#Perpetual Larceny

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔅𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔞𝔩 𝔗𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔥 - 𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔏𝔞𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔶

#Brutal Truth #Perpetual Conversion #Perpetual Larceny #EP #Release date: #1992 #Genre: #Grindcore/Death Metal #Themes: #Social issues #Environment #Politics #Drugs #Anti-homophobia #USA

[tobiasdrake]

We have a terrible plan but it's the best we can do under these circumstances. Let's go get us a ship.

If we're still on the ship when it un-dusks, is that bad for us? Do we know?

Also, Teaks said it was imprisoned in a perpetual storm, but apparently it flickers in and out of reality? That was bugging me when we saw it do that the first time. Is the perpetual storm on the other side of the flicker?

This seems way more complicated than "Angry ghost captain summoned a furious storm." Do we know... anything? I mean, I assume not because it's one of those "If no one lived to tell the tale then who told the tale?" kind of things. If no one's ever been to the Vespertine and come back then no, we don't know anything. How would we?

Imagine signing on to a pirate journey for a specific mission and then being told you can't participate in the one thing you were here to do. They should mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean sneak around behind our backs to come along anyway.

It's what we'd do. With Garl. Specifically.

...Garl over here proudly displaying the scars of my mistakes and meanwhile Patches is over there with perfectly fine eyes covered by two eyepatches and he is not sharing.

There is logic in what the Captain's saying. But I nonetheless can't endorse it because y'all know what we'd be doing in the crew's shoes. Our history speaks for itself.

I dunno. Maybe these pirates are better disciplined than Solstice Warriors are. I thought we were the upstart renegades against proper protocol but Bugraves and Erlina blew us right out of the water in the field of doing what you aren't supposed to. Our disobediences look quaint by comparison.

I guess Moraine isn't a very good indoctrinator. He's been a dismal failure at passing along dogma and shaping belief systems in his students. The Solstice Warriors simply aren't up to the same standards of conformity, blind faith, and rigid structuralism that you so famously find in piracy.

Okay, enough sad reflection. We're on a mission to steal a legendary vessel from a captain with no ownership of it using a magical artifact we no longer possess. Gonna need my game face on because unwarranted confidence is the only asset we have right now.

Ghost ship? More like toast ship amirite?

Look, I was thinking about other stuff, not working on zingers. Point is, we're awesome. What they got? Crusty old bones? Ask Roro how well that went for her!

So what if we lost the coin. We're still going to get the ship. We just have to use Plan B. Don't worry, everybody has a price when the currency is violence.

Oh, I'm ready. I am focused and--

Hold up, if we can control the cycle of night and day, can't we just rewind the clock to the night of the eclipse for another eclipse boost? We have technology in place to do this; Why aren't we using this ability to spam eclipses whenever we--

Oh hey Serai. When did you get here? And where did the pirates go?

...

Oh shit. I mean. WHOA! You were Captain Cliche this WHOLE TIME!? I am both shocked and honored that.... No, sorry, I can't do it.

Same reason you don't call someone out as gay no matter how transparent their glass closet is. I'm a firm believer in identity authoritarianism. You want to present as Mysterious Masked Figure, I'm not gonna stop you.

But now that we're actually having this conversation, yes, everyone already knew.

Don't think of it as losing the macguffin. Think of it as buying a supremely talented chef who will support the ungodly amounts of violence we are about to inflict.

That's okay, your plan was always bad anyway. You should have spent some time at camp talking to Teaks.

Honestly, after our trip to the Dweller's mansion, I'm looking forward to a return to the pleasant simplicity of bashing zombie skulls until they stop moving. Been warming my beatstick in anticipation.

Yeah, we're stupid like that.

Anyway, HANDS IN THE AIR. This is a robb-- Wait, no, that was yesterday. Sorry. Wrong script. Ahem. This is a shipjacking. Still larceny, different genre.

Ha! Success! Now to find out if we die!

Oh, pleasantries! Yeah, nice to meet you. I'm guessing you must be the navigator who wanted a better life? Did they make you captain after the mutiny?

Really should have demanded more than one curse-breaker soulstone from Roro. At the very least, instructions on how to make them would be nice to have, if we're going to keep involving ourselves with every curse on the planet.

Anyways, back to business.

This is a shipjacking. How do you say "Hand 'er over" in pirate curse? In any case, I know it doesn't look like it but Serai is definitely pointing a gun at you right now.

^_^ I'm the gun.

Technically, that only proves that one of us is real. The rest could still be imaginary.

Zale and I are too associated with each other and Serai showed up late in the game. So if one of us is meandering around having hallucinations of companionship, it's probably Garl. This whole thing could be a story he's making up in his head, thinking about the dear friends that were taken from him and who left him alone in childhood.

Probably not, though. I'm sure you're fine, Garl.

We also have a whole fifth person stuffed in his backpack!

Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Hortence. I would shake your hand but you're dead, ethereal, and possibly on fire.

In any case, I was already on your side of this argument from before we even met so I'd be happy to beat Stormcaller with a stick until he relents. Then you can retire to the unlife you wanted from the start and/or pass on, and we can take your ship.

Everybody wins. Except Stormcaller. But, y'know, fuck him.

The rest of the crew are brainless undead now. Unfortunate, but convenient. It means we don't need to worry about their opinions of the deal we're making.

Sucks for them. They all died for the Captain's hissy fit, which they were specifically trying to end by getting rid of the little shit. The crew did nothing wrong. They're as much victims of Stormcaller's unreasonable tantrum as Hortence is.

But it's super convenient for us that only one person has any ownership claim to this vessel now, and it's the person who wanted to leave from the start. That will help our shipjacking go super smoothly.

Oh, there's a third option. We buy him out. Everyone has a price when the currency--

Goddammit, I already used that line. I wasted it on you, Serai. Why did I do that? I didn't need to impress you! You already think I'm cool!

Okay. But. Counterpoint. I hit things really, really hard. It's hard to do magic when you're being hit really, really hard. There's a game mechanic for that and everything.

Considering everything that we came from on Wraith Island? Yes. I do feel good about our chances here.

#sea of stars #drake plays sea of stars

[jcmarchi]

AI Sentencing Cut Jail Time for Low-risk Offenders, but Racial Bias Persisted - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/ai-sentencing-cut-jail-time-for-low-risk-offenders-but-racial-bias-persisted-technology-org/

AI Sentencing Cut Jail Time for Low-risk Offenders, but Racial Bias Persisted - Technology Org

Judges relying on artificial intelligence tools to determine criminal sentences handed down markedly less jail time in tens of thousands of cases, but also appeared to discriminate against Black offenders despite the algorithms’ promised objectivity, according to a new Tulane University study.

Law, legal system – artistic interpretation. Image credit: succo via Pixabay, free license

Researchers examined over 50,000 drug, fraud and larceny convictions in Virginia where judges used AI software to score each offender’s risk of reoffending. The technology recommended alternative punishments like probation for those deemed low risk.

The AI recommendations significantly increased the likelihood low-risk offenders would avoid incarceration — by 16% for drug crimes, 11% for fraud and 6% for larceny. This could help ease the burden on states facing high incarceration costs. Defendants with AI-backed recommendations saw their jail terms shortened by an average of nearly a month — and following AI’s sentencing advice made it more likely offenders wouldn’t land back in jail for repeat offenses.

“Recidivism was about 14% when both the AI tool and judges recommended alternative punishments but much higher — 25.71% to be specific — when the AI tool recommended an alternative punishment, but the judge instead opted to incarcerate,” said lead study author Yi-Jen “Ian” Ho, associate professor of management science at Tulane University’s A. B. Freeman School of Business.

“We can conclude from that that AI helps identify low-risk offenders who can receive alternative punishments without threatening public safety. Overall, it appears clear that AI recommendations reduce incarceration and recidivism.”

But Ho also uncovered evidence the AI tools, intended to make sentencing more impartial, may be having unintended consequences. 

Judges have long been known to sentence female defendants more leniently than men. Ho found the AI recommendations helped reduce this gender bias, leading to more equal treatment of male and female offenders.

However, when it came to race, judges appeared to misapply the AI guidance. Ho found judges generally sentenced Black and White defendants equally harshly based on their risk scores alone. But when the AI recommended probation for low-risk offenders, judges disproportionately declined to offer alternatives to incarceration for Black defendants.

As a result, similar Black offenders ended up with significantly fewer alternative punishments and longer average jail terms than their White counterparts — missing out on probation by 6% and receiving jail terms averaging a month longer.

“To prevent this, we think better AI system training and feedback loops between judges and policymakers could help. Also, we believe judges should be encouraged to pause and reconsider their sentences when they deviate from AI advice,” Ho said. “They should be aware of unconscious biases that skew discretionary decisions.”

The findings demonstrate AI tools can make sentencing more objective but also perpetuate discrimination if allowed. Ho said it highlights the need for an informed public discussion about AI’s risks and benefits before implementing such systems more widely.

“Overall, while AI does appear to bolster certain aspects of justice administration, there continue to be instances where human biases intercede and contradict data-driven risk analysis,” Ho said. “As a result, we think that ongoing legal and ethical oversight regarding AI is essential.”

Source: Tulane University

You can offer your link to a page which is relevant to the topic of this post.

#000 #A.I. & Neural Networks news #Administration #Advice #ai #Algorithms #Analysis #artificial #Artificial Intelligence #artificial intelligence (AI) #Bias #Business #data #data-driven #drug #fraud #Gender #human #intelligence #it #justice #law #law enforcement #Legal #legal system #LESS #Link #loops #management #prevent

[finspirationfun]

Yet the economy is strong and consumer spending seems to have accelerated rather than suppressed. My guess (given we're in approaching elections*), these challenges will be dragged out, band-aids here and there, creativity and obfuscation will be used to protect the current administration.

At some point, the Jenga blocks fall, insufferable work will follow and ultimately; THE BILL MUST GET PAID!

Here are the facts:

NATIONAL DEBT: $31.78 TRILLION+

The U.S. Dollar is becoming less popular around the globe? A growing number of countries are looking for alternatives. The Dollar now represents about 58% of total global official reserves. Though that's still high, it's down from 73% in 2001 when it was considered the indisputable reserve currency of the world.

GLOBAL DEBT The total debt around the world is nearing a record high. According to the Institute of International Finance (IIF), global debt grew by $8.3 trillion in the first quarter to a total of $305 trillion.

The U.S. is not managing or budgeting money based on fundamentals. Furthermore, it has become soft and corrupt in it's legallization of larceny for the elites and corporations to ultimately become an expert in kicking the can down the road into perpetuity, while the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

Tuesday, November 5, 2024 2024 United States presidential election*

#economy #money #financial

[ryttu3k]

Elijah’s character sheet, V20 version! A bit trickier than the V5 version, since the only benefit of Amalgam disciplines did at least mean the V5 one had access to Thaumaturgy and Koldunic Sorcery as well as Dur-An-Ki, haha.

V5 version, for comparison. Onwards!

Elijah 'Pyre' Carter

Clan: Banu Haqim (Sorcerer) Generation: 12th (via diablerie, originally 13th) Concept: Magical hacker Nature: Pentinent Demeanour: Visionary

Attributes

Physical: Strength 1, Dexterity 2, Stamina 3

Social: Charisma 3, Manipulation 3, Appearance 2

Mental: Perception 3, Intelligence 4, Wits 3

Abilities

Talents: Alertness 2, Awareness 2, Streetwise 2, Subterfuge 3

Skills: Drive 1, Larceny 1, Stealth 3

Knowledge: Academics 3 (History), Computer 4 (Hacking), Investigation 2, Occult 3, Technology 2

Advantages

Disciplines: Dur-An-Ki 2, Obfuscate 1 (Cloak of Shadows), Auspex 1 (Heightened Senses)

Backgrounds: Alternative Identity 2, Contacts 1, Domain 1, Resources 1

Virtues: Conscience 4, Self-Control 4, Courage 2

Humanity 8

Willpower 7

Merits & Flaws

Merits: Efficient Digestion (Physical Merit 3), Languages - Latin, Hebrew, Greek, Arabic (Mental Merit 2), Natural Linguist (Mental Merit 2)

Flaws: Dark Secret - committed diablerie in 2015 (Social Flaw 2), Derangement - Sanguinary Animism (Supernatural Flaw 3), Prey Exclusion - people (Mental Flaw 1), Soft-Hearted (Mental Flaw 1)

Derangement: Sanguinary Animism, developed after committing diablerie. Sticks to bagging as he believes the soul impression fades after leaving the vein. Avoids drinking from people at all costs.

Sorcery

Paths: Hand of the Magi 2, Life's Water 1, Path of the Levinbolt 2, Path of Warding 2, Whispers of the Heavens 1

Rituals: Horoscope

Profile

Concept: InfoSec expert for hire! Hide your dealings from prying hunter eyes! Sweet, compassionate, good kid who also does Crimes and occasionally gets the extremely strong urge to eat bad people.

Age: Born 28 December 1993, Embraced September 2013. Apparent age 19, actual age 28

Description: 5'6", scrawny and pale, looks perpetually exhausted. Curly black hair, grey-blue eyes. Perpetually bitten nails (they were like that way when he was Embraced and now he's stuck with them!). Usual outfit: skinny jeans, graphic tee, Converses, black choker necklace, oversized red hoodies for days nights.

History: Quiet kid, only child, didn't make too many waves in childhood but was pretty rebellious as a teen and got heavily into hacking and general Computer Crime Shenanigans. Went to uni and started computer science, was not at all academically inclined, dropped out after a year and a half and worked menial jobs to try and survive.

Was Embraced shortly before his 20th birthday in 2013. The Banu Haqim were rapidly increasing their ties to the Camarilla, and the sire, a Dispossessed Sorcerer who neither wanted to join the Camarilla nor bow to Ur-Shulgi halfway across the world, wanted a childe to help build up their personal power. Both Elijah and his sire are fairly young, never lived under the Tremere curse, have never been to the Middle East, and have no connection to Banu Haqim culture in general. However, his sire was ambitious and knew that power was the best way to stay alive, and when they tracked down a Banu Haqim elder in torpor, they ‘encouraged' Elijah to diablerise her (this sire, incidentally, is a diablerist as well).

This was deeply traumatic for the poor kid (it was only a year or two after his Embrace, and he picked up a derangement in the process) and he promptly cut contact with his sire, even if it hurt him greatly to do so. He just… did not want to deal with them. Has spent the last 5-6 years working in information security for people wanting to avoid hunter detection, and trying to expand his knowledge of blood sorcery. Would want to find another Banu Haqim Sorcerer to teach him more Dur-An-Ki, or even learn Thaumaturgy from - ugh - a Tremere.

Personality: Still a genuinely sweet kid who likes! helping people! and so the Humanity hit from the diablerie wasn't too bad, really, and it helps that he felt hideously guilty and traumatised from it. Very very strong moral code - protect people from exploitative institutions and people, even if that means he occasionally gets the extremely strong urge to eat bad people, which he also doesn't want to do because he would rather not like any more souls in his head. Quiet and melancholy, but he can put on a pleasant and calm facade. Can get extremely impatient with himself and doesn't tolerate making mistakes (both for himself and sometimes with others), and is very frustrated with his existence as, well, a blood-sucking parasite. Still craves closeness to others and can be a bit promiscuous, although due to his derangement (see above), he tries to avoid drinking from them at all costs.

