Master and Commander (2003). During the Napoleonic Wars, a brash British captain pushes his ship and crew to their limits in pursuit of a formidable French war vessel around South America.
A good seafaring film about a man on a mission is a dime a dozen, but what elevates this film beyond it is the time and gravitas it devotes to building the relationship between Russell Crowe’s Captain Jack Aubrey and Paul Bettany’s Doctor Stephen Maturin. It’s wonderfully told, and it gives an epic film a beating heart. 7/10.
(Beca, Chloe, and the rest of the team arrive at the top floor of Conrad Tower. The elevator doors open to reveal Stacie, slender form encased in the Iron Man suit from the neck down, and Aubrey, only her head free of the red, white and blue costume she spends two thirds of her life in, wrapped around one another)
Beca "Hawkeye" Mitchell:
(Aubrey presses a gloved hand against Stacie's red metal shoulder and shoves the taller woman away. Her super-strength is probably the only reason Stacie budges.)
Patricia "Thor" Amy:
Well, well, well. I didn't think you'd have even *considered* lady-lovin', Cap'. Did they have those back in your day?
"Captain" Aubrey Posen:
This isn't what it looks like!
(Beca rolls her eyes, moving towards the fridge, one bare arm reaching for the door and brushing against the leather of her vest)
Chloe "Black Widow" Beale:
Aubrey, it's fine. (She smiles at her friend) We're just glad you two worked out your...
Raging gamma ray boners.
Uh, excuse me, but the Thunder from Down Under deems this too soon for our Asian friend. (Beca apologises by bringing Lilly a beer from Stacie's fridge.)
Lilly "Hulk" Onakuramara:
(In a faint whisper) Sometimes I destroy chunks of Metropolis and blame Superman.
No, but seriously, can I just say-
(Chloe throws Amy and Beca a stern look. Beca hides her grin around the beer bottle and adjusts her bow so that she can hop up to sit on Stacie's huge island counter)
That we're all really happy for you guys. I mean... You *are* together, right?
(Stacie smirks, nuzzling the side of Aubrey's head as she pulls Captain America herself flush against the front of her lithe form)
Stacie "Iron Man" Conrad:
Finally penetrated her shield.
Mmm, not a good enough reason to use the word penetrate....
<b></b> Aubrey introduces rules during the aca-initiation.<p/><b>Aubrey:</b> "You cant have sex with Troubletones."<p/><b>Stacie:</b> "Why are you watching me?"<p/><b>Aubrey:</b> "Yesterday, you litteraly said that ur pussy was a hunter."<p/><b>Stacie:</b> "Its okay. If I need some hungry sex, I cant count on my captain."<p/><b>Aubrey:</b> "Yea ! Wait... What ? "<p/></p>
This is a drabble that was prompted by a fellow tumblr user and Captain Swan shipper that asked for a proper Captain Cobra reunion. I gave it my best shot! Also, this is my first Killian POV, so go easy on me please.
he should have known, what with all of them coming down to the Underworld with
Emma. Maybe he should have known that they actually cared about him, that it
all wasn’t just for Emma, but that it
was for him too.
Maybe he should
have known, but he hadn’t. Not until he burst into Granny’s, his feet sliding
on the slick floor in his haste to see that his Swan was alright, that she
hadn’t been injured by the bloody blast of magic he’d just seen arc across the
sky. It was after all the commotion he caused with his outburst that he was met
with a boundless outpouring of love.
First it was the
Prince, who seemed to surprise the both of them with a generous hug and a few
rough claps on the back. Killian had reciprocated tentatively, hesitant to
express the emotions that riled up within himself at Dave’s act of love.
Ultimately, however, Killian clapped the other man on the back just as
fiercely, showing just how much the simple hug meant to him.
“It’s good to have
you back, mate.” The prince said, his
endearment only a tad mocking.
“It’s good to be
back, your highness.”
After Dave came Snow
White, who wrapped him in a hug so motherly that Killian felt, for just an
instant, like the little lad who had clung so desperately to his own mother. He
felt safe in her arms, warm, like he was finally a piece of a family again.
The Charming family
seemed overjoyed to see him, so ready to welcome him back, to ask if he was
well, to support him through any means possible. They truly seemed to care for
him, and Killian’s newly reincarnated heart felt as if it would burst.
straight away, of course, that Henry had not greeted him upon his return.
