And you fuckers aren’t getting the answers to your twenty-five fucking asks.
My biggest problem is not being able to finish my threads, you know? I’ve plotted with people for months to hook up these storylines, involved Pan intrinsically in backstories and future-stories, and now none of that gets played out, and all of it falls apart.
If they’d have given me a month, or two weeks notice or something, I’d have tied it all up nicely like a Christmas present, and let myself out before they all woke up.
I loathe leaving things messy, especially storylines.
I’ve just been sent a horribly worded message asking me to ‘resign’ from Storybrooke: We Are Both.
I’ve been given no say in this matter whatsoever. I haven’t been asked my opinion, I haven’t been forewarned, and I haven’t even been online for the past two evenings, due to a heavy workload due in tomorrow.
I find this decision hideously unfair, and the people behind it cruel and vindictive. I’m disappointed in people I used to call friends, and painfully let down by the group as a whole.
There are some excellent writers in that group, and I should be permitted to carry out storylines that have been in the planning for months. But no - Without any suggestion, without even giving me the grace of backing out myself, I’ve been booted from a group that I was just a week away from celebrating my year anniversary with.
I highly advise anyone following this account or the group as a whole to abandon any idea of joining. It will not make you happy.
Wendy says her final goodbye to her love, Peter Pan.
modern!au where peter breaks his phone because he couldn’t beat wendy’s score on flappy bird
there is love in your body but you can’t get it out
it gets stuck in your head, won’t come out of your mouth
sticks to your tongue and shows on your face
that the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste
Emily had been so proud of herself, so, so proud of herself to tear that woman’s head off, especially for Pan and the look of fear in Hook’s eyes as she had chased him had made her laugh out loud when she retreated back into the cave.
She’d rolled the head around for a while beginning to get bored and wishing Peter would hurry back to her. This land was boring, especially being locked in a cave but she had been promised running free at somepoint. Potentially being able to sink her claws into someone. Play a game of cat and mouse.
She heard him before she saw him, the rocks falling down the side of the cave and then his voice his sing song voice. She’d hidden the body behind some rocks but she picked the head up in her hands, fingers curling into the dead things hair and carrying it behind her back, it bumped at the bottom of the back and probably was leaving some sort of stain but she didn’t care.
”I’ve got a surprise for you.” Emily sing songed back stepping into the light but not revealing what was in her hands.
Peter liked his boys wound tightly around his little finger, and his girls wild and reckless. Wendy Darling had been a pleasure to break; once Neverland’s magic had seeped into her veins, she let her golden curls fly loose and ripped up her prim, Edwardian nightgown and had been his queen. Emily had never needed such encouragement. She was wild to the core, a wolf in a little-girl body who sought not to run from the knowledge, but to prove to Peter that she could be all he wanted from a Lost Boy, and more. Bloodstained, she killed for him; her mother was going to be so proud.
Maleficent, the supposed only enemy to stand against Regina on her worst days, had never looked prettier. He could almost see the final scarring image of Emily’s claws on her throat, burned into her blank, staring retinas, before the girl had ripped her head not-so clean off. One by one – He’d pick them off one by one, until there was none left but Rumpelstiltskin standing on quivering legs in the middle of his beloved Main Street, surrounded by corpses and faced down by his the teenage relics of his father and his son, wielding his grandson’s heart. Peter grinned.
“I think—” He began, moving closer to her to lay one arm around her shoulders, fingers playing with the ragged ends of her hair, the other around her opposite wrist, holding the dead witch’s head up higher, to examine it in the faltering light. “—I was definitely right to bring you here. Was Hook with her?”
”Peter you need to sleep, you shouldn’t be out in the cold, especially not at this time of year.” Stephanie said her brow furrowed slightly. Boy or not she felt sorry for anyone who had to sleep out in the rough at this time of year.