Goals: Stay alive. Don't eat anyone (unless they really, really deserve it). Learn Koldunic Sorcery (Path of Fire, Spirit) and Thaumaturgy (Technomancy and Hacktivist paths, level 2 rituals Seal Egress and Deny the Intruder).

Allies & Contacts: One contact - Jackson Lucas, bored employee at Red Cross that Elijah occasionally hooks up with. Slips Elijah blood bags that are about to expire and be thrown out.

Gear & Equipment: Sunbag (lightproof sleeping bag). Beaten-up backpack containing laptop, spare chargers, smartphone (used as emergency computer, not connected to anything), flip phone and spare prepaid SIMs, blank USBs, those USB things with prepaid internet on them, hacked Kindle with blood sorcery grimoires (Dur-An-Ki and Quietus, Thaumaturgy, Koldunic sorcery), basic ritual kit (small knife, lighter, metal, glass, and silicone containers, tea lights, amulets and charms), water bottle (kept mostly full) and muesli bar for sake of appearance.

Haven: Rental apartment in cheap area of town. Blinds not actually lightproof in living room, better in bedroom - still, ‘bed' is for show, has actual sleeping space in wardrobe (his actual clothes are in the pantry in the kitchen). Keeps an emergency sports bag with clothes, mini ritual kit, smartphone, flip phone and prepaid SIM, and chargers under the bed.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm #banu haqim #oc: elijah

[thefreelanceangel]

Tagged: The Flavor of the Soul

Imayo Mikomori:

Honey

"sugared mel e lingua serpentis." sugared honey from a serpent's tongue. oh dearest, look how you gleam. how the sunlight dances off your shoulders, how the heavens shine across your wingtips. but you are hollow, hollow, hollow. even the taste of nectar can choke a man. sometimes the sweetest flowers hide the sharpest poison. you lie to yourself, the worst lie of all. you needn't be so obsessed with perfect. the greatest beauty lies in our faults. do you think the moon apologizes for their mara? no, their craters add to their glow. my dear, breathe. you are not an island, breathe, before the honey drowns you. you wish to be lovely, you long to be loved. but did aphrodite trade her powers for perfection? she did not. you can be beautiful, and also whole. be whole above anything else dear. a heart of diamonds is worth nothing if inchor oozes from it. inward. look within and question how well do you know yourself? little petal are you trying to be a god? why? can a god bloom from sullen soil? no. you are whole as you are.

Ilya Grey:

Lavender

oh moon child, restless sleeper, tell me what it's like to dream? you float along the margins of reality, picking up the pieces of fallen memories to sculpt into your own realm. you are searching, but your tongue is quiet, quiet, quiet. open your mouth and sing my dear, silence only does you good for so long. and here you planted roots in the darkness, where not even the moon can reach your leaves. there is such a thing as being too practical, for you sail your ship on perpetually calm waters, and never have you spotted land. your mind has wings, uncage them! allow yourself to dream, you are not too far gone. there is no such thing! trust in yourself dear

Tagged by: @casualcatte & @lemures-slice (Thanks y'all!)

Tagging: @valtharen; @luck-and-larceny; @kestrelvylbrand; @dumb-hat; @rylen-ashworth; @kich-rp; @lemureshrouded & anyone else who hasn't gotten tagged yet!

Quiz Here!

#Tagged #Imayo Mikomori #Ilya Grey #FFXIV

[shireness-says]

coming ashore (to my lover’s arms)

Summary: For three years, Captain Killian Jones has been seeing Princess Emma of Misthaven in secret. When the Evil Queen kidnaps Emma's father, however, secrecy is set aside. Can they save the king and find their own happily ever after? ~10.5k. Rated T for language and fighting. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: Back in March, I ran a giveaway after I published my 50th fic on Ao3, which was won by the lovely @ouatxxxxx. She requested Princess Emma and Pirate Killian, and an established relationship. Being me, I threw a little adventure in and some cute Captain Cobra moments. I don't think anyone is complaining. Sorry this took so long to finish - thanks for your patience!

Big thanks to @snidgetsafan for her beta-ing, as well as the whole host of people who listened to me spitball ideas. 

Tagging: @ohmightydevviepuu, @profdanglaisstuff, @welllpthisishappening, @optomisticgirl, @scientificapricot, @let-it-raines, @thejollyroger-writer, @kmomof4, @teamhook, @winterbaby89, @spartanguard, @searchingwardrobes

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

He used to love the sight of the open sea, stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction like a vast unknown full of every possibility. The sea used to be home - the place in this world where he felt most like himself.

But times change, and people do too - even stubborn, 300 year old pirate captains. And these days, Killian finds himself much more drawn to land and one particular port.

Or rather, one particular lady in one particular port.

He hadn’t gone looking for love, of course; quite the opposite. He’d come looking for treasure, and met a different jewel altogether along the way. 

Killian smiles at the memory. He’d had half a plan, a bit too much confidence, and rather more drink than anyone about to try and rob the royal palace ought to consume. The trail of ivy winding up to a non-descript third floor window had seemed like a stroke of luck; the real stroke of luck, he’d realize later, was reaching the top only to find himself face to face with a princess and her sword.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she’d demanded - in a tone rather less regal than he expected, he might add - and he’d had no choice but to surrender as her blade trained with deadly precision on his throat. 

(He’d surrendered his heart at the same time, but that was yet another realization for later.)

“Well, I had planned on a bit of casual larceny, lass,” he’d said as nonchalantly as he could muster, “but I rather think that may not be in the cards tonight after all.”

“You think?”

“I’m smarter than I look, love,” he’d assured her with a smirk. “Now, the way I see it, we’ve got three options. First, you let me make my way back down the vine. Second, you lower your sword and we continue this lovely banter in a more civilized fashion - perhaps in those chairs — ” he’d nodded towards a pair of armchairs facing a cozy fire to demonstrate — “and with a bit of rum.”

“And the third option?” She’d sounded amused, at least, which Killian had thought at the time was a good sign. 

“Ah. You run me through with this sword you apparently and inexplicably keep in your chambers, and that’s that. I’m admittedly rather less fond of the third option, I will say, but it seemed foolish not to point out the obvious.”

The lady had held her stance for a moment longer, staring down her steady blade with a confidence he wouldn’t have expected from a princess. Then again, nothing about this little excursion had gone the way he’d expected. Somehow, he’d felt as if she was evaluating him; holding a man at swordpoint certainly had given her one hell of an opportunity to do so. Finally, her blade had lowered, leaving Killian to breathe easy once again.

“You mentioned something about rum?” she’d asked, nodding towards the armchairs in invitation.

“What kind of pirate would I be otherwise?” Killian had smirked in return, sauntering over to drape himself over the flimsy seating. These chairs were clearly meant for little more than decoration.

“Can’t say I’ve met any pirates, so I couldn’t possibly say. A poor one, I take it.”

“You said it, not I.” After taking a hearty swig, Killian had passed the flask across to his unexpected companion. She’d taken to the liquor like a champ, just another unexpected thing about her. He’d started to realize that the lovely blonde in front of him was no ordinary princess. “As an aside, have you considered trimming the ivy outside your window? All manner of unsavory creatures might climb up - less chivalrous ones than I, who might wish to do harm to your lovely self.”

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t be able to climb down,” she’d retorted with a sly smile. “I’ll take my chances.”

Not an ordinary princess at all. 

They had only talked that night - two strangers, who never should have met, in an odd situation and bonding over the flask of rum. He’d learned about her parents who want to keep her safe at all costs, practically trapping her inside the walls of the castle except when she manages to sneak out down to the town and whatever darkened tavern she can pass unnoticed in, and about the magic she’s still learning how to use. She’d told him about her dead husband and the young son she loves more than anything in the world, and in turn he’d told her about his dearly departed brother and the way that he can’t help but feel these days that he’s on the wrong path, that Liam would be disappointed in him.

And it should just  have been a one time thing - two ships passing in the night who were never meant to meet. She’s a princess, after all, and he’s nothing but a pirate. But he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and the next time he’d found himself in that port again, he’d dropped by the tavern she’d mentioned as her usual haunt on the off chance he might see her.

He had thanked every god that had long since abandoned him when he did.

“I’ve heard a rumor,” he had said in lieu of greeting, reveling in the smile that had inched its way across Emma’s lovely face, “about a princess in these parts sneaking down the vine outside her window. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

“Maybe,” she had smirked back. “Buy me a drink, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

One drink became two; one night became many; and three years later, Killian finds himself the only captain in the seven seas who longs for land. 

(For Emma; for home.)

This is the way things have to be, he knows - she’s a princess, after all, and he’s a pirate, and there’s no reality he can imagine where her parents readily accept him as a suitor for her hand. Hell, they’re more likely to throw him in the dungeon, maybe hang him, maybe give him to another country who will do the same. Still, Killian can’t help but want - want to wake up by Emma’s side every morning, want to meet and come to know her brilliant son, want to be her partner in a permanent way. Want to be the kind of man who would deserve that. 

For now, though, that’s all a dream - just hopes and wishes that float away like a feather on the wind, perpetually out of grasp. This whole romance has been the stuff of fairy tales, Killian thinks sometimes, and not in the good way - rather, it’s been two lovers always separated by circumstance. Their current situation isn’t perfect, by any means, but it just might be the most they can hope for when they both are who they are. 

(The fact of the matter, Killian has long since learned, is that he’ll do anything to be with Emma, anything to make her happy.)

This port is familiar now, Killian docking here every other month now in order to spend a few days with his princess. They have a routine; he docks the Jolly and makes sure to raise a flag up the mast for Emma to see from her balcony, then meet that night in the same tavern by the docks. It’s well practiced, reliable. Most importantly, it allows them to see each other without fear of her parents finding out. He’s still a pirate, after all, even if he limits his attacks to ships of other countries, even if he loves Emma more than he ever believed possible. He’s still not a suitable beau for the woman who will one day be queen.

That’s why it shocks him to finally dock only to find Emma already pacing along the boards. He can only imagine how she knew they were coming; she must have been watching for him. That doesn’t solve the mystery of why she’s here in the first place.

The gangplank barely hits the worn wood of the docks before Emma rushes to meet him. “Oh thank the gods you’re here,” she exhales as she throws her arms around his neck. Killian clasps her to him in turn, revelling in the feeling of her body close to his even as concern courses through his veins.

“What’s wrong, darling?” He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, resisting the urge to brush a stray hair behind her ear. It’s obvious the comfort of his embrace is more important right now.

“Something terrible has happened,” she tells him with tears starting to glisten in her eyes. “My father has been kidnapped.”

———

He can’t say he expected the day to end like this - with Emma and her mother and son all on his ship, sailing into almost certain danger. It’s not how he pictured meeting her parents, either, but he supposes that it’s better than the alternative, where he assumed he would be thrown straight into the dungeons for besmirching their beloved daughter and heir. It’s probably something to do with the fact that he’d immediately offered Emma his ship and crew to help get her father back. It doesn’t hurt either that the Queen clearly has other matters on her mind. 

Emma’s mother is a petite woman whose hair is still dark, if streaked with silver in places all the way through its neat coil at the back of her head. Killian sees a lot of Emma in her mother, actually; something about the set of their identical chins and their effortlessly graceful way of moving. The bow and arrows strapped to her back are certainly reminiscent of his and Emma’s first meeting, at least. Where Emma has proved to be all fiery determination after her little momentary breakdown at the docks, laying out a plan like a seasoned general with a spine of steel, her mother seems a little at odds - distracted, almost unable to truly focus on anything. Killian can understand that; after all, it’s the love of her life that’s missing, her true love, the man she’s spent every day with for decades. His absence must be jarring. Killian can’t even begin to imagine what he’d do if Emma were the one taken. 

(That’s probably another reason Emma’s mother doesn’t put up a big fuss about the fact that she’s been seeing a pirate in secret - she just doesn’t have the energy or the attention for it.)

Emma’s lad, on the other hand, seems blissfully oblivious to the circumstances at hand, gleefully running up and down the Jolly’s deck with all the energy a five-year-old can muster. Killian would say this isn’t how he anticipated meeting Henry either, but truthfully, he’d never anticipated being allowed to meet the lad. Pirates don’t exactly make for the best role models, after all, the same way that small children don’t make the best secret-keepers. As much as Killian has secretly yearned for some kind of committed family life with Emma and her boy, he’s long since resigned himself to the fact that it’s unlikely due to his past and her future. Getting to meet the boy, see him and his mother on the Jolly, feels like a dream Killian never dared entertain.

“I’m going to have a ship like this one day,” Henry tells him very seriously. 

The lad is a prince, one day heir to his mother’s throne; his words aren’t necessarily just youthful fancy, if he keeps that desire as he grows older. “I think that’s a fine idea, mate,” he smiles down. “A pretty navy clipper, maybe, or even the flagship?”

“Not a navy ship,” Henry tells him with a tone that communicates that Killian is clearly being ridiculous, even obtuse. “I’m going to have a pirate ship one day.”

“Oh. Well, that’s…”

“How do you get a pirate ship?”

Killian flounders - that’s the only word for it. He can’t exactly tell a child who seems determined to acquire a pirate ship about how he stole his, betraying king and country. Emma watches nearby, but she clearly doesn’t intend to help him out of this mess; indeed, she looks rather closer to laughter. Then again, she knows the whole story, knows exactly what he doesn’t want to explain. “They, uh… well, they… save up for a long while,” he finally finishes in the lamest fashion imaginable. What an impression he’s likely made. 

Emma finally swoops in to save him - though he rather thinks it’s too little, too late. “Did you get a chance to look below the decks, baby?” she asks Henry, brushing his hair back out of his face as she speaks. “I hear that Killian set aside a cabin, just for us.”

That bit is true; in fact, the royals have rather sent his crew’s usual bunking arrangements into upheaval. Queen Snow has been moved into the former first lieutenant’s cabin - once his own, now usually occupied by his first mate Smee and hastily scrubbed down - and Emma and Henry have been moved into one of the former officers’ cabins, those rooms’ usual occupants being assigned hammock space in the hold for the time being. Killian feels some residual guilt about not offering his own quarters for Emma or the Queen’s use, but his maps and weapons are all in there, and he’s a mite too selfish to willingly give up his own space, even if the former lieutenant within him knows that he should. But he is a pirate, after all. 

(If he has secret, unspoken hopes that maybe Emma will sneak into his cabin the same way he’s snuck into her rooms so many times, well, a man can’t be blamed for dreaming.)

“I have indeed,” Killian finally replies with a smile for the boy.

Henry gasps in response, with all the dramatics of a child his age. “Is there a hammock?”

“No, there isn’t, lad,” Killian chuckles. “But there are bunks - one each for you and your mother. I know it’s not the same, but is it an acceptable substitute?”

Henry nods decisively in response. “That’s okay too. Bunks can be fun. Pirates sleep in bunks too.”

“That they do, lad.”

(Just as he’d hoped, Emma sneaks into his cabin that night, climbing into his own narrow bunk to press herself against his side. He doesn’t dare take this any further, not when Emma’s so emotionally compromised and her mother and son sleep just a few thin walls away; it would feel wrong, anyways, when Emma’s only here because her father has been kidnapped. Besides, he’s more than content just to exist like this, holding his love within his arms.