Killian understood, reasoning that the lad must still be in a deep place of
grief over the loss of Robin Hood, and that maybe the shock was too great at
the moment to greet the back-from-the-dead-pirate.
Though he was upset
to not see the lad, Killian knew that he ought to let Henry come to him on his
own time. Best not to push the boy too hard, lest he push him away for good.
After everyone had
made their way to the clock tower to investigate the Crocodile’s latest foul
play, Killian had headed across town to the house that he and Emma could now
call their own. His Swan had stayed behind to talk strategy with her parents,
sending him along because he seemed to be weighed down with exhaustion.
Killian knew that
all he needed was a nice long bath and a dreamless night of sleep. He needed a
warm bed and a bundle of blankets, soft sheets and fluffed up pillows. He needed
his Swan nestled into his arms, burying her face in the space where he neck met
his shoulder. He needed to play with the ends of her golden hair, and trace the
contours of her face.
The bath of course, was to come first, and as he
headed into the house, the front door already unlocked, he found himself
slamming into a solid mass of a very quick-moving Henry.
Killian held his arms out to balance the boy, so
that he wouldn’t trip and take a tumble down the front steps of the porch.
“Woah, there, lad. Perhaps slow down a bit, hm?”
“Killian! Sorry, I, uh—I’m staying at my other
mom’s tonight, and I was just heading over there.”
Killian nodded, “Well don’t
injure yourself on the way over, maybe set a leisurely pace from here on out?”
Henry nodded in response, and Killian let go of
the boy’s shoulders, stepping back from the door so that he could be on his
But before Killian could so much as blink, the
full force of Henry’s small (albeit growing)
frame slammed into him, nearly toppling him over.
Henry wrapped his arms around Killian’s
midsection, his head pressed against the hard planes of Killian’s chest.
Killian was so shocked he nearly missed the
words that escaped the boy’s lips.
“I missed you, and I’m so glad you’re back.” The
words were whispered against the slick, black fabric of Killian’s shirt,
followed by the a slight sniffle that gave proof of the boy’s hidden tears.
Killian gripped the back of the lad’s shirt,
pulling him closer into a crushing hug.
“I missed you too, lad. I missed you too.” He
tried to make his voice act as a soothing balm to the large amount of grief
that, no doubt, sat upon Henry’s young shoulders. No boy should have to suffer
through so much death, and the knowledge that the lad that was currently being
held encased in his arms had experienced more death and anguish than anyone
that young ever should, made Killian’s heart ache.
Eventually Henry pulled back, wiping his nose on
the sleeve of his shirt. He smiled up at Killian with watery eyes.
“Can we go sailing sometime soon?”
Killian chuckled, “Aye lad, pick a day and time
and we’ll hit the open sea together. Maybe I’ll even teach you a few new tricks
if you’re up for the challenge.”
“Always.” Henry said, maneuvering his way around
Killian’s body and heading out through the open door, bounding down the steps.
Maybe Killian should have known, that he could
be loved so fiercely by Emma’s lad. Maybe he should have known, but in the end,
it didn’t matter what he should have known, because he’s sure of it now.
Some days later; a conference room, MI5's Fleet House, London
“There’s always a degree of uncertainty with low-resolution scans like these, of course, but it appears to interface throughout her motor cortex, not just on surface, and to be tied into reflex reaction points here,” he illustrated, “here, here, and here.”
“And its function?” asked the woman at the head of the conference table.
“I’m quite afraid we’re not sure.” the neural interface specialist replied. “It’s heavily shielded. I’m not even as confident as I’d like about what I’m showing you, but it’s the best we have - you’re looking at composite of data from Heathrow, an assortment of scanners hidden inside CCTV, outer-ring military security, and so on. The consulate data, sadly, was unusable.”
The head of the table prompted, “But it’s not any type of web.”
“Oh!” said the specialist. “Definitely not. We wouldn’t have even these shots were it a web. Her brain would look like a big, smooth egg.”
Brigadier Shukla turned to her attache. “Have we ever encountered a Talon agent without a web?”
The second lieutenant brought up the small list of scanned Talon agents. “Not that we know of, ma'am. Certainly not in the years they’ve been known active - no exceptions in that record.”
The operations agent at the table jumped in. “They could be anticipating our analysis. Can’t we bring her in, do a deep probe?”
“Sadly, no,” said the specialist, shifting the primary display. “This may not be a web, but it goes quite deep, and either this is defocused, or it’s surprisingly diffuse. Anything strong enough to get past the shielding wouldn’t be safe for the subject.”