”I could help you.” She said gently. ”Now don’t give me any sort of look there’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near my house. I’m not a fool Peter but perhaps I could get hold of a tent and thermal sleeping bag for you? A new coat maybe to keep you warm. You could set it up in an area of the woods with the most coverage from the wind.” Stephanie added waving her hand as though the gesture was nothing and that he should think nothing of it.
Peter shrugged – The cold never bothered him anyway. He was about to object, or at least open his mouth to pretend to object, but Steph cut him off short, immediately offering her help. Not a fool, his finely sculpted arse. He could have grinned; she was so easy to play, particularly with her mothering tendencies, even more particularly with what he knew about her poor, absent daughter. The closer Peter could get to her, the more fun it would be when it all came shattering down. She’d be offering him a bed in her spare room by Christmas, he was sure of it.
“You’d do that?” Hands tucked up tightly inside his sleeves, Peter glanced up at her from beneath his eyelashes, jaw slack as though it were unfathomable that anyone should offer him the time of day, let alone their help. Ask any of the diners here and all they would be sure of is that the kid who curled himself up in the smallest booth never had anyone else. “Because I don’t need to be fucked around, Steph. If Stiltskin put you up to this, or Hook—”
The simple word opened something up within him, a vacant bullet hole. He didn’t like this; everything had changed with no warning to speak of. The last thing he remembered, everything was green and bright and alive, the monsoon rains characteristic of a jungle raged down outside. On those days and nights, he liked to prop open the stone door of his makeshift cave home, leaning against the wall of the doorway. When the clouds would cry, he liked to light the candle of the hollowed coconut lamp he made, piecing it together and watching as the false stars glittered above him. They gave him comfort and hope; and he could almost imagine Peter was next to him, on the beach, as he and the other boys had done several times. It made him feel less alone; he had been so sure that this had been it, that Peter would never betray him, would never be the one to leave him behind. He didn’t even understand what he had done to make the Pan so angry, finding himself unceremoniously devastated on the stone cold floor with another equally powerful word— go.
And now its as if his dream had been brought to life overnight. Glancing back to his king after drinking in the devastation, Baelfire wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to warm up, and not just because of the winter hell around them. Now he was the one disobeying his orders; he was never to be in contact with Peter or any lost boy, never to show his face or make his presence known. “I-I have f-faith in you-u,” he shivered uncertainly, wondering if he was even welcome to speak. “I’m sorry… for whatever it is I did… and for disobeying you now… I know I’m not supposed to be here… but I couldn’t leave you there…”
Eschewing Bae’s stammered apology, Peter turned back to face his jungle, the edge of his kingdom, and felt a hollow hate build up in his chest, conveniently forgetting that he had caused his own downfall hundreds of years ago, by breaking the rules. It was their fault – His Truest Believer’s family, Rumpelstiltskin and his impossible wife, the Charmings, and their little saviour – That everything he professed to be able to love was dying. He didn’t take kindly to people messing with his things; he’d triple it, and hurl it right back at them. When he returned to Storybrooke, he’d paint the town red with them.
He would have spirited Henry away to the twilight shores of his forever-island and captured the boy’s heart as he had once had Baelfire’s, had he had enough strength left in his bones. Peter was fading fast, and, now Bae was wise to the grey hollows of his cheeks and the blank, dead weight behind his greying eyes, and the reason for it, there was no hiding. If Bae’s ignorance on the matter hadn’t been so necessary, Pan might even have felt sorry for him. Clearly his spell had worked, and the kid had no memory of anything besides the island, and his banishment at Peter’s hands.
Not that it was going to be difficult to win back Bae’s trust, of course; the kid had never stopped worshipping him, even from the caves to which he had been so unceremoniously sent. He had already proved he still believed in the magic of the island, and in his self-proclaimed king – Pan had woken warm and attended-to, not shivering and snow-damaged, for a reason. The path that wound through the forest was icy and leaf-strewn, the trees around them visibly dying. Peter began to walk without glancing back, making a lazy, sweeping gesture that Bae should follow. “Tell me what you remember – The last thing, before tonight.”