“Thank you for this,” she whispers into the dark. “I know this is asking a lot, and you didn’t have to do this —”

“Your heart’s desire, love,” he interrupts, unwilling to hear one more unnecessary apology. “I swear, that’s all I want for you.” 

He’d do anything to make her happy, and when he knows that, this is the smallest ask.)

(His dreams that night are filled with visions of Emma in his arms every night, just like this.)

———

The situation as Emma and her mother describe it is this: the former “Evil Queen”, Snow’s stepmother Regina, had appeared in a dramatic cloud of purple smoke as the family had sat down to dinner, immobilizing everyone and snatching King David before dematerializing in the same fashion. Killian knows the story, at least to a certain extent; Regina had been banished to a far-off land nearly twenty years before after a decade of turmoil when Emma had been but a child, her magic bound by the fairies to protect them all. Regina had seized the throne after the death of Snow’s father and the young princess had been forced into hiding, the older woman swearing vengeance on the younger for the loss of a love she would never name. Even after Snow and David had regained the throne of Misthaven, driving Regina out, the sorceress had persisted, leaving the country to hover at the edge as an unseen danger for years until she was finally captured, her magic bound and her self banished to another realm. They’d foolishly assumed that would be the end of the matter.

They’d been wrong.

For Regina, as it turned out, had a long memory and a dangerous list of allies, and as soon as a corrupted fairy managed to lift the binding, she had resumed her plotting. Kidnapping the King was her revenge on Snow White, for condemning Regina’s own love so many years ago. The trade, Regina had cackled, was simple: if Snow relinquished the kingdom once again, then Regina would release David and maybe - just maybe - the Good Queen would be allowed to keep her own life in return. She’d given them ten days’ time to make the arrangements; it was obvious to all that she expected Snow to willingly sacrifice her kingdom for her true love.

The one thing Regina hadn’t anticipated, as Emma pointed out, was that the Royal Family of Misthaven - or at least the Crown Princess of Misthaven - had connections capable of getting things done through much less legal or expected means - namely, himself. And that just might include the ability to pull off a rescue mission, if they play their cards right. 

Their advantages are limited - a pouch of fairy dust capable of transporting them between realms, a vial of squid ink, a singular magic bean, and Emma’s magic (“Whatever good that will do.”). Killian’s crew can fight, with the benefit of mostly acting unpredictably, unlike the disciplined armies Regina is doubtless used to facing, but their numbers are pitifully small. If Regina has amassed a force of Black Knights again - something Killian wouldn’t put past her, if she’s regained her magic and retained her taste for ripping out hearts - then they may be horribly outnumbered. 

Still, Killian, Emma, and the Queen concoct a plan as best as they can. It’s far from perfect - Killian in particular doesn’t like that they’ve essentially got one chance to get this right - but it’s the best they’ve got. Emma’s mother is able to muster more energy and focus when she has something to direct it towards. Finally, he’s getting to see a little bit of the strong, determined woman Emma has told him about. That’s dangerous in its own way, though - after all, Emma still spends her nights in his bunk. They’ve made no secret of what they are to each other in daylight hours, either; Killian’s eyes and hands gravitate towards Emma at every opportunity, revelling in just the tamest affectionate touches, and Emma has absentmindedly kissed him - on the cheek, even the lips - when he knows they were in sight of the Queen. If they ever intended to continue keeping this under wraps, that proverbial ship has long since sailed, and Killian couldn’t be happier. Still, he doesn’t relish facing a mother that finally has the presence of mind to object. 

It was inevitable, though. He and Emma stand at the ships’ wheel that night, watching the sun set over the waves. This will be the last time they do so, possibly ever if things go poorly; now that they’ve got a plan, they’ll be using the magic bean tomorrow morning to transport themselves to the realm where they hope Regina is still holed up, moving as fast as they safely can in order to rescue King David. Killian tries to savor the simple comfort of this moment; Emma’s head rests on his shoulder, and his arm rests gently around her waist, his fingers stroking along her hipbone almost without conscious thought. Emma had abandoned her skirts for breeches just as soon as they had gotten underway, and Killian must say, this new look suits her. With her blue vest and her hair pulled back, she looks like some kind of lady knight, or a fierce pirate queen - perfect for the helpless pirate captain she holds within her thrall. 

(The breeches also afford him an excellent view of her perfectly formed arse and legs, but that’s a whole different story that he can’t admit to in public.)

“You’ll come to bed soon?” she murmurs into his neck once the sun finally slips below the waves. 

“Aye, love,” he replies with a kiss to the crown of her hair, just where the golden strands are trying to pull loose from their leather strap. Emma likes to try and run her hand through her hair when she’s stressed, and there’s certainly been plenty of that lately. 

As one lady walks away, however, Emma retreating below decks to his cabin, another one approaches - her mother. Maybe he won’t be coming to bed so soon after all. 

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledges with a deferential nod of his head. It’s been a while, but Killian does still remember the little courtesy gestures, and is willing to use them to deflect whatever is about to befall him. 

“Captain.” Snow White joins him beside the ship’s wheels with a grace that even Emma can’t imitate, the illusion that she perfectly belongs in any situation. He envies her that. 

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“It’s less about what you can do, and more about what you’ve already done,” she tells him with a wry smile that almost looks out of place on her face.

This conversation, then. Killian lets his head bob downwards again, this time in resignation. “Ah.”

“Yes. Ah.” The silence sits heavy between them, both waiting for the other to speak. Surprisingly, it’s the Queen who caves first - though that’s likely only because Killian finds himself too nervous to speak. Not a position he ever expected to find himself in again as a pirate captain. “So how long have you and my daughter been…” The Queen trails off, clearly at a loss for the appropriate words. Their secret assignations certainly don’t qualify as courting, but they certainly go beyond friendship or fucking. He can’t imagine this woman saying the latter word in any case.

He ultimately takes pity on the queen. “Been me and your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“About three years.” Even if this conversation scares him half to death, Killian still can’t help but smile at the words. That’s the first time he’s had cause to say such a thing; it feels lovely, in a way, each one of those three words imbued with countless memories.

“Three years…” the Queen echoes on a murmur. It’s impossible to miss the guilt and mild melancholy in her tone. “I had no idea. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

Killian glances around his ship in confusion. They’ve made no secret of the fact that he’s a pirate; it should be pretty obvious why he and Emma had kept their relationship a secret. “I’m not exactly a proper suitor, so to speak,” he tells her. “At first, we didn’t know where this was going, or if it’d be more than a fleeting thing, but then once it became more serious… we hadn’t figured out how to broach it.” Without me being thrown into the dungeon and executed, he doesn’t add, but that should be obvious.

“And now?”

“Pardon?” The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, leaving Killian unprepared to answer.

“We’re here talking,” the Queen points out. “I’m all too aware that my daughter spends her nights in your cabin instead of her own. What’s changed, that you’re willing to be open about your relationship after three years of hiding?”

“Some things are more important,” he explains. “The life of your husband - Emma’s father - is more important. Supporting Emma when the rest of the world is falling down around her ears is more important. I hope that after all this, you won’t order my head on a pike,” Killian concedes, “but Emma needs me right now. That’s more important than… anything else.”

“You love her.” It’s not a question, or a realization - just a statement of fact, of the one truth that’s settled deep into Killian’s bones. 

“I do. More than anything else in this realm, or any other.”

“Good.” After years of worry, the simple word is shocking to hear. This whole episode has cast things in a different light, though. “That’s all we’ve ever wanted for her, you know. Someone to love her the way she deserves. Do you think you can be that someone?”

“I hope so. I want to be. Emma is… more than I’ll ever deserve. I just want to make her happy, in whatever way I can.”

“Good. Make sure you do.” And then, wonder of all wonders, Her Majesty actually smiles at him, a soft and maternal thing he never expected to see directed at him. “I think you ought to call me Snow, once all this is over.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Get some rest, Captain,” she tells him - a clear dismissal, her tone imbued with something regal he doesn’t dare question. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

(“What took you so long?” Emma mumbles as he crawls into the bunk behind her, already half asleep.

“Just a little chat with your mother,” he tells her before pressing a kiss to her shoulder where her shift is just starting to slip down. “Nothing to worry about.”

Emma hums in response - about all the response he expected from her in this state. “Love you.”

“I love you too, darling. Sleep well.”)

———

Morning inevitably dawns, bright and clear, perfect for their purposes. Maybe that’s why the dread in Killian’s stomach only deepens.

Traveling by portal is a dangerous business; Killian only had occasion to experience it a handful of times, back when he was still back in Glowerhaven’s navy, but he enjoyed exactly none of it. There’s something particularly unsettling about purposefully steering your vessel into a swirling void into the sea, whipped around in every direction before being spat back out again in another land, another realm. Time is of the essence here, though, and they don’t know exactly where Emma’s father is being kept. Travelling by portal is the fastest, best way to rescue him - unsettling as the journey may be. 

He tries to enjoy these little moments while he can, watching Emma still in his bunk as he slips on a linen shirt and laces his pants up. His love is less delicate in sleep, those porcelain limbs sprawled across every inch of his mattress like she has a right to it all with her hair all in tangles. She’s just as lovely like this, in some kind of everyday, domestic way - unpolished, unpracticed. No trace of the princess here - just the amazing woman she is. They’re all about to dash into danger within the next hour or two, but this is worth remembering in the moment, a little vision to remember later when the going gets rough. 

On the bed, Emma peels an eye open as Killian shrugs his leather vest back on. “That time already?” she mumbles in a voice still muddled with sleep.

“Aye, love, time to turn the plan into action.” He leans down to press a kiss to her forehead practically without thought, the most comforting kind of instinct. Emma hums, whether in appreciation or acknowledgement or expression of her own half asleep state. “Sleep a few minutes longer. I’m just going to check everything over again.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, though it’s obvious she doesn’t need to be told twice. Killian can see the muscles of her face relax as she falls back into a doze. 

(Maybe, after all this is over, he’ll be treated to a lifetime of moments like this. That’s his dream, after all - and maybe, just maybe, helping rescue a captured King will earn him something close to redemption.)

With a last look at the lovely tableau Emma makes, Killian turns towards his safe. With a few flicks of his wrist, the lockbox opens, allowing him to pluck the little bag containing the single magic bean from within. No use beating around the bush, now. 

When Killian ascends the ladder to the deck, he’s surprised to find the Queen - Snow already waiting on the sun-bleached planks. 

“Couldn’t sleep, milady?” he calls gently as he gets closer, causing Snow to spin around to face him. 

“Anxious,” she explains. “I caught a few hours, not to worry. But I’m ready to go find Charming.”

The nickname strikes a particular chord in his heart; as much as Killian may have heard about it from Emma, heard the whole story of her parents’ famous romance a million times over as a favorite local legend, it’s something else to hear it from Snow’s lips. It’s never been just a fanciful tale, even if that’s the way he’s always heard it told; it’s their life, for better or worse. “We’ll get him back, ma’am,” Killian assures her - a promise he can’t actually make, not that it’s stopped him. 

She knows it, too, if that particular smile is anything to go off of - a little sad, a little knowing, a little pitying. “I hope so, Captain. Now, is there anything I can do before we travel?”

“You can check that everything is secured in your cabin and Henry’s,” Killian offers. It’s obvious that Snow needs something to do in this in-between time; he’s seen that already. He’s more than happy to pawn off one of his own checks to Emma’s mother. “You can check the hold too, for that matter, make sure everything’s tied down and stowed away.”

It’s crucial that everything be secured before they open the portal; in Kililan’s experience, realm travel tends to jostle things around. He’s just finishing his own checks up on deck, directing the crew and securing various lines and sails, when Emma makes her appearance at his side. 

“You should be below decks with the lad, love,” he tells her gently. “It might be a rough ride.”

“I know,” she shrugs. “But maybe I want to be up here with you. Mom can more than handle Henry. Is that so wrong?”

“Not in the least, darling,” he smiles back. “But can you blame a man for wanting to make sure his lady love is safe?”

“Not when you phrase it like that.” He even gets a little laugh out of her; that’s good, at least. “But I want to be here, you know. With you. It’s… into the great unknown, right?” Killian nods. “Then I want to do that with you.”

He’s always been a sucker for that kind of sentiment.

That’s how Emma ends up the one to toss the magic bean into the calm sea an hour later, her mother and son and as much crew as they can spare stashed below decks to protect them all. As the waters open to a swirling vortex, Killian wraps his arm securely around her waist, the other on the ship’s wheel to steer them straight into danger. Ropes are tied around both their waists for an extra level of security - something Killian had insisted on - but Emma’s face is curiously unafraid. 

(That’s the faith she has in you, a little voice in his head whispers. Gods, he hopes what they’re about to do doesn’t betray that.)

“Hold tight to me, love,” he murmurs, before turning his attention back to the few crew members left on deck. “Buckle down, lads,” he yells, just as the bow of the Jolly catches the swirling waters of the portal. “It’s rough seas ahead!”

Rough seas is rather an understatement. Once the ship fully enters the expanding mouth of the portal, control is wrenched from his hands, the waters spiralling them down and down and down. There’s no telling which way is up and which way is down, magic ruling over physics, with water seemingly all around them but never swallowing them. The wheel of the Jolly spins wild, forcing Killian to let go before the rudder snaps and cripples the vessel. He’s left with nothing else to do but clutch Emma close with both his arms, curl his body around hers, shut his eyes and try to block out the roar all around them and hope and hope and hope —

— and just as suddenly as this all commenced, the world rights itself again, the hull of the Jolly gliding through calm seas under a pink-tinted sky. They’re just offshore of their destination, where Killian can barely make out fantastically twisting trees and grotesque shrubberies and enormous mushrooms. Wonderland - a realm steeped in magic itself, where Regina’s mother had once seized power and she must have now have done the same. Arguably, one of the worst places they could face her. There’s no other option, however - not when King David’s life is on the line.

“We’re not doing that again, are we?” Emma mumbles against his neck, barely peeking out to see this realm they’ve found themselves in. “Because let me tell you, I’ve had smoother rides.”

With a final squeeze and a chuckle, Killian unwraps his arms from around her body where they’d been sheltering Emma from the worst of the journey. “Aye, I can promise that, love. Only one bean. We’ll have to resort to more mundane methods on our way back.”

“Good.” Emma brushes down her vest, as if any bit of it would dare be out of place. “Now, let’s go catch ourselves a witch.”

Most preparations had been made last night, anticipating the need for immediate action today. Basic supplies have been packed, blades sharpened, and the Queen’s arrows neatly aligned in their quiver with their tips dipped in squid ink. All Snow has to do is graze Regina with an arrow and it’s over; she’ll be frozen, absolutely immobile. The hardest thing left to do, now that the hour is nigh, is explain to little Henry why he can’t come with them. Emma had insisted; Queen Snow had insisted; Killian had concurred; there’s quite a difference between taking him this far for his own safety when there’s an evil witch on the loose, and taking him right into the heart of danger.

“But I want to come with you!” Henry whines with tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want to stay behind!”

“Henry, it’s for your own good.” Killian can tell Emma is trying to explain this as best as she can to her son, but her voice has started to betray a hint of begging. “We’ll be back before you know it. We just have to go save Grampa.”

“You don’t know that though!” Henry wails. “Something could happen and I don’t want to be by myself and—” Emma gathers the little boy into her arms as he dissolves into tears, the display cutting right into Killian’s heart.