“Damn,” spat the Brigadier.
“But,” he continued, “I really don’t think it’s Talon. They know what we have, they wouldn’t let a full agent out like this. Of that much, I’m confident.”
“We can’t rule out her being some kind of delayed-target human bomb. of course.”
“No. But explosives say the payload would be poor - there’s just not enough mass, even with exotic deliverables. We think it’s unlikely.”
“All right, let’s leave out Talon for now. Omnium?”
The Omnic specialist in the room just laughed, and then sobered immediately. “Sorry, ma'am. No, ma'am. It’s not Omnic. I’d bet my life on it.”
“You might well do,” the Brig replied, sternly.
The specialist nodded, but held her ground. “I would walk up to this carrying known vulnerabilities and not worry. It’s not Omnic.”
“If I might jump in, get it out of the way,” said the corporate entities analyst, “It’s not Vishkar either. They don’t need hardware.”
“Thank you, specialist,” nodded the Brig. “So. Foreign powers aside, who’s that leave?”
“…aliens?” said the young, short-brown-haired agent near the end of the table, one of the Americans. “Or not aliens, strictly, but beings from other worlds, possibly multidimensionally accessed worlds,” he continued, excitedly. “It’s been theorised for years, and the Winston files make it clear he considered dimensional travel a distinct possibility - it’s how he found the time distortion that…”
“Thank you, agent,” said the Brigadier, firmly.
“It’s either that or somehow Winston did it himself, from the moon,” he interjected.
“Or,” said his eternally-exasperated partner, “it’s a foreign government.”
He turned to the other American. “Come on, why would a foreign government go to these lengths for…”
“Thank you, agents,” the Brigadier repeated, more firmly. For once, the Americans took the hint.
She turned back to the presenter. “So, in the opinion of your department, she is most likely not a Talon agent.”
The presenter nodded. “In our opinion, it’s very unlikely. This just doesn’t look like their work. If nothing else, it’s too flashy.” He changed screens. “See all these extensions around her torso, and down her legs? They glow. Talon wouldn’t do that.”
“There is one other possibility,” said a data analyst, flipping through pages of data. “This new actor, Sombra. I’m not sure why, but it reminds me a little of her work.”
“Go on,” said the Brig.
“She’d have to have a lot of help - we mostly know about her software, and she doesn’t do bioware. At least, not as far as we know, ma'am. But,” they looked at the display with intense concentration, “something about it just reminds me of her code.”
The intergroup specialist jumped in. “She’s too new on the scene for that degree of cooperation with any of our known actors. It takes time to build up those sorts of connections. She hasn’t had it.”
“So,” said the Brigadier, “we’re most likely dealing with either a foreign power - which MI6 thinks unlikely - or, god help us,” - given the source, she continued with great reluctance - “Winston. Somehow. From the moon.”
“Or inter-dimensional beings,” said the more annoying American, from the back.
“Thank you, agent - your suggestions have been noted.”
“So, Brigadier - what do we do with our little problem?” asked the Group Captain, back in the Brig’s office.
“If she’d been in my Forces, I’d bring her in and disassemble her,” said the older woman, quietly. “I don’t care what the specialists think, I can’t rule out the Omnium completely. We’re one major incident away from another Omnic war, and I won’t have it start on my watch.”
“Yes, ma'am. But the air group won’t have it. We all protect our own.”
The Brig nodded, understanding. Loyalty made commands work. “So, option B. Watch her, let her roam. Don’t get too close… just see what she does. It only took a week for the Widowmaker to activate, so.” Speculating, she continued, “Or, perhaps she’s a slow burn. Perhaps we have some time.”
“That’s our opinion as well, ma'am,” said the G/C.
“I can’t believe the consulate cleared her to fly into Heathrow. Who knows what she is now? If it’s even her.”
“Personal decision of the ambassador, I’m afraid,” said the group captain. “Apparently, she has quite a winning personality. Hardly our fault.”
“Small consolation had she taken five thousand people down with her.”
“It won’t happen again, ma'am. She’s been listed.”
“She keeps trying to come to us,” the Brigadier mused.
“Indeed,” the G/C replied. “You know, we could just let her.”
“Let her waltz right in to some high-value target? I think not. No, keep her off, keep up surveillance, and run every piece of data we collect through deepest analysis. Let’s see what we can wiggle out.”
