Leucism is a condition in which there is partial loss of pigmentation in an animal resulting in white, pale, or patchy coloration of the skin, hair, feathers, scales or cuticle, but not the eyes. Unlike albinism, it is caused by a reduction in multiple types of pigment, not just melanin.
Saying that a disabled child or adult “will never live independently” is such a slap in the face. I think it’s unacceptable and I think it’s lazy. No one will ever live independently! No one is living independent of medical care, emotional support, and goods/services provided by others. Humans are a deeply interdependent species. Disabled people are sometimes rendered ~dependent~ specifically on a state or family apparatus in a way that makes them vulnerable to abuse or exploitation, but this isn’t the only way to experience “”dependency.”“
Some people are just told that they are “independent” because their lives and needs are normalized to such an extent that the enormous amount of support they receive is invisible.
I do not, Anon. I liked one and two, but after that I honestly did not feel like the movies did justice to the books at all. I wore the color off of the cover of my first copy of PoA and that movie was one of my least favorite ones of the series. Similarly I adored Half-Blood Prince when it came out, and the movie was hideously uninteresting by comparison. I liked movie number four, though – that one was at least close enough that I could pretty much live with what wasn’t there/what wasn’t accurate about it. I will, however, be forever bitter about the fact that Sirius, James, Lily, Remus, and Snape were all meant to be in their early thirties and yet the people they cast to play them were at least twenty years off the mark in most cases. Like – no, that’s the point? these people were kids at the end of the first war and only young adults not even close to middle-age for a wizard at the start of the second.
@flintsredhair : James rescues Charles in s3 and Feels ensue. Also if they could somehow save Thomas that would be great.
HERE YOU GO. Not the most exciting piece but there is *tension* in there.
Freeing Charles was simpler in the end than he had expected. The guards were tired; overworked, with little to no sleep and rations that were starting to spoil. He took some of the stronger and more dependable men from his crew in the dead of night and stole Charles away right under the “governor’s” nose.
Charles spat on the floor where he had been chained before taking a sword, buckling it to his belt, and a pistol in hand. The dirt smeared on his cheeks and brow made him seem more animal than man – his hair was dirty and tangled where it hung over his shoulders, adding to the image.
“Seems our roles have reversed,” Charles grunted. There was appreciation in his voice, a dulled edge to his gaze as he stood before Flint.
“I’ve suffered the deaths of too many who mean something to me; I’ll suffer no more.”
The words were sincere. He thought at first that they would make him seem weak, but Charles lowered his eyes and shifted ever so slightly closer, held his hand out. His palm was hot, clammy with sweat, but solid and alive in Flint’s own hand. They held on a moment too long. It was only a moment, barely more than a breath, but James felt a sting in his heart as the feeling of calloused skin under his fingers took him back to Thomas’ bed.
As they left the streets, boarded the Walrus and headed out to open water, Flint let his breath come easier. The weight in his chest and shoulders lifted, his whole being finding a calmness in the moments after. They would stay out of sight for a few days, retreat away from Nassau to prevent fighting before returning to take the island back from the so-called “civilised hands” of the British Empire.
Or that was the plan.
Charles told him of news he had heard, a secret that hadn’t yet reached the ears of the governor, and James’ whole world crumbled and reassembled in moments.
“There’s a place,” Charles had said, “in Spanish Florida. Rich men’s shames are sent there to be hidden away; love children, slaves with too much in their heads, unwanted relatives… Kept out of the way in exchange for money and secrecy. Word is there’s a man there who you might have known, once.”
To say he kept his composure is a lie. James felt the sob in his throat only as it clawed its way out. Charles let him weep, only reached out to touch when the breath didn’t enter his lungs and his vision blurred and faded.
Charles asked quietly, a hand on the back of James’ neck like an anchor to keep him from drifting back into that black abyss of guilt and grief, “who is he?”
James shared his story then. Every moment of happiness, the sharp sting of loss, the blast of betrayal that finalised his form as a monster in the eyes of men. Charles listened, his expression sombre and troubled at the tale as each turn was revealed.
“You love him,” was the only thing Charles said.
“More than I can say. For ten years I’ve grieved, ten fucking years-”
A hand rested on his knee. The warmth made his chest flutter, his lips purse. Charles just touched him though; it was an act of comfort, of understanding, one that James felt linger for hours after.
They set sail for Florida as soon as the wind picks up. Charles stood by his side on the quarterdeck as the sailed towards the sun.
the real struggle of writing: having the entire movie mapped out in your head like ur steven spielberg but putting it down on paper is like spongebob trying to write his essay for boating school
(Not incredibly long, sorry… Set after the other prompt I have to do with Flint saving Charles at the end of s3 so it’s more ~feelsy~)
—
When he sees who steps out of the little dinghy his heart leaps into his throat, Anne whispers “fuck”, and the sun peaks out between the clouds.
Charles Vane, cheroot between his lips, is a vision of swagger and ease as he moves over the sand to where they stand. He looks Anne up and down with a nod, silent understanding between them. He catches Jack’s eye next.
“You look good,” Jack croaks, “for a dead man.”
Charles snorts and claps a hand onto Jack’s shoulder, squeezes, tugs him forward into a tight hug that brings tears to both their eyes. When he pulls back Charles has a dampness on his cheeks. Jack wonders for a moment if this is some fever dream brought on by staying too late at the tavern. But Charles squeezes his arm again and he knows it isn’t.
He sniffles, a pathetic sound and he knows Anne will mock him later (but she won’t, she knows what this means to him, the wreck he’s been since Charles had been captured), but he can’t help the grin on his face.
“You were dead.”
“No, not even close. Takes more than a pack of civilised dogs in wigs to kill me;” Charles winks. “Flint returned the kindness of saving his life, got there just in time.”
He turns and faces the other captain for the first time. “Thank you,” he manages to say, “I’m in your debt it seems.”
Flint just shakes his head and looks down. “Well, if anyone was going to make a trophy of him…” he trails off, shares a twisted smirk with Charles before clasping his hands behind his back. “Besides, couldn’t leave our best asset to swing, could I?”
Jack flinches, Charles does too. But the happiness soon takes the sting away.
“This calls for a celebration!” Jack claps his friend on the back, relishes the living warmth of him. “How about we all go get so drunk we can’t see straight?” Charles laughs at him and everything feels… right.
Meg's Mumbles 