Once Henry’s tears start to abate a few minutes later, Killian strokes a bit of his hair back to catch the lad’s attention. “You’re right,” he tells Henry. “This is really scary for your mother and I too. But I promise - I promise - that I’m going to do everything in my power to protect your mum, alright? I’ll make sure that she comes back to you. And in the meantime, Mr. Smee is going to be here to look after you. You won’t be alone.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” Killian swears solemnly. “I’ll have your mum and your grandpa and your grandma back to you before you know it.”

He would have made sure, anyways - Emma is the most important thing in his life, and he’d do anything to keep her and her family safe - but his promise to Henry only strengthens that. He’ll lay down his life, if he has to, if only to keep that promise to the little lad. After all, he knows all too well the pain of losing his family. 

When they finally set out for the shore in rowboats, Henry bravely waves them off from the railing of the Jolly, though Killian can see tears glistening at the corners of the boy’s eyes. For that matter, Emma’s eyes are moist too. 

“We’ll be back before you know it, love,” he assures her, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “I promise.”

“I know.” Emma’s smile may be watery, but it’s there. “I trust you to make that happen.”

(And imagine that - a princess trusting an old pirate like him.)

Killian expects they’ll be dodging obstacles from Regina the whole time as they cautiously pick their way towards the ostentatious palace they spot from the beach; after all, it’s well known that Regina’s mother, in her time ruling Wonderland, had amassed an enormous army from those whose hearts she’d ripped out and held captive in her vaults. Her daughter doubtlessly controls the same. However, they meet no one more than Wonderland’s absurd wildlife - a fact that somehow feels even more concerning, under the circumstances. It likely means that Regina knows they’re coming, and has already centralized her forces to create a stronghold of that pretty palace estate. And that means they’re walking right into a death trap, fully aware of that very fact.

They’re all a bit jittery at this turn of events; Killian can tell that his crew is on edge, and he can’t keep his own fingers from drumming impatiently on the hilt of his sword, anxious for some kind of action, expecting danger around every corner all while knowing that the true danger is still ahead of them. Emma works out her own impatience by practicing her magic, blasting the enormous insects indigenous to this realm in some kind of bizarre target practice. It’s as good an outlet as any, and she’ll need every ounce of practice to take on the Evil Queen. Even after twenty years of having her magic suppressed, Killian knows Regina will be a formidable foe; she’d terrorized Misthaven for years under her tyranny and dark magic, and he somehow doubts 20 years wiped those skills from her memory. 

“Bravo,” Killian tells Emma with a smile and a little nudge after she blasts a particularly large rendition of a hornet. To their left, a hookah-smoking caterpillar nods approvingly from an enormous mushroom at the side of this forgotten, multi-colored cobblestone path. Truly, this land seems crafted straight out of a fever dream. 

“Thanks.” Emma twines her arm through his own, grounding them both in the process. It’s a lot harder to fidget with his love on his arm, and a great comfort at that. “I kind of need all the practice I can get.”

“It can’t hurt,” Killian agrees mildly. “Though I must say, darling, I’m certainly impressed.”

Emma’s sigh sounds like it carries the weight of all their worries; Killian isn’t entirely sure she isn’t trying to do exactly that. “Is it enough, though? Sure, you’re impressed, but… this is Regina. An ultra-powerful sorceress. And here I am, just taking pot-shots at bugs.”

“Big bugs.”

“Bugs,” she repeats with disgust. “All I’m saying is… is that enough? When it comes down to it, can we really go toe-to-toe with the Evil Queen?”

“Hey,” Killian draws them up short, grasping Emma by both arms to face him. “I have to believe we can, that you can. I believe that this is going to work. And you know why?” Emma just stares at him with wide eyes. “Because I believe in you, love. I think you can do anything you want to. And we’ll be here to back you up, to help you, every step of the way.”

“You really believe that?”

“I really do.” Gently, with the greatest comfort and reassurance he can muster, Killian presses a brief kiss to her lips. “Now, let’s go catch an Evil Queen, love. Together, you and I.”

As is the way of such things, just when Killian begins to relax into the comfort of Emma’s arm entwined through his own, their party reaches the outskirts of the Queen’s estate. The palace is an ornate affair, in marble and gilt with elaborate gardens and hedge mazes. It’s more than just a building or a dwelling - it’s a centerpiece, an architectural representation of Cora, and now Regina’s power. It’s perfect and picturesque and somehow all the more intimidating and imposing for it. 

Killian does his best to nod reassuringly when Emma turns to meet his eyes, standing here at the gilded gates and about to walk into the heart of danger. It must work, thankfully; Emma smiles in response before turning to face her mother instead. 

“You ready for this?” Emma asks, drawing her sword. 

Snow takes a deep, steadying breath, but eventually nods, simultaneously reaching for an arrow from her quiver. “I’m ready. Let’s go save your father.”

They don’t have to search hard to find Regina; it seems like now that she’s lured them into her web, the Evil Queen is ready to set the proverbial ball rolling. As they approach the enormous iron-wrought doors to the palace proper, they swing open without any obvious human intervention to reveal a grand entrance hall paved in black and white marble tiles. Killian directs a weighted look and nod to his crew to be on their guard. Most of his men have long since unsheathed their swords and knives, but those few who haven’t take out their weapons now. Emma and her mother wear identical hard, determined looks on their face as their party creeps down the hall. What feels like an eternity later, another set of doors swings open at their approach, all to reveal the Evil Queen herself, perched on a gilded throne upon a dais with apparently every bit of drama she could muster. 

“I was wondering when you’d bother to show up,” she comments with a devious little smirk. “I guess heroes just aren’t what they used to be.”

“Regina.” Snow practically growls the word - a tone of voice Killian hadn’t been aware the famously mild-mannered queen was capable of. 

“I suppose you lot are rather out of practice, though,” Regina continues as if her rival never spoke, languidly pushing herself up out of the throne to slither and stalk in their direction. She looks good for a woman doubtless approaching sixty, regal with her straight back and raised chin and silver liberally streaked through her dark hair. Killian wonders how much of the display is natural, and how much is thanks to magic. “There never was anyone else who posed anything resembling a real threat.”

“Weird thing to brag about,” Emma comments dryly, catching Regina’s attention. In a dramatic swish of skirts, their foe turns to face her with a feral smile stretching slowly across her face. 

“I don’t expect you to understand power, Princess, and how far it can take you,” she replies - smoothly, dangerously - “but I do expect you to recognize it when it stands in front of you. Even your naive parents aren’t that foolish.”

“Enough of the fronting,” Killian cuts in. “Where’s the king?”

“And they brought a little eye candy, too,” Regina smirks. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that. Goody-two-shoes Snow White and her precious, perfect daughter consorting with pirates.”

“Well, desperate times call for unusual measures,” Killian replies with a casual wave of his hand. “Never let it be said I’m not willing to help a lovely lady or a worthy cause.”

“Is that all it is?” Regina’s head cocks in a way that makes Killian think she’s analyzing the situation, trying to pick up on any weaknesses. “Because I must say, Captain —”

“Stop stalling!” Snow barks out. “Where is Charming? What have you done with him?”

“Interrupting - tsk tsk, such impropriety. Whatever would your dearly departed father say?” Snow flushes red with rage - obviously exactly what Regina hoped for, if that smirk is anything to go off of. “If you must know, your precious prince is a little… shall we say, indisposed for the moment.”

“If you’ve hurt him —”

“Now what fun would that be?” Regina laughs. “No, I’ve arranged something much more entertaining - I’ve cursed him.” 

And with a dramatic wave of her hand, the Evil Queen reveals her handiwork. Before them suddenly stands an enormous mirror - and just behind the glass, Emma’s father, pounding frantically at the surface. 

Emma jolts beside him, clearly pulled towards her father. It’s undoubtedly exactly what Regina wants - perhaps their strongest weapon, distracted and out of commission. “Steady on, love,” Killian murmurs, just loud enough for Emma to hear. “Don’t give in to her, that’s what she wants.”

Emma nods imperceptibly, her sword arm strengthening as her other hand starts to twist and turn by her side - summoning her magic from deep within, he knows. “Let him go,” she commands.

The Evil Queen just laughs in response. “No, I don’t think I will. What are you going to do about it, princess?” As she speaks, Regina summons her own powers, lighting a ball of flame in her hand, primed and ready to attack. Simultaneously, the doors on each wall of the throne room open for a crush of Black Knights to pour through, surrounding their own party.

They’re outnumbered - but they’ve got the benefit of passion, of rage, of the willingness to do anything. And Killian has always liked those particular odds.

It seems Emma is much of the same mind as she throws herself into action, lunging at Regina with her sword arm while the other crackles with magic. A good thing, too - Regina easily bats the sword out of her way with a quick flick of her wrist and hurls her fireball for Emma to bat away in turn. There’s a savage beauty to their dueling, both women lobbing magical weapons at one another with deadly intent. If it was just the two of them, Killian might take another minute to marvel; unfortunately, there is still a force of Black Knights and red-festooned guards to deal with. Emma is the only one who can fight on equal footing with Regina; it’s up to Killian, Snow, and his crew to keep the rest of the combatants away from Emma for long enough for her to defeat the Evil Queen.

Killian falls into a dance of his own, aiming to knock the Knights out where he can instead of killing them outright; it’s well known that Regina, and her mother before her, is an expert at controlling people, ripping out their hearts and whispering commands like a demonic puppetmaster. It’s not always possible, though, and Emma’s safety is more important than anything when she has to channel all her focus into battling Regina; his blade has tasted blood several times over, now, more than he wants to think about. The dance of combat is complicated by curses flying all over the place, doubtless intended for Emma or their little party even if they occasionally strike one of Regina’s own forces.

It finally seems like they’re starting to have things in hand. For all their numbers, the Black Knights and Red Guards are poorly trained, a collection of poor souls used to doing Regina’s bidding by intimidation and by superior numbers. Snow, instead, is a deadly aim - presumably from her outlaw days - and Killian and his crew are used to fighting for their dinner and their salary and their lives, playing dirty if they need to in order to get the upper hand. King David doesn’t look particularly pleased with the way Killian keeps using the mirror as a shield or an obstacle or a hard surface to knock heads against, but that’s his problem; Killian is doing his best to save his holier-than-thou arse, after all. Foes still remain, but it feels like a manageable low tide now instead of breaking wave after breaking wave.

And maybe that’s what hurts them. Maybe, Killian lets his guard down more than he should have, surveying the room after dispatching another Red Guard. He doesn’t see Regina cast the curse, doesn’t see it head directly at him, doesn’t know what’s happening at all until he hears Emma shout. Killian whirls around, but it’s too late - only just in time to see Regina’s curse hit her squarely in the chest.

“Emma!” he yells, dashing to catch his love as she crumples towards the ground. Somewhere, he hears Regina cackle in triumph, but he can’t worry about that now, not when Emma —

But he doesn’t need to worry about it, as Snow takes advantage of Regina’s distraction to let loose an arrow, deadly and true, to pierce her long-time enemy’s heart.

Somewhere, Killian hears the clatter of metal as the Queen’s soldiers are released from her power. Somewhere, he hears glass shatter as David is finally freed from the mirror. Those things don’t matter, though, when Emma lies in his arms, eyes closed, pulse barely detectable.

“C’mon, love, open those pretty eyes,” he murmurs, but to no avail. His words fall only on deaf ears. He can feel her parents on either side, reaching for Emma, and he should give her to them. Snow strokes along her hair and face, trying to rouse her daughter, and David just behind at his wife’s shoulder, anxiously peering down with tears starting to glisten in his eyes. Killian should let go of Emma, give her to her parents. A less selfish man might. But he can’t, not when he’s only just started to dream of a happy ending, only to see it - her fall in front of him. 

And it’s a long shot. There’s no promises here, but Emma is his joy, is every dream he never dared to dream, and it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? After growing up hearing about true love, maybe they share that too.

(If nothing else, it’s less heartbreaking to think of this as an attempt at true love’s kiss than as a kiss goodbye.)

“Come back to me, Emma,” he whispers, leaning down as he does so to press his lips to hers in a gentle, lingering kiss.

There’s a split second where nothing happens, where Killian is sure it didn’t work. But then what feels like a wave of energy bursts from where their lips are joined, spreading through the room and causing even her parents to gasp.

Emma’s eyes flutter open slowly, but she smiles to see Killian still bending over her. “Did we win?” she mumbles, a tired sort of slur to her words.

Killian can’t help but laugh, even as happy and relieved tears start to gather at the corner of his eyes; it’s so like his Emma, so fierce, so determined. “Aye, love, we did. You did. Regina’s dead, and your father’s right here.”

Emma cranes her head with a wince to meet her father’s gaze. “I’m ok, sweetheart,” he assures her. “I’m proud of you.”

She nods tiredly before turning her attention back to Killian. “Can we go home now?”

“Anything you want, darling,” he chuckles. “Anything you want.”

——— 

Henry, as expected, is thrilled when they return with his grandfather now amongst their number. “I knew they’d save you,” he grins, arms wrapped tightly around David’s waist. “That’s what heroes do.”

“Hey now, lad, I’m a pirate, not some hero,” Killian can’t help but cut in with a smile and a teasing note in his voice.

“I don’t know, I think you could be both,” Emma adds with a smug little smile. As if it’s thanks to her that he’s anything resembling a hero.

(That might be a little true, actually. After all, she’s the reason he’s wanted to try.)

“Yeah!” Henry agrees readily. “You helped bring Gramps back! And you made sure Mom was safe, just like you promised!”

“Well, I couldn’t disappoint my best mate, could I? A promise is a promise.”

“I see you’ve swayed my grandson, too,” David interjects drolly. Killian isn’t sure the man will ever fully be a fan of his - Killian supposes he’d be the same way with a daughter of his own - but they’re mostly civil, at least. It’s more than he could have expected a week ago, at least. 

“More like he swayed me.”

“I like Killian,” Henry proclaims, and, well, that’s that.

(“Killian says if I save up a lot, I can have my own pirate ship,” Killian hears Henry tell Charming later. “Do you know how much I have to save?”

Killian will probably be paying for that in other ways later.)

Suspicious fathers aside, the return trip is much less eventful. Applying fairy dust to his sails so they can fly between realms may make for a slower journey, but a calmer one; the necessary rush of their original travel to find David is no longer in play, anyways, and they can spare the time. It’s a good time for Emma’s family to get used to his presence in her life under more normal circumstances. There’s no putting the cat that is their relationship back in the metaphorical bag after this, not that Killian would ever want to. He’s loved Emma for a long, long time, and he’s just glad to finally now admit it in public.

By the time they dock back in Misthaven’s port, there’s something of an understanding. Snow openly likes him, as does Henry, and even David has reached a grudging acceptance after much discussion with his wife and daughter. It probably doesn’t hurt that Killian played an instrumental role in his rescue. There’s still the matter of public perception, however. There’s no hiding the fact that he was - is? - a pirate. What will the populace think of their beloved princess consorting with someone like him? How are they supposed to prove that he’s one of their fold, now, no longer a threat in the eyes of the royal family?

The answer, as it turns out, is a grand ball. It’s the Misthaven way, after all. 