“So far, she’s mostly just been trying to get undeclared dead through the military. Hardly high-value.”
The Brig frowned. “No. Not even if she goes through civilian channels. No recognition, no help, nothing. Block her at every point.” The Brig fiddled with her glasses, cleaning the lenses with a small, lintless cloth. “If she’s alive, the Overwatch investigation is alive, and we simply can’t have that fiasco re-opened.”
An old photo of her flight crew awarding Lena Oxton the callsign “Tracer” spun slowly in the air.
“Assuming she’s not carrying a payload, she’ll need some sort of status eventually,” the G/C insisted.
The older woman frowned. “Eventually. But not now. Not until we have some idea what she is - if she has to be disassembled, I don’t want to do that to a legal Briton. Until we know more…” She shook her head, contemplating her options. “Official recognition is just too great a risk.”
… All except for Pullings, who had the watch, and was walking the quarterdeck with his hands behind his back, pacing in as close an imitation of Captain Aubrey as his form could manage, and remembering, every now and then, to look stern, devilish, as like a right tartar as possible, in spite of his bubbling happiness.
‘Post Captain,’ Patrick O'Brian
Listen, if I loved this character anymore he’d be my own flesh and blood, oh my gosh
Favorite Color: I can’t pick one … But my closet is dominated by blue and green.
Favorite Animal: Oog. I love so many! But if I had to pick one, I’d choose clouded leopards. I love them so muuuuuuuuch and their big paaaws and their pink nosies and their long taaaails….
Average Hours of Sleep: 7, I think.
Cat or Dog Person: Kitties ^_^ I don’t do well with how social dogs are, I’m afraid.
Favorite Fictional Characters: Shoot…. so much goes into a favorite! Oog. I guess … Roxanne the Ruby Princess (children’s books ahoy), Basil Stag Hare from Redwall, Cadfael, Captain Jack Aubrey… um….Let’s see about video games … Simon Belmont (original recipe, please), Zelda, Samus Aran, and any blond guy voiced by Dan Flynn. I’m sure there are more - and more girls - but my memory is crap. ETA- MRS WHITE FROM CLUE. SHE IS THE BEST.
Favorite Singer/Band: Rush. Far and away, it’s Rush. (However, U2’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb literally saved my life so props to them.)
Dream Trip: Such a hard thing to decide on. I love France, especially Southern France, but it’s not a dream trip if you’d rather live there, is it? I’d love to see Japan, I suppose. And Australia. And it’d be nice to hang out in Germany for a while.
Dream Job: I’m going to try out brewing and hopefully that’ll work out. But ideally I’d love to study history and languages and science and beer and just magically have money.
When was this blog made: three years ago, I think?
Number of Followers: 136, but I think that includes blocked pr0nbots. 43 actually show up on the Followers list on mobile, and some of those are inactive. Love yinz!
What made you decide to create this blog: My technically-primary blog is a blog of Serious-ish writing and stuff (originally a travel blog) so I don’t reblog much to that. I kept linking a friend to various posts and she got sick of it, so this blog happened so I would have somewhere for shitposts and socializing!
They were looking after themselves, living with rigid economy; and there was no greater proof of their friendship than the way their harmony withstood their very grave differences in domestic behaviour. In Jack’s opinion Stephen was little better than a slut: his papers, odd bits of dry, garlic’d bread, his razors and small-clothes lay on and about his private table in a miserable squalor; and from the appearance of the grizzled wig that was now acting as a tea-cosy for his milk-saucepan, it was clear that he had breakfasted on marmalade.
Jack took off his coat, covered his waistcoat and breeches with an apron, and carried the dishes into the scullery. ‘My plate and saucer will serve again,’ said Stephen. 'I have blown upon them. I do wish, Jack,’ he cried, 'that you would leave that milk-saucepan alone. It is perfectly clean. What more sanitary, what more wholesome, than scalded milk? Will I dry up?’ he called through the open door.
'No, no,’ cried Jack, who had seen him do so. 'There is no room - it is nearly done. Just attend to the fire, will you?’
'We might have some music,’ said Stephen. 'Your friend’s piano is in tolerable tune, and I have found a German flute. What are you doing now?’
'Swabbing out the galley. Give me five minutes, and I am your man.’
Post Captain, Patrick O’Brian
Ever wanted to write an Aubreyad domestic!AU? Too late - O’Brian got there first.