of misogynistic subreddits out there and it becomes quite clear that it has. Social media may have enabled mild conveniences but many are beginning to question whether we’ve reached a tipping point where it causes more harm than it’s worth.

lil snowflake

A post shared by August Ames (@msmaplefever) on Aug 6, 2017 at 10:21pm PDT

But it’s not only the alt-right that have turned online discourse into a mud wrestling match in a puddle of proverbial diarrhea: supposedly high-minded social justice warrior types are clearly just as odious. After all, it wasn’t neo-fascists that drove Ms. Ames to her death, but people who seem to believe in tolerance so intensely that they’re willing to mentally lynch someone that deviates from their world view. Rather than spewing bile, Ames was ham-handedly referencing the fact that that gay and bisexual men make up a much greater proportion of HIV infection — roughly 70%, to be exact. This isn’t homophobia, it’s a scientific fact: HIV is 18 times more transmissible via anal penetration than vaginal sex. Her wording may have been untactful, but it was by no means hateful, yet she was bullied to death by people who would probably claim to have a deep concern for other human beings.

This shows that the cruelty that’s so rampant on social media has nothing to do with political affiliation. The anonymity and detachment from reality facilitated by the Internet clearly brings out a profound cruelty that lurks in the dark recesses of human nature, one that the light of an smartphone screen cannot illuminate.

To those who would disagree with me, I posit the question: why shouldn’t we ban social media? What have social media platforms added to human civilization that’s so indispensable that we should simply shrug off the fact that it makes the democratic process vulnerable to tampering by foreign agents? Snapchat filters, perhaps? Do the benefits of Timehop really outweigh the erosion of human civilization by fake news? Facebook might save us money on long distance phone calls because we’re able to stay in touch with distant friends and relatives, but it allows allows firms like Cambridge Analytica to harvest our most intimate personal data and use it to wage psychological warfare via those very same platforms that gave them said data in the first place. Bit of a crap trade-off, if you ask me.

A post shared by Kylie (@kyliejenner) on Sep 7, 2017 at 2:43pm PDT

Seriously, ask yourself: who has really benefited from the rise of social media? Silicon Valley robber barons, unremarkable influencers who’ve managed to monetize their minimal talents, marketers who are now able to invade our consciousness with targeted ads that most of us invest concerted effort into avoiding and, of course, the unimaginative masses who have nothing better to do with their lives than record inane Instagram stories that are forgotten quicker than they can disappear. The gains, by any measure, aren’t enough to offset society’s collective loss of dignity.

Of course I’m not naive enough to think that a social media ban will ever happen. We haven’t even been able to make a break with fossil fuels despite the fact that it’s making our planet uninhabitable. Money speaks louder than the sound of a thousand trolls shitposting in unison. The best we can hope for is that all decent human beings on social media decide to sign out permanently once the stench emanating from this raging dumpster fire becomes too much to endure any longer. That said, though, don’t forget to follow me on Twitter.

Next up; here’s how to stop procrastinating online.

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