Killian can’t say that it’s his idea of a good time by any stretch of the imagination - a little too stifling for his taste - but there’s no real way to weasel out of it, not when he’s the guest of honor. Especially not when it means that the Queen and King see in him a man of honor, maybe even a man worthy of their daughter. He’d be a fool to spit in the face of such gestures. 

Still, he doesn’t have to be entirely thrilled about it. There’s far too many diplomats to play nice with and not nearly enough time with Emma and the collar of his coat itches, dammit. The quilted bronze fabric is certainly striking, drawing more than his fair share of appreciative looks, but the folded black collar whacks at the bottom of his chin with every move, driving him mad. If these soirees are going to become a regular thing in his life - and by all appearances, they will be - he’ll have to speak with the palace seamstresses about making something less prominent.

(What an idea, that is - getting the chance to be around openly enough and long enough to need to speak with palace staff about his preferences.)

Emma, on the other hand, looks absolutely stunning. Beautiful. Ravishing. A whole host of other descriptors that never fully encompass the way she looks tonight, never quite do her justice. Her dress is red, with long sleeves and a full skirt and beading along her scooped neckline that highlights the peeking swells of her lovely breasts, all topped with a floral tiara. It’s by far the most traditionally princess-y that Killian has ever seen her look; it feels like his heart skips several beats as she makes her way into the crowded ballroom, skirt swishing about her just a split second after every move she makes. 

(He may be the guest of honor, but she’s the star of this particular show, every eye drawn towards her grace and beauty like moths to a flame. Truthfully, he can’t blame them one bit.)

As much as Killian has enjoyed watching his princess in her element - something he never thought he’d be fortunate enough to see - he’s been sadly limited to only looking, not touching. Emma is a dance partner in much demand, between visiting royalty and Misthaven’s own nobility and what he’s been told are friends of her parents and their children, and somehow, Killian can never find a moment to steal her away into his arms and make it obvious to anyone that Emma is his partner, and his alone.

(This is all part and parcel of being the future monarch, he knows, but Killian has always been a selfish bastard at heart, a pirate not skilled at sharing with others. Besides, they’ve only just been allowed to show their love openly; he can’t help but want to revel in that for all to see.)

He puts on as good a show as he can, smiling at the countless faces he’s introduced to and gritting his teeth against all the little snide, uppity comments he gets to hear in return. He dances, too - with Snow’s old friend Ruby and with Emma’s friend, the Queen of Arendelle (who is kind enough not to mention the piracy he’s doubtless committed against their ships in the past years) and even, eventually, with Queen Snow herself, twirling each across the marble floors in moves his body remembers from his Naval Academy days much better than his brain does. 

“How are you holding up, Captain?” Emma’s mother asks once he pulls her back in from a particularly dramatic turn. Killian chooses to hum instead of answering, making the Queen laugh. “That well, huh?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Killian suggests. “Distance may make the memory fonder.”

“I strongly doubt that, but I’ll be sure to ask.”

Inevitably, Killian’s eye drifts back to Emma again, where she now dances with her father. He means no offense to his current partner, and he surely hopes Snow doesn’t take it as a slight; he just can’t help but seek for his love’s face and smile and self no matter what else is going on around him. 

“You haven’t had much chance to be in each other’s company tonight, have you?” Snow comments wisely, drawing Killian’s attention back to his partner with a guilty little start that makes her chuckle again. “No, it’s quite alright,” she assures him. “I do remember young love, you know.”

“I’d never think to suggest otherwise,” he winks back. They’ve reached some kind of understanding, him and the queen; the kind of adventure they’ve shared will do that, he supposes. 

“Wise man.” Once again, Killian turns the Queen beneath his arm. When she comes back to their proper waltz position, there’s an extra little twinkle in her eye. “Now, I know you’ll be terribly sorry to see me go,” she tells him, voice bubbling with mirth, “but I have the sudden desire to dance with my husband. If we switch partners, do you think you could possibly bear the terrible burden of dancing with my daughter?”

“I think I’ll manage somehow.”

Emma breaks into a smile as they approach, her entire visage brightening with the gesture and somehow rendering her even more stunning. At his side, the Queen is saying something doubtlessly witty or romantic to her own husband to orchestrate this partner switch; truthfully, Killian doesn’t hear a word. Watching Emma is a delightful tunnel vision, only heightened as her delicate hand brushes against his arm. 

“I was wondering where you had gotten to,” she teases with a smile. “Having fun yet?”

“More with you here.” It’s all the truth he’s willing to admit to in this crush of other people; doubtless, Emma knows what he means anyways.

Sure enough: “I’ve got a feeling that wouldn’t take much.” Though she shakes her head, the smile still lingers on her lips. Killian knows this isn’t her idea of a good time, either, but she’s much more practiced in hiding it than he is. 

(That’s a thing he’ll have to learn over time, he supposes; after all, where Emma is concerned, he’s in this for the long haul. Horrible state functions and all.)

“Guilty as charged,” he smiles back. “What do you say, love? Care to take a turn about the floor with this old pirate?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“That’s not for lack of wanting, you know,” Killian assures her as they sort themselves into a proper waltz position and begin to move. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all night. This is… stunning, love. Gods above, you look like a vision.”

Emma preens a bit at the compliment, a smug little smile and shake of her shoulders. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Captain,” she replies, nodding towards his jacket. “I might even say you clean up well.”

“I couldn’t exactly show up in my duster, you know. What a look that’d be. The entire idea has been not to look too much of an embarrassment, especially as an already… shall we say, unconventional suitor for the princess.”

“You never could, but I appreciate the thought.” The smile slides off her face then, only to be replaced by a hint of anxiety. “I didn’t want to leave you alone tonight, Killian - I really didn’t, I promise. I just… there’s so many people here and I had to greet everyone, and then there were so many people I needed to pay a little extra attention to, pay my respects or whatever, and —”

“Don’t worry about it, love,” Killian cuts her off, accentuating the sentiment with a little squeeze of her hand. “I know these are things you have to do as the princess. It’s quite alright.”

“I never want you to think I’m abandoning you for some duty.” Killian wonders, briefly, if that’s something she’s experienced or been accused of before; in that moment, Killian swears never to make her feel that way again if he can help it. 

“I promise, darling, I won’t. This is who you are, who you’re meant to be; I’ll just be privileged to watch you work.” If it weren’t for the crowded room, filled with people and expectations of how to behave, he’d kiss her right here. After all the scandal they’ve already made, though - the princess and the pirate, quite the pairing by anyone’s standards - he refrains, contenting himself for the moment just to hold his princess in his arms for this dance. That doesn’t mean he can’t do a little bit of plotting, though. “That being said…” 

“Yes?”

“What do you say we sneak out of here early, darling?” Killian murmurs in Emma’s ear. His love has an excellent poker face; even as he whispers indecorous ideas in her ear, her face betrays only the slightest hint of a smile, visible only because Killian was watching for it.

“We’ll have to be sneaky about it,” she replies. “My father will never let you stay the night in my chambers.”

“Hmm. Well, you know, I was just thinking…”

“Yes?”

“What do you think about the ivy, for old times’ sake?”

The smile blooms over Emma’s face slowly, slowly enough for Killian to read every ounce of mischief and lascivious promise contained within, before she finally leans forward to whisper back in his own ear.  

“I’ll bring the rum.”

Not your typical princess at all - but she’s his princess, and Killian finds that that makes all the difference. 

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan ff #captain duckling #my writing #coming ashore (to my lover's arms) #princess emma #pirate killian #captain cobra

[dabistits]

To talk about Twice and villainy is to talk about class and criminality (III)

Masterpost

Class in BNHA

Returning to my earlier point that BNHA should be read alongside the social concerns of real-world Japan, I want to note that these events almost surely affected and remained within Horikoshi’s awareness. Horikoshi was born in 1986, and thus lived through the economic downturns of the 90′s and 2000′s as a child and young adult. In 2010 when Sugimoto’s article was published—not in the least the first of its kind—Horikoshi was 24 years-old, more than old enough to remember the public discourses about Japan’s kakusa shakai. In 2008, only two years earlier, an award-winning film dealing with the financial struggles of a Tokyo family, Tokyo Sonata, was released, and 2012 saw an infamous starvation case involving a family that made international headlines. In 2014, BNHA began serialization. Without speculating on the political leanings of the author himself, it seems remiss not to posit the likelihood that these events and the atmosphere they engendered can be connected to Horikoshi’s writing and the kind of story he intends to tell. While BNHA isn’t what I’d necessarily call class-conscious, the ways it delves into class is noticeable even outside of Jin’s backstory and are worth a discussion.

If not exactly class-conscious, there nevertheless seems to be an awareness of class in BNHA. Not even our heroes are able to fully escape it, and in 1-A, there are small distinctions drawn between the experiences of more wealthy students and ones that are less well-off. For example, Yaoyorozu Momo wows classmates with her stately house, brings expensive furniture into the dorms, and exhibits naïve joy at shopping at an outlet store; Todoroki Shouto’s family home was shown to be a large, traditional residence, and a secondary house has since been built on the income of his formerly abusive, currently estranged father. Both students come from established hero families, and both were admitted to U.A. based on recommendation. On the other hand, Uraraka Ochako comes from a working-class family, and explains that a big part of her decision to become a hero is to support her parents’ business. She’s also been shown to be amazed at U.A.’s dorm facilities, and has frequent jokes made about her thriftiness in bonus material. When it comes to villains, these issues manifest with much more distinctiveness. Aside from Jin, a couple members of the Shie Hassaikai also bring up issues of class and exploitation when they explain their decision to join Overhaul: one was indebted, and the other had his Quirk exploited by an unethical boss. When Overhaul found them, they were “rotting away on the streets.”

On another level, BNHA is certainly hierarchy-conscious. As I’ve brought up before, many of the antagonist groups we see are strictly hierarchal, and more importantly, the lower-ranking members are often commanded to live and die according to their leader’s desires. From the members of the Shie Hassaikai to the Meta Liberation Army, we continuously see them lending their bodies and Quirks to the causes of their superiors, only to be discarded at the most opportune moments: Overhaul directly uses one of his followers as a meat shield, and the Meta Liberation Army decides to put their members in the path of danger, just to steal some glory from the LOV. Geten, from the MLA, has no qualms about enacting such wide-scale destruction that the members of his own organization get caught in the crossfire.

It seems relevant to mention that Yotsubashi Rikiya “Redestro,” the wealthy CEO of Detnerat and successor to the revolutionary Destro, makes his official appearance in the series through an advertisement, a medium tied to the capitalist drive for production and consumerism. Advertisements can also be understood as a medium for misrepresentation, an idealized image created to maximize sales, and sure enough, Redestro’s friendly façade gives way when he kills his assistant, Miyashita, for a mildly disparaging comment about Destro’s ideals. Before the murder, Redestro asks Miyashita whether he has a family or a significant other, making sure that his absence will not be missed, but the pointed question also seems to work as a stand-in for the invisibility of those who “serve” the rich, who can be discarded without hardly a blink of an eye. Miyashita, despite his proximity to wealth and to the wealthy, despite being on all counts a hardworking, model employee, remains expendable in the eyes of his boss. Furthermore, this act of violence occurs not in the supposedly crime-ridden streets—it happens in a swanky office building, where both killer and victim are supposedly working in civilian capacities. It suggests that hierarchies are not something that only belong in the villain world, but that these cycles of exploitation and expendability proliferate throughout society down to our offices and homes.

Quirks as determiners of worth.

In fact, home is where we bear witness to one of the greatest feats of exploitation: in the marriage between Rei and her abuser. Of course, the greatest foundation in this dynamic is patriarchy, wherein the woman is treated like the property of her husband, but there’s a subtle twist in this arrangement thanks to the introduction of Quirks. Rei’s marriage was not simply considered an “arranged marriage,” but specifically a “Quirk marriage” meant to strengthen the Quirks of the following generation by choosing a suitable partner. The Quirk marriage between Rei and her abuser was facilitated by his wealth and fame—acquired through his work in the line of pro heroes—therefore placing a price tag on her Quirk and on her person. I consider this to be an indication of the commodification of Quirks—“commodity” meaning roughly, in the Marxist sense, something that can be “bought or sold” or “exchanged in the market.”

Of course, the horrific thing about purchasing Quirks is they are attached to humans. Quirks are genetic mutations, and are stated in-text to specifically be biological attributes; without a human with the appropriate genetic mutation, a specific Quirk doesn’t exist. If the past serves as any lesson, it’s likely that as Quirks (and the humans who wield them) began to be seen as increasingly valuable, the ruling class soon caught on to the fact that Quirks needed to be controlled, regulated, and diverted to serve the interests of capital. Thus, Quirk regulations were born to prevent a potentially cataclysmic disruption to the means of production, as were pro heroes—a superpowered arm of law enforcement to deal with superpowered criminals. Contemporarily, heroes are largely those whose Quirks are considered the most valuable, and they’re paid for wielding said Quirks in defense of the rule of law; in other words, they sell their Quirk-wielding expertise. While Quirks themselves can’t yet be bought and sold (at least not on a wide scale), the humans attached to them can be. 

This leads to yet another societal dysfunction. Because some Quirks are considered more valuable than others, and because Quirks are attached to persons, some people are considered more valuable than others. This comes through even more clearly in the original Japanese word for Quirk: 個性 (kosei). Kosei can be translated as “individuality” but also as “personality” or “character,” e.g. she has a strong personality (kosei), [source] a meaning that inevitably implicates the human behind the personality. But in the world of BNHA, a strong kosei no longer simply means a strong personality—it can also mean a strong Quirk. In the linguistic realm, personality and Quirk have become indistinguishable, and this has two effects: one, Quirks are presumed to influence personality (as in the cases of Toga and Shinsou), and two, that which makes us individual, our personalities, has become entangled with Quirks-as-commodity. That is to say, one’s kosei determines one’s worth under capitalism.

Of course, people with “good” or “valuable” Quirks (and thus presumably “good” and “valuable” personalities) are funneled into law enforcement and encouraged to uphold the status quo—the very status quo which increases their chances of gaining wealth, fame, and prestige that they can then pass down to subsequent generations. However, the policing class must justify its existence—if there is no crime, then there’s no need for policing. In one respect, this “need” is manufactured by criminalizing poverty (as discussed above), and other harmless acts (such as drug possession), and by creating the adverse, alienated conditions in which violence is not considered only necessary, but normal for both the policing class and those who are policed. Under the classification of value, however, there’s another easy scapegoat: people with “bad” or “worthless” Quirks.

While no Quirk is explicitly criminalized, there are many Quirks that carry a stigma, including the likes of Transform and Brainwash (whose wielders are regarded with suspicion for fear of “bad” personalities); some Quirks walk the line between “criminalized” and “stigmatized” altogether. Consider the Quirk wielded by the indebted member of the Shie Hassaikai, which allows him to transfer any object on another’s person into his hands: the Quirk is called “Larceny.” The naming is telling; it draws a direct link between indebtedness/need, and theft as a crime and as a kosei. With some people presumed “destined” for crime, and those presumptions becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy as they’re shut off from opportunities for advancement, law enforcement is endowed with legitimacy. Heroes and villains become two sides of the same coin—one unable to exist without the other, both socially-constructed categories to perpetuate the ruling class.

#bubaigawara jin #jin bubaigawara #bnha meta #the exhaustive meta about i love twice

[avengerscompound]

Not So Different - Chapter 1

Not So Different: A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Word Count:  915

Rating:  M

Square filled: @star-spangled-bingo - Chance Encounters

Warnings:  smut and angst on series, Reader is an animal liberationist.  This chapter has some grand larceny and breaking and entering as well as cap being maced in the face.

Synopsis:  When Steve Rogers comes across you liberating hens from a battery farm his initial reaction is to arrest you.  He certainly wouldn’t assume that the woman who he initially pegs as a criminal might not be so different from him after all.

A/N:  I haven’t decided if I will tag my full taglist or not.  Interactions have been low lately and I plan on publishing this 3 times a week, so tagging will be time-consuming.  This is in no way a threat or guilt trip, just a practical time thing, but if the notes are under 200 on this chapter I’ll only tag specifically in the fic.  If you want to be tagged in this - even if you are on my permanent tag list - please let me know in case I switch to a fic specific taglist only.

Chapter 1

Steve had woken early.  Even for him, it was early.  The numbers on his bedside clock flashed 3.18 in big red numbers.  He had rolled over and tried to get back to sleep but it didn’t seem to want to come.

He got up and stretched, put on his sweats, grabbed his water bottle, and went for a run.

It was eerily quiet Upstate at this hour.  During the day there were always the sounds of the compound running.  Recruits out training.  Jets landing or taking off.  The sounds of explosions from the labs that he never found out the reason for, and quite frankly didn’t want to know.  What Tony and Bruce got up to, could stay between them.

At 3.45am it was just quiet, except for the sound of crickets.  He crunched down the gravel by the side of the road.  It got darker the further he got from the Compound and at the rate he ran, he was moving away from it quickly.

He’d been running for forty minutes when something caught his attention.  The sounds of hens cackling and squawking broke through the perpetual high-pitched buzz of the crickets.  Steve stopped and looked over to where it was coming from.  He knew there was a chicken farm here but he was pretty sure they shouldn’t be making that kind of noise at this time of the night.

Deep in the gloom, he spotted a shape.  It moved crouched low carrying a box or a crate and seemed to stack it on to a pile before running off into the barn again.

The thought of someone stealing chickens or eggs was bizarre to Steve, but given there were no lights on and it was close to four in the morning, that was the only logical answer to what was actually going on.

The facility was surrounded by a tall fence, surrounded by razor wire.  Steve knew the gate was a half-mile further up the road and figured he could get to it before whoever it was got too far with those boxes.  About halfway down he discovered he didn't need to bother.  There was a pickup parked behind a bush.  The tray already had a stack of those crates in the back, each one contained two or three chickens.

Steve couldn't see them well in the dark but he couldn't figure out why anyone would steal so many chickens.  Was it a rival chicken company?  Or maybe someone wanting to have a big cook-out without the overhead expenses?  It seemed risky to break into a place with this much security for free chicken.

He took note of the license plate, put his water by a shrub, and moved to the side of the truck.  The wire fence has been cut.  Rather than going down to meet whoever this was, he thought he'd wait for them.  At least maybe hear what they had to say.  He couldn't think of a good reason to steal chickens but who knew?  Maybe it was just someone desperate to feed their family.

It wasn’t long before you appeared into the gloom pushing a little cart stacked high with crates of chickens in front of you.

You didn't seem to notice him right away.  Too intent on getting the cart through the fence.  When you’d pushed it through you moved to the other side and stopped suddenly,  staring at him.

“Ma’am,”  Steve said.  “Care to tell me why you’re stealing a bunch of chickens?”

“Do you work here?”  You asked.

“Well, no…”

“Are you a cop?”

He gave his head the smallest of shakes.  “Not exactly.”

You dropped your guard and went and picked up one of the crates.  “Then mind your own fucking business.”

“Ma’am,”  Steve said and went to grab your arm.

You reacted remarkably swiftly, dropping the crate again and making the chickens squawk loudly.  You pulled out a can of mace from your pocket and spraying it directly into his eyes.

Supersoldier or not, that shit hurt.  Pain flared in eyes and his vision went blurry.  Steve reflexively released you and went to his utility belt for something to counteract it.  He then remembered he wasn’t actually on duty right now, and he was in sweats, not his uniform.  He took a deep breath and scrambled for where you put his water.  By the time he was flushing his eyes out, you were in the truck and tearing down the street.

For a moment Steve considered chasing down the car.  Reason got the best of him.  He needed to get back and rinse his eyes out properly and he had your license plate number.  He could run it later.  You were a chicken thief, not HYDRA.

Before heading back he thought he would take the chickens you’d left back into the farm.   It was when he approached your cart that he got his best idea at what it was you were doing.

The chickens looked sick.  Most were missing feathers, some to the point of barely even having any.  Looking at their legs he wasn’t sure if they’d be able to stand.  He knew nothing about chickens but these birds looked like they needed to see a vet.  He changed course again.  He’d take the chickens back to the compound, wash out his eyes, and get these birds some medical attention.  After he’d done all of that, then he’d track you down and see what the hell it was you were doing.

//  NEXT

#starspangledbingo #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #captain america #captain america fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #not so different

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

Devil’s Advocate, of a Sort

I have a nasty tendency to assume people are acting on a sort of moral baseline. I don’t tend to argue “you shouldn’t be killing black people,” because while I believe you shouldn’t be killing black people I assume this fact is understood by basically anyone at all - certainly anyone I’d be willing to talk to for any length of time.

But this tendency can mislead people about my belief system. If you only hear me discussing the secondary or tertiary benefits/penalties of an idea, you might come to believe that I only care about those things.

Example: One of the things that really winds me up about wealth disparity is that after a certain point - and it’s really low, compared to where some folks are at present - there’s little to no actual difference made in a person’s life by extra wealth. So when the Waltons or whoever are performing wage theft - or in their case, wage grand larceny  - they’re ruining piles and piles of lives for negligible personal enjoyment. They’re not even getting anything out of it!

It’s not as if I think it would be okay for the rich to undervalue the poor and perpetuate a system that ruins lives if doing so did make their lives measurably better. But it does sound that way, sometimes!

I’ll often go into the minutiae about, say, why the early reopening of businesses was a stupid response even if all you care about is making lots of money. But I really need to get into the habit of making disclaimers - ideally right out front so more people see them than don’t.

I don’t think it’s okay for you to only care about making lots of money. I don’t think “it makes your life noticeably better” would itself be a valid reason to ruin someone else’s life. I don’t think women’s experiences of sexism are exaggerated. I should be starting from these places, to be perfectly clear with anyone who sees my writing or hears me speak, and only then dealing with these side issues.

Cake first. Then frosting.

[haname-ffxiv]

Life Trap Test: Haname Abumi

Subjugation

You experience the world in terms of control. Other people in your life always seem to be more powerful than you. You feel that you must please them. Sacrifice yourself and submit to them. The only person you do not feel obliged to please is yourself.

You feel trapped in your life. You are constantly meeting the needs of others with so much attentiveness that life loses its freedom. You are passive. A sculpture being shaped by others. Life happens to you.

When your needs are constantly frustrated, anger is inevitable. At some level, you know you feel used or controlled. But you feel your needs do not count. It is hard for you to connect with what you really want or prefer in a situation. You feel overwhelmed and confused. It is easier for you to do what others want. You rationalize your tendency to please others. You tell yourself that it doesn’t really matter.

It is rare for you to express your anger directly. It is far more common for you to take it out in a disguised fashion. You procrastinate, show up late, or neglect legitimate expectations that people have for you. It is difficult for others to know whether you are irritated or simply weak. Many conclude that since you act unstably, you are in need of more control and direction from them. In this way, you perpetuate your pattern of putting others in roles where they feel they must control you.

Tagged by: @luck-and-larceny ((thanks!!))

#Hana #prompt

[vsrc]

Benefits of self managed retirement fund

self managed super fund offer a wide range of feasible Importance. These may include:

a large amount of investment prospects most notably direct property in addition to equities

Maximum Control and flexibility - the very fact that the participants of a self managed fund will also be considered necessary to conduct themselves as trustees makes smsf a whole lot more versatile in comparison with various fund groups, as associates may have the opportunity to personalize their very own self superannuation simple rules and to come up with judgements primarily based around the members’ goals and conditions. This range of flexibility may possibly correspond with a number of factors for instance such as investment chosen as an example

Estate Organising - remembering the fact that your wish do not simply control one's own retirement plan entitlements, a self managed superannuation fund would probably provide you to workout a much higher levels of regulation during the arrangement of some illness provisions unlike general offer super funds. Equally, self managed superannuation can certainly provide joining nominations which often should not expire, unlike common public offer superfunds which actually end up being perpetually modernized

Outlay - despite the fact that SMSF superannuation are not always always more cost effective to operate when compared to general public offer superannuation fund, the actual advantages clients obtain is significantly better management related with your costs. When it comes to a self funded superannuation, you might end up with several expenditures. People shall be called upon to shell out once-a-year financial accounts and quarterly BAS statements, combined with any specific Australian Taxation Office penalties. Regarding permanent outlay, the bigger one's own self managed superannuation balance gets bigger the significantly more cost-effective it becomes. The entire entire cost involved with operating one's own self super fund really does count on the investments everyone initiate throughout the self managed super in addition to regardless if most people prefer to fork out with regards to trained self managed fund assistance and / or professional tips

Weaknesses relating to DIY Super fund

It really needs to be apparent due to the article that on that point there actually are lots of positives in utilizing a self managed superannuation to save money to one's retirement years. Conversely, usually there are various features associated with a SMSF Super which in turn necessarily mean it really isn't a great option for any one. These are typically:

Likelyhood created by blatant breaches - every time a member neglects to keep their SMSF in respect with all the legislation, the ATO possibly can force quite a lot of fines. Wherein a penalty is applied, the trustees will normally be independently accountable and share investors can't be given the option to generally be re-imbursed with the estate of the self funded super. The non-complying SMSF might possibly be subject to taxes over 47%

Hoax and / or larceny - in the event a self superannuation investors loses most of their financial wealth as a direct result of scam or thievery, they will never be qualified to get fed government reimbursement, as is usually available to CFMEU funds

Problems plus arguments - when ever resolving disputes, self managed retirement fund clients usually tend not to have admission to the Superannuation Complaints Tribunal, while is accessible to industry funds. Instead, the couples in conflict might want to initiate court proceedings to have the case concluded by a courtroom, that typically may perhaps be terribly costly and challenging

Trustee Qualifications

To be allowed for being an SMSF trustee, someone must be 18 years or older and mainly not:

appear to have been found guilty of an crime involving dishonesty

happen to be disqualified by a regulator formerly to act as a trustee

had a official manager appointed

WARNING

Investors who intentionally become a trustee of a DIY SMSF while banned will likely be subject to hard penalties, for instance such as prison time.

Other expectations of trustees may include:

Every trustee of a self managed retirement fund is required to be a member of the fund and the other way round - there can be many different guidelines for 1 investor self funded super

[ashesandhalefire]

we had it (almost)

michael guerin x alex manes canon compliant pre-1.09

---

As a rule, Michael tries to avoid injecting himself into the business of the town beyond the property limits of Sander’s Auto, the Wild Pony, or Foster Ranch. If he can’t earn himself a paycheck, get a stiff drink, or find somewhere quiet to hide out during the long hours of insufferably lonely nights, he figures he shouldn’t let the problems of Roswell weigh on his shoulders.

 That’s been his policy for over a decade, so when he notices a strange light in the window of a closed storefront on his way home, he has every intention of minding his own business. The town’s rising larceny rate is only partially his fault, and he has no responsibility to look after the vagrants he comes across at two in the morning. Leave that to Max and his badge and his hero complex. Michael has a mattress and a pillow and a second bottle of acetone calling his name.

 The traffic light turns red at the end of the block, and he drums his fingers as he waits at the empty intersection. Glancing back towards the window is mostly an accident. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise him to find the old members of Wyatt Long’s high school posse breaking and entering. They have enough money to buy their ways out of whatever trouble they land in, and they’ve been fidgety since Long took a bullet to the leg. They rove like hyenas, slobbering and mangey and stupid. Destruction of property would be very on-brand for them. But when he looks, he doesn’t see anyone in the shadows. It’s a cool, clear night, but the only thing illuminated by the large swaths of moonlight is the marque on the building.

 Roswell’s UFO Emporium.

Grant Green’s perpetual construction project has sat untouched in the center of town for just under six years. Town supervisors had been livid when construction began just before the height of tourist season, but Grant had assured them everything would be settled in a few months. Bigger and better, he had promised. At the time, Michael had bitterly hoped an electrical mishap might burn the place to the ground, so he’s more than a little confused when he instinctively pulls into a quick U-turn the second the traffic light turns green again. He parks at the curb and takes a deep breath.

 The museum was defunct by the time Grant got his hand on it. Even on its best days, it hadn’t turned much of a profit. It was the kind of place people wandered into when they were looking for a way to escape the triple-digit temperatures, but it hardly received glowing reviews. No doubt Grant planned on using it more as a recruitment center for his delusional followers than anything else. Now, it’s only a matter of time before the town claims the property rights from his estate.

 In a few months, after fresh paint goes up over a new layer of drywall and somebody replaces the old incandescent lightbulbs, the museum will open, lazily refurbished as a more lucrative tourist trap. Any damage done by a few trespassers will be patched and forgotten.

 Still, Michael idles his truck at the curb.

 With a scowl, he reminds himself that sentimentality has gotten him nowhere lately. It got him a couple of decent kisses and a few nights of sex that didn’t end with bloodshed or an acetone binge, but the net gain at the end was heartache and disappointment. He should go home.

 He looks over at the building, twisting his hands mercilessly around the steering wheel. The stupid sign still hanging in the window of the ticket booth says “I’ve been abducted! Back in 5.” One of the chains that should be holding the front doors closed dangles uselessly from the metal handle.

 Michael swears, ripping the keys out of the ignition, and shoves his way out of the car.

 The UFO museum never inspired warm and fuzzy feelings. Most of the exhibits were grossly inaccurate, and the display descriptions all took on alarmist tones that made planet-wide invasions sound inevitable. He still gets a particularly troubling feeling in his stomach when he thinks about the room with the interactive dissection display. The dummy was six feet long and bright neon-green with three fingers on each hand and a head shaped like a spade, but the way its foam flesh had been peeled away from its chest cavity still sends shivers down his spine when he thinks about it. Children, two at a time, had been allowed to reach inside and squeeze the fake organs, coating their hands with green blood the consistency of papier-mâché paste. The first time he saw it, on a middle school field trip, he had run to the bathroom to throw up. Isobel told everyone it was because he ate too many chicken fingers at lunch, and one of Kyle Valenti’s friends joked that foster kids always got too excited about free meals.

 But there was one day—one hour—when it was his favorite place in the world.

 Tucked away in the back room with hands on his face and his shoulders and his back, he had felt potential stretch out infinitely in every direction. There was a whole summer to plan, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine sitting in the alleyway behind the building to share sandwiches on lunch breaks or loitering in the empty exhibits on slow days or riding out into the desert after closing and taking time to pick out fake constellations in the real stars. For the first time, his future wasn’t about escape.

 The room is probably an empty shell of damaged drywall and scratched floors now, all the exhibits taken out and moved to Grant’s warehouse, and the energy of that afternoon had burned out and died by nightfall of the same day. Potential scattered in the breeze like ash. Everything changed. Still, the idea of Wyatt Long’s drunken friends littering the place with beer cans and pissing in the corners to cure their boredom makes his jaw twitch. The museum doesn’t belong to them.

 When he slips inside, everything is darker and quieter than he expected. There’s no sign of anybody having been in the deconstructed lobby, and an eerie silence seems to inhabit the rest of the building. Drunken vandals wouldn’t be nearly so stealthy, and that should be enough to satisfy him, give him leave to turn around and go home, but the curiosity wins out. Somebody wanted to get inside badly enough to risk standing on the street to pick the chain lock. The only thing Michael thinks might be worth stealing in here is the copper wiring, which would require breaking open the walls, and that wouldn’t be this quiet either.

 Listening for any signs of movement, Michael creeps forward, working his way between the forgotten sawhorses, and checks the room on the right that used to be the gift shop. A faint bit of moonlight streams through the front corner of the window where the newspaper has peeled back with age, and he runs a fingertip over the dusty glass countertop. It used to be filled with poorly-designed plush and cheap plastic necklaces with almond-shaped heads on them. Now, it’s just empty glass cabinetry waiting to be demolished.

 He should be glad to see the kitsch go, but he isn’t. It leaves him feeling unsettled.

 The old manager’s office on the other side of the foyer is undisturbed in its abandonment, and Michael drums his fingers lightly against the wall as he makes his way deeper into the building. The first exhibit room is completely empty, and it’s swallowed in shadows without the light from the front windows. He presses forward, gently nudging obstacles out of the way with a jerk of his chin. The second and third rooms are crammed tight with piles of garbage that was never removed, and he tries to ignore the way that gnaws at him. He works his way past the broken drywall and splintered two-by-fours, careful to avoid the exposed nails and razor-sharp remnants of display cases, and then a soft click echoes from through a doorway on the left. A soft glow from inside guides him the rest of the way across the room.

 When he peers around the corner, two thoughts occur simultaneously: it isn’t who he was expecting, and it never would have been anyone else.

 “Remind me again which one of us is supposed to be the criminal,” Michael says after a deep breath, and it’s a little satisfying to watch Alex startle. His crutch hits the side of an overturned spackle bucket, sending it skittering loudly across the floor, and he winces at how the sound echoes in the empty room. Alex has his own phone sitting face-down on a crate, and the flashlight splashes a dull circle of light onto the ceiling.

 When the stillness settles over them again, Michael cross his arms and leans against the wall. The acetone he slipped into his drinks at the bar has officially worn off, which means the ache in his hand will return soon. It’s a constant, dull pain. With enough acetone in his system, it fades to the background like the hum of the electric wires or Grant Green’s alien podcasts, Roswell’s special brand of white noise. Eyes raking over Alex’s rumpled sweatpants and half-zipped hoodie, he thinks he feels the beginnings of twinges radiating from his wrist down into his pinky.

 Finally, Alex licks his lips and asks, “What are you doing here?”

 “Really?” Michael raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one who just caught you breaking and entering.”

 Lifting his chin defiantly, Alex squares his shoulders. “Well, unless somebody gave you a key, you’re breaking and entering, too.”

 “You did all the breaking,” Michael says with a shrug. “I just entered.”

 “That’s still trespassing.” Cocking his head, Alex says, “You do know that criminal records aren’t bingo cards, right? There’s no prize for filling in all the rows.”

 Alex’s new mean streak is a delicious twist on his high school sarcasm, and Michael leans into it without meaning to. He likes when Alex pulls his hair, too. “Actually,” he says, “I’m in the process of executing a citizen’s arrest, so I think the sheriff’s department will let this one slide.”

 “Doubtful.”

 Michael clicks his tongue. “I have an in with one of the deputies.”

 “I hope you don’t mean Max.”

 “God, no,” Michael scoffs. “He’d be first in line with the handcuffs.”  

 That earns him a small lift at the corner of Alex’s mouth, and some of the stiffness in his spine eases away. Michael feels his own shoulders relax. Every interaction with Alex has been wrought with tension, and he wants desperately for this night to not end in a fight.

 “Aren’t you staying out of town these days?”

 Shuffling around an overfilled trash can, Alex works his way forward.

 “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits with a shrug. He flexes his grip around the handle on his crutch and averts his eyes. The shadows on his face sit heavily beneath his eyes, and Michael frowns.

 “Most people would try warm milk first,” he says. “Or Ambien. Trespassing doesn’t usually make the list of top five insomnia remedies.”

 “Then consider it my last resort.”

 With an indelicate hop, Alex hefts himself up onto the crate in the middle of the room and settles his crutch between his knees. His cell phone sits behind him, plunging him into pure silhouette, and Michael steps farther into the room. Purple Heart Airman Alex Manes is not the kind of man to drive across town in the middle of the night in order to break into a construction site. But this isn’t just any construction site.

 “Why would you want to come here?” Michael asks. Alex stares silently at his hands, and Michael taps the toe of his boot against a stack of two-by-fours. “It’s not exactly—”

 “Don’t play dumb,” Alex interrupts, looking up sharply. “I’m not in the mood. You know why I would come here.”

 It hangs heavily between them.

 Alex had been swift and decisive when he ended things at the drive-in, leaving no room for interpretation. But it also hadn’t been the first time he walked away, so Michael can’t be entirely surprised to be stumbling into the middle of his late-night backslide. The pattern repeats again, a twisted version of an unhappy ending that hurts more than never having him in the first place.

 With a huff, he hops up onto the crate beside Alex. It groans beneath their combined weights but holds firm, and he claps his hands down on his knees.

“Look around, Alex. Everything that made this place what it was? It’s long gone,” Michael says. The wall to the left is where the model UFO hung, backlit by a wall of twinkling little lights. It’s half-torn out sheetrock now. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. Not anymore.”

 Alex shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. This place doesn’t just stop being important—” He breaks off, tapping his crutch against the ground. Michael watches him swallow. “Never mind. You obviously don’t— forget it.”

 Scoffing, Michael leans back and looks at the ceiling. The only reason he even walked through the front door was because of some desperate need to protect the memories living in the walls. But he never loved the cheesy UFO museum. In the years since Alex left town, he never felt himself drawn back to the building itself. Even before Grant took the exhibits out, Michael never felt there was anything inside for him. It’s strange that now, when Alex is finally on the same continent—in the same town, in the same room—he felt drawn to it. Or maybe it isn’t strange at all.

 “I try not to think about that day,” Michael says. It’s a truth and a lie at the same time, and it’s much bigger than a secret kiss or a shattered hand. At first, everything had bled together for him. He couldn’t think about the cave without thinking about the toolshed without thinking about the museum. When he closed his eyes, he saw burning cars and the curve of Alex’s naked hip and his own blood all at the same time. But his mind has worked miracles compartmentalizing that day. Certain parts have never left him. Others are best forgotten.

 Alex spins his crutch in his hands and says, “I think about that day all the time.”

 “I’ll bet. I hear PTSD is a bitch.”

 “Actually, it was one of the best days of my life.”

 Michael scoffs. “Shit, Alex. That’s not saying much for your life.”

 “Don’t do that.” Alex frowns.

 “Do what?”

 “Don’t minimize it.” Wringing his hands, Alex keeps his eyes fixed on his lap. “I’m not stupid, alright? We only had a few hours, and I’m not delusional enough to think— I know what it was. But you have no idea what it meant to me.” His voice wavers, and Michael feels frozen on the spot. The ten lost years have reduced them to unfamiliar strangers, and sometimes it feels like they don’t even speak the same language anymore. They hadn’t needed to say much to each other for things to things to fall into place the first time. It hasn’t been nearly as easy on their second—third, fourth, fifth, he loses count—try.

 Alex takes a deep breath and turns away, offering the rest of his confession to the empty room.

 “You were mine when I didn’t have anything else. And I know— I know how it ended. I know what it cost you. But you’ll never understand what it meant to me to have you for as long as I did.”

 Heart in his throat, Michael stares at the darkened silhouette of Alex’s profile.

 A few weeks ago, he stood in front of Alex and laid himself bare entirely by accident. I never look away. Not really. Alex had seemed surprised and then pleasantly flustered, but Michael had assumed it was because of how much time had passed. Ten years is a long time for a heart to stay alone someplace, just waiting to carry on, but Alex had admitted to it first. Alex had reopened the door.

 But he doesn’t sound like a man who understands how pathetically Michael has wanted him.

 With Max’s voice still whispering in his ear, Michael bites back, You still have me.

 It isn’t the sort of promise that can be a comfort to Alex now. Michael isn’t really what he wants anymore, isn’t what he remembers having. He isn’t that boy from the back of the truck that just wanted a safe place to sleep. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, he still has it in him to be that soft, but he’s built up a layer of callous and scar tissue on the outside that makes him unrecognizable.

 I can’t be with a criminal, Alex had said, and he hadn’t even known the half of it.

 Max was right when he said that they couldn’t be with the people they love. And still, he’s angry at Alex for the way he’s been hurt, and it makes him feel like an idiot. He hates that the two contradictory truths can live inside him so easily. Like a trap getting angry at a bear for being wary, he resents Alex for running away while hating himself for being undeserving of keeping him.

 It says a lot about Michael that his greatest regret is not letting Alex kiss him the first time he tried.

 Alex takes a shuddering breath suddenly, head ducked low, and rubs a hand against the back of his neck. He seems embarrassed, curling in on himself like it can erase his admission. Leaning closer, Michael bumps their shoulders together to stop his retreat.

 “You know,” he says, “you and me getting together was kind of, like, the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in this town.”

 “Fuck off.”

 “I’m serious,” Michael insists when he catches the bitterness in Alex’s tone. He isn’t trying to tease him, and he doesn’t want Alex to think he doesn’t appreciate the weight of what happened between them. “It was like a movie.”

 “Are you incapable of sincerity, or do you just enjoy being an asshole?”

 “I don’t know. Do you enjoy expecting the worst of me?”

 Alex kicks his heels against the side of the crate. “We made out under the UFOs for ten minutes, and then you went to wait at The Crashdown until my shift ended. If that’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened in this town, the population should be dwindling. People should be fleeing.”

 “I wanted to wait with you,” Michael reminds him. “You wouldn’t let me into the booth.”

 “I was trying to be subtle.”

 Michael rolls his eyes. “There was nothing subtle about that eyeliner. Or the nose ring.”

 “You didn’t mind.”

 “No,” Michael says. “I didn’t.”

 Alex turns towards him, still mostly a silhouette, and licks his lips.

 “No,” he breathes. “You didn’t.”

 A beat passes between them, and Michael’s breath catches in his chest as the realization settles over his shoulders like a heavy blanket. Alex loves him. He’s suddenly surer of it than anything else in his life, and heat rushes to his cheeks. It should be a pleased flush from his racing heart, but his stomach twists with misery as he stares at Alex’s shadowed face. Alex loves him. Alex has always loved him, maybe, for reasons neither of them can fully explain. They could have been happy. If things had just been a little different, they could have been happy.

 The light disappears suddenly as Alex’s phone dies.

 Michael stares out into the dark to where he knows Alex is, and then he lets his eyes drift shut just long enough to steel himself.

 “I guess that’s our cue,” Alex sighs.

 “Yeah, I think I’m parked next to a hydrant,” Michael says, clearing his throat as he slips off the crate. He rolls his shoulders, trying to settle the rippling tension radiating down his back, and then holds out a hand to help Alex back to his feet. “Can’t afford another ticket.”

 “I thought you had an in with the deputies.” Alex dusts off the back of his jeans and then returns his hand to the crook of Michael’s arm as he adjusts his crutch. Michael figures it’s the steadiest influence he’s has ever had on Alex.

 “We both know that was bullshit. Come on. Let’s try to get out of here without killing ourselves.”

 Alex fists a hand into the back of Michael’s shirt as they pick their way through the dark, and Michael adjusts himself to the task of subtly moving obstacles out of their way without being able to see what he’s moving. They make it to the first exhibit room, less than a hundred feet from freedom, and then Alex loops his fingers loosely around Michael’s wrist.

 “Guerin.”

 The word is a whisper against the back of his neck, and the hand slips off his wrist and finds his hip instead. Alex curls his arm around Michael’s waist, and he presses himself forward until the lines of their bodies curve together seamlessly.

 This part always comes so easily to them. It’s the rest that gets messy.

 Alex nudges his nose against the knob at the base of Michael’s neck, and he splays his hand wide across the middle of Michael’s chest. Body flushing, Michael lets his eyes drift shut as he relaxes against Alex’s warmth. Alex inspires stillness in him that he imagines total peace is meant to feel like, but he knows it’s only the eye of a hurricane. The rest of the storm still rages around them.

 “We can’t,” Michael exhales.

 Pressing his mouth to the curve of Michael’s shoulder, Alex hums. “Why not?”

 There are so many answers, all of them true.

 He can imagine the seductive tilt of Alex’s head as he leans forward, and he can imagine the anxious hunch of his shoulders in the morning light as he slinks out of the Airstream before anyone notices where he spent the night. If Michael closes his eyes, he sees sweaty strands of Alex’s hair sticking to his forehead and spread out on a pillowcase as easily as he sees the angry sneer of disgust that will follow Michael laying his secrets bare.

 The truth is that Michael is a coward. He won’t survive having and losing Alex again.

 “Because I love you.”

 Without the light from Alex’s phone, all they are to each other is shapes in the dark.

 It’s fitting, considering how lost Michael feels navigating the foreign terrain of an emotion this elusive. Anger is easy. He’s seen enough anger manifested in front of him to know exactly what it is. It’s curled fists and free-flying hands and bared teeth and acidic vitriol that seeks out a person’s soft spots and eats away at the tender flesh until he’s crippled by it. It’s ugly and familiar. But Michael has never been loved. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to look like. All he knows is that being with Alex makes him feel still. It changes the energy in the air, slows the vibrating chaos inside him, and splits him at his loosely-patched seams when it’s over.

 He’s never said those words before.

 “I love you,” Michael repeats into the dark, and he reaches down to cover Alex’s hand with his own. His scarred fingers ache as they twine. The bones don’t bend like they should, and most of the strength is gone, but this feels like the last chance he’ll get to hold Alex’s hand. Distantly, it occurs to him that this is also the first time he’s ever held Alex’s hand. “And it’s too easy to think it can still be like it was.”

 Alex shuffles forward. “Guerin—”  

 When Alex finds out, he’ll hate Michael like he deserves.

 Michael has never given a damn about the people of Roswell because they never gave a damn about him. A decade in foster care taught him that humans can’t be depended on for anything more than consistent disappointment. He survived just long enough to get himself out, and he did it without help from anybody. Then things went sideways, and then then things turned upside down, and then everything got blown to hell.

 He spent the summer after senior year telling himself new truths. He repeated them like a mantra until they were fully incorporated into him. Katie Long was an asshole, just like her brother, and so was Jasmine. Rosa Ortecho was an on-and-off crackhead on a long road to nowhere. If not them on a slab in the morgue, then Isobel, Max, and himself on gurneys in a secret government facility, locked away somewhere nobody would hear them scream.

 Reality is too terrible to bear if those aren’t his truths. That day, what he is became inextricably linked to what he did, and it can never be undone. There are no apologies to offer. Besides, it spiraled out towards disaster more horribly than any of them could have ever imagined, so even their apologies wouldn’t have mattered. There’s no forgiveness, no absolution, and he would do it again in a heartbeat, if given the choice. Sometimes that feels like the worst part.

 Still, knowing that the people of Roswell would hate him for what he is and what he’s done doesn’t mean much. He’s had years to practice turning his own guilt inside out, and he doubts that public opinion would weigh too heavily on him. The more pressing concern has always been discovery, capture, and the inevitability of experimentation. Fear of being strapped to a table, of hearing Max and Isobel scream through a vivisection, the worst word he ever learned, is a more persuasive motivator than anything else.

 But when Alex finds out, he’ll hate Michael like he deserves, and Michael will feel every ounce of it.

 That, in itself, is all the evidence he needs to know that he isn’t a good man.

 It’s unlikely that their DNA has corrupted them or that they carried murderous instincts halfway across the galaxy, but their hands are soaked in blood from what they did and they will leave fingerprints on everything they touch. Max may have found his way to that conclusion in a heap of self-pitying misery, but Michael hasn’t been able to find a flaw in his logic. Always terrified of being unloved, they have made themselves unlovable.

 Alex has suffered plenty at the hands of people pretending to be good men. Michael can’t stomach being just another in a long line of betrayals. If the best Michael can do now is stay away, it should be enough to redeem some small part of him that remembers an Alex who just wanted to be safe.

 “It doesn’t have to be what it was,” Alex finally says, voice unbearably soft. “It can be new.”

 Michael pulls their hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the center of Alex’s palm.

 One day, Alex will have to ask himself what it means to be loved by a monster. He will think back on every time that Michael touched him with softness and reverence and wonder what it means that someone so drenched in horror could look at him and want so desperately. If he asked, Michael would tell him that it means he embodies the best of what lesser men want for themselves: bravery, integrity, and an unyielding capacity for kindness. But Alex won’t ask. Instead, he’ll consider every time he walked away and wonder why he came back. He’ll scrub himself raw trying to get rid of an invisible stain. He’ll thank saints he barely believes in for the narrow miss of almost that Michael will cherish for the rest of his life.

 “We can’t.”

 “Guerin—”

 Alex isn’t the type to beg, so Michael is entirely unprepared to feel the grip around his waist tighten in protest. He holds himself shock-still, terrified to hear what Alex will say to change his mind and what he’ll need to say to protect himself from it. But Alex doesn’t say anything else. He just squeezes his fingers around Michael’s gnarled hand and draws a long inhale through his nose.

 Then, Alex lets go, and, for the first time, Michael is the one who runs.

#michael x alex #malex #malex fic #me: put it in the main rnm tag for the exposure #dark me: no #so normally i would stress about editing this for another three weeks but 1x09 already jossed it and it would probably be dumb after 1x10 #so here is 4.7k words of a thing i wrote #that i had to repost because this site was being annoying about the ao3 link #my fic

[blackfreethinkers]

This is where helicoptering and black mothering diverge. While helicopter moms are busy multiplying their children’s privilege and advantages, many black moms are fighting to protect their children from the structural disadvantages that keep opportunity just out of reach.

The burden of inequality

Even in an age of rising inequality, white children find socioeconomic mobility easier to come by than do black children. In Richard Chetty’s landmark study of 20 million Americans, one in 10 black kids who grew up poor made it to the top two quintiles of earners as adults. For white kids, that figure was one in four.

Inequality follows black children to school, a place traditionally seen as a vehicle for mobility. Black children are disciplined more often and more harshly than their white classmates. They are more likely to be arrested in school—in part because they are more likely to have police officers stationed at their schools. From preschool (pdf) onward, black children are suspended at almost four times the rate of their white peers, and research shows that teachers are more likely to expect black children, and especially black boys, to display “challenging behavior” even before they do anything wrong.

The threats extend beyond the classroom. Black teens go to jail for committing fewer crimes than their white counterparts. Black children are overrepresented in arrests for nebulous, low-level charges like loitering, breaking curfew, and suspicion. During the admissions scandal, many observers pointed out that black mothers had faced criminal charges for trying to get their kids into better schools, too—under very different circumstances. Tanya McDowell (sometimes written as Tonya) was charged with larceny for “stealing” $15,000 from Norwalk, Connecticut by sending her son to a public school there when they actually lived in homeless shelters in nearby, poorer Bridgeport. Kelley Williams-Bolar was sentenced to jail in Ohio for using her father’s address to send her kids to a better-funded public school.

“When my child comes to me and tells me something is wrong, I believe my children first.” These fundamentally different odds create separate motivations for black and white parents to be protective, even when they share class backgrounds. Riché Barnes, an anthropologist at Yale and the author of Raising the Race: Black Career Women Redefine Marriage, Motherhood, and Community, says the term “good school” holds different meanings for some black families. While white parents might be looking for schools that are mostly white and have high test scores, those same environments can actually hurt black students.

Research shows that non-black teachers routinely underestimate black children’s academic potential. Black kids who have had at least one black teacher by third grade are 7% more likely to graduate from high school and 13% more likely to enroll in college than their counterparts without black teachers.

In light of these statistics, Barnes says black parents are beginning to think, “Maybe my kids are better off in a school where the teachers love them and care about them and their heritage and want to teach them to love themselves and their heritage. And that ends up being just as important as if you do well on that test.”

For Winnie Caldwell, a 30-year-old mom raising her son in St. Louis, the challenge of finding the right school for her child came into focus in 2014, when her son was one of two black children in his third grade class. It was the year that Michael Brown, a black teenager, was killed by a white police officer in nearby Ferguson, Missouri. Caldwell says her son’s teacher, who was white, asked the class about the shooting and made it clear that she believed Brown was at fault. When Caldwell’s son came home that day, he asked, “Is that what’s going to happen to me when I’m 18? If I’m walking down the street, and the police find me, am I gonna die?”

Aisha Wadud, a 36-year-old mother of four from Minneapolis, says she is “very stern with other adults when it comes to [her] children and their care.” She’s a fierce advocate for them the way her mother was for her—Wadud remembers her mother taking on her younger sister’s school after a teacher called her a racial slur, the culmination of a trend of purposefully neglecting black students. “When my child comes to me and tells me something is wrong, I believe my children first,” Wadud says of her own approach to parenting. “And then I take action.”

The mothers who shared their stories with Quartz were clear that not all interactions with their children’s educators have been negative. “There are teachers and staff out here that advocate for our kids when we don’t have the time to do so. As a single mom, I know both sides,” Caldwell says. Alston, the Atlanta mother, is pleased with her children’s schools and appreciates that when she raises concerns, the teachers and administrators take them seriously.

Still, the toll of adversarial interactions with other authority figures in their children’s lives weighs on black parents. Just under half of parents of black children are very satisfied with their children’s schools, compared with 60% of parents overall and 65% of parents of white children. Dissatisfaction and concern over their children’s ability to feel confident and succeed in schools where they might be overlooked or mistreated leads some black parents to seek alternatives to traditional school settings—including schools with Afrocentric curricula or homeschooling.

Since the 2014 incident, Caldwell’s son, now 13, has moved to a majority-black, all-boys school. He also founded a nationwide book club for black boys. Though Caldwell says she did not choose her son’s new school based on its racial composition, she enjoys seeing him surrounded by other boys who look like him. “They have this sense of brotherhood, and I can tell that that’s infinitely helped his education.”

Parenting while black

Black parents who are forced to teach their children how to cope with inequality have to contend with another set of prejudices themselves, including being blamed for their children’s supposed misdeeds. A Google search of “African American parenting” or “Black parenting” returns results on authoritarianism, hostility, and toxic stress. Featured articles blame black parents for preschoolers’ bad behavior, adolescents’ obesity, and teens’ drug use. In the top results, there is nothing to be found about watchful protectiveness. (Much of this is about black mothers—black fathers are often excluded from conversations about parenting because academia and pop culture alike have perpetuated the stereotype that they do not parent, though research shows that black men actually spend more time with their children than men of other racial groups, regardless of whether they live full-time with their kids.)

“They’re seen as bad mothers,” says Barnes. “That’s a historical stereotype: That black women were bad mothers to their own children while at the same time being the women who raised white people [as enslaved caregivers and domestic servants].”

“They’re seen as bad mothers.”

Black mothers’ vigilance and protectiveness long predates the intensive parenting boom in the 1990s. According to Barnes, whose work examines contemporary strategic mothering, black women have been watchful parents since slavery. “The community of enslaved women was charged on their own with ensuring the survival of those children, whether biological or not. And that’s a framework that has lasted throughout the African American experience,” she says.

Reporter Dani McClain agrees. In her account of Black motherhood, We Live for the We, she writes, “Black women have had to inhabit a different understanding of motherhood in order to navigate American life. If we merely accepted the status quo and failed to challenge the forces that have kept black people and women oppressed, then we participated in our own and our children’s destruction.” McClain’s words point to another reality of black motherhood—that raising healthy, happy black children is political. Under slavery and Jim Crow, when racial violence routinely stole black children away, keeping a black family together was an act of rebellion. McClain points out that even today, black mothers are charged with organizing movements while still mourning children lost to shootings by police and vigilantes.

Even so, mainstream narratives of motherhood exclude black women. When the author Neferti Austin began the process of adopting a child, she struggled to find books written by or for black mothers. The resources she found seemed to assume all moms were white and overlooked experiences common to black mothers and mothers-to-be: navigating higher-risk pregnancies, caring for children’s natural hair, explaining and combating systemic racism, or having “the talk” about interacting with police.

Austin decided to publish a book of her own, titled Motherhood So White: A Memoir of Race, Gender, and Parenting in America. Similarly frustrated with the lack of resources for new black mothers, Dani McClain wrote her book on black motherhood, too. Neither is a how-to guide, but both offer a comforting and all-too-rare message to black mothers: you are not alone.

This message is perhaps the oldest strategy black women have employed to sustain themselves and their families. Throughout history, black women have collectively raised communities of children, biologically related and not. These “othermothers,” as black feminist scholar Patricia Hill Collins terms them, provide crucial support to black children and to one another. Together, they face down inequality and seemingly unbeatable odds to ensure their families survive—and thrive. In Barnes’ words, black women have always known, “[Mothering] is not just about raising children… It’s not just about making sure people are alive. It’s also about making sure that their spirits are intact, that their souls are intact, that they are finding joy.”

[thelawfulchaotic]

what she says: I’m fine

what she means: in my state, your third misdemeanor petit larceny conviction becomes a felony just because it’s your third, a system that is designed to impose draconian punishments for small crimes, and when the theft is motivated by need or poverty -- especially for people of color -- this creates huge barriers to employment and stability, not to mention taking away the right to vote and the ability to receive certain public benefits, and perpetuates and enforces a brutal cycle of poverty from which there is no escape because of prosecutors who think that “they already had their bite at the apple” and honestly I can’t forgive prosecutors or police or judges for participating in a system that has such painful and wide-reaching consequences on so many people

#prosecutors #police #felon disenfranchisement #three strikes #that stupid phrase about having bites at the apple #the point of an apple is that you bite until it's done #I have never in my life had only one bite at an apple #shut up about biting the apples for fuck's sake

[qqueenofhades]

the shadows among the stars: chapter fourteen

Summary: Sequel to the alchemical wedding. Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston have timewalked to 1590 London, in search of answers about the mysterious manuscript Ashmole 782. But as they tangle with alchemists, assassins, witches, vampires, daemons, queens, and emperors – and the de Clermont family themselves – they quickly realize that their quest will be far more difficult than they ever imagined, and their relationship will be challenged as never before. In the present, their formidable enemy Michael Temple is more powerful than ever, the rival creature factions on the Congregation scheme and intrigue against each other, and in both centuries, the danger and the shadows are only deepening. Rating: M Status: WIP Previous: The City of Gold

Chapter 14: Flesh and Bone

It is very late by the time they get back to the inn. The streets are quiet, except for the squabbling of stray animals and the occasional window opening for a voice to shout sleepy curses in Czech at the carriage as it rolls past. Lucy and Christian are still on edge, as they didn’t feel that they could explain what happened with Kelley. For one thing, it comes with a high risk of Flynn, Gabriel, or both causing a scene, and if they are going to be forced into grand theft larceny, they need to stay out of prison long enough to plan it. They managed not to run out, but by midnight, Rudolf had clearly had enough, the footmen were discreetly encouraging the glitterati to be on their way, and Lucy’s surprised that the coach has not turned back into a pumpkin. The spot on her collarbone where the sulfur match burned her is throbbing, and her feet ache. Christian keeps glancing at her surreptitiously, clearly worried, and Lucy shakes her head minutely. Not until they have a door that closes and locks.

They step down and make their way inside. Lucy mostly keeps it together up the stairs, but her legs give out on the last bit, and Flynn catches her in a flash as she stumbles. “Lucy?” he says, half-carrying her over the threshold and into their room. “Moja ljubav, what’s wrong?”

Lucy sits down heavily on the bed, her hair coming loose in tangles from its elaborate pins. “I need something to drink.”

Flynn immediately procures a goblet of cool water from nowhere, and sits beside her, watching her sip it. “I could tell something was up on the way home. Your heart is going crazy, you smell… what happened at the ball? Did something – Lucy, what’s this?”

He hovers one long finger over the burn mark on her chest. When he looks up, his eyes are black, and his voice is a snarl. “Who did this?”

“Kelley.” Lucy knew he wasn’t going to take this well, but she reaches out, grabbing Flynn’s wrist. “Edward Kelley. I met him in the chancellery – I went to get some air, and he was there, he must have been working late. He told us to stay away from everything, his house and his books, and he was threatening me when Christian caught him. I said that he was my son, but Kelley knows that I’m a witch and you’re a vampire, so now he thinks – ”

She doesn’t think she’s making any sense, rambling and talking over herself, more upset now than when it was happening, and Flynn kneels in front of her, then takes hold of her shoulders, gripping her ferociously. “Jesus,” he says, stunned. “Lucy, I didn’t – why didn’t you say something back at the castle? I would have torn his spine out through his stomach.”

“That’s why I didn’t.” Lucy cups his face in her hands, trying to get him to focus. “Garcia, listen to me. Believe me, I’m not protecting Kelley. But if we’re going to have to execute some kind of Ocean’s Eleven caper to get Ashmole 782, we can’t do it with you in a dungeon for murdering the emperor’s favorite alchemist.”

“I could escape,” Flynn says stubbornly – which, in Lucy’s opinion, feels like missing the point. “You said – Christian? What did he – is he all right?”

“He’s fine.” Lucy understands why Flynn and Gabriel worry so much about Christian and try to keep him away from anything remotely dangerous, she does. But she also has a feeling that they see him as a perpetual child, when he’s not, and perhaps it is that overprotectiveness which has left him so restless and eager for a proper dust-up, to stretch his wings and try his luck. “He took care of Kelley without a problem. It’s just like I said – Kelley thinks that Christian is a Bright Born, the same kind of creature as Henry de Prestyn. I know he does, I could see it in his eyes. So he thinks Christian’s hide could be just as powerful as Henry’s, and if he wants his very own book of magic – ”

[read the rest on AO3]

#timeless #timeless ff #garcy #garcy ff #lucy x flynn #the shadows among the stars #all souls au