I've been watching cooking shows and last season of usa masterchef was in pairs
Thought it'd be fun to put Descendants characters through that. Mostly cos I wanna figure out the pairings with most drama
I thought Chad and Chloe might be fun. Cute
She's babychild and Chad spends half the competition ogling Audrey and Evie
Chloe is competitive in general and Chad wants to be better than vks
Mal & Evie.
Half the things turns out poisonous. This is a surprise to both of them half the time, as Mal has fae biology and Evie has considerable immunity
...half the time Evie tries to add shit like magic uranium so it'd be pretty and glovy and Mal does nothing to stop her cos it's funny
Jay COULD stop them but he also thinks it's the funniest thing ever
Harry and Uma are working together cos that's the way less people die tbh. Also they're effective and used to working together
They use way too much wild spices (gotta get something from robbing colonialists) and sneak alcohol into almost every dish cos they think it's fun
Harry has moral reservations about cooking octopus to which Uma goes "bitch I'm carnivorous" and eats a piece raw
Every other episode someone argues "are you really gonna give a knife to THEM?!"
Oh my god
Carlos & Diego and Ivy & Jane, poor Janey is dying. Family bonding time
I'd do Maddy & Ginny but I refuse to believe Maddy can cook
Every dish is a gamble between completely raw, burnt, or poisonous
And it wasn't RAW per say. She is aware "food" needs to be "cooked". She is unsure on further definition and Ginny was too busy flirting to correct her
She's got chemists' definition, "mild heat" means "oh yeah definitely highest setting. Blowtorch might be needed" (real shit from organic chemistry lab)
Imagine one pair in the show is Harriet and Anthony (and there's Harriet/Anthony/Ginny going on in the background) and the poor editors to figure out a relationship label that applies at given moment
They start arguing and randomly one of them goes "that's IT we're no longer dating" and they do this like five times in episode. There's been at least three separate marriage proposals. Sometimes they claim they're divorced.
Eventually the editors give up and the label just reads "???"
The wievers riot
Ivy also put "sisters in law" for her and Jane, which is her bullying Carlos into proposing already
Oh also Bridget was persuaded (lightly bullied) by Ella and Chloe to apply with her daughter.
Only half of their stuff is edible. It is rarely an accident.They wanted Ella to be a judge but she was like "I couldn't possibly, my children are compeeting"
Then she looked around and realised she trusted no one else to be remotely impartial
Another judge is Tiana obviously. She IS impartial
The last judge is still Gordon Ramsay cos I can do what I fucking wanna
After looking at Ben and Audrey panicking over their dish not being absolutely perfect for ten minutes straight (they were doing really fine especially in comparison with the vks, like, they weren't even using poison), he looks into the camera and goes "Look what you did. You ruined perfectly fine young adults, that's what you did. Look at them, they've got anxiety."
I've been transparent about the fact that I sometimes post about Uma for no reason, but I'm being completely genuine when I say that the line "Tell 'em who's in charge so they don't forget," suddenly struck me as really, really hot.
(I wrote on my new toy which translated my handwriting into text so excuse poor formating)
It is just as frigid and unwelcoming outside the Hell Hall as it is inside. Still more gray than anything else, too as nothing stays purely white on the Isle - and the only truly black things are the Facilier's Shadows and the rotten hearts of the Isle's Villains.
Freshly fallen snow, virginal, and immediately chewed up by the Isle only to be spat out as its own nastiest approximation - as is the habit of this damned place.
Hence, the snow that looks more like ash than anything else.
He cringes as it squeaks under his boots and pulls his jacket closer against a particularly nasty gust of wind.
Yes, there is barely any difference between the dark streets and the halls of the Villa, but his mother doesn't mind. She's glad for any excuse to wear her coats inside - if only were she inclined to share, still.
It is the only thing he regrets, now, but not enough to argue with his dear mother - it is not that far to the Castle.
Sure, it'd be closer yet if he was willing to walk in through the front doors, but alas, he is not willing to meet the Queen.
And besides, he likes the gardens by the side door. Well, Evie likes them and his mother doesn't know about them which is basically the same thing.
Even the dubious plants look gray. He is not sure if that is on purpose or a side effect of existing on the Isle. Frankly, he is no if he wants to know.
Still, he walks through the dying foliage, careful not to snag his skin on it, as he is mostly sure that would be lethal. Nevermind that Evie would be upset.
He finds a path in the snow, footprints of these high-heeled shoes Evie wears even now, and he follows it to the door. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees a vivid droplet of red - lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow, that's how the story starts. And here he is, following a trail of blood in Evil Queen's garden.
His own blood freezes in his veins as he realises it can only be Evie's.
He exhales quietly and follows her path to the door, hidden and crouched in the shadow of the wall.
It is locked, of course, but nothing that would deter a thief foolish enough to enter.
Carlos de Vil is no thief, though, and the Evil Queen's daughter showed him the correct path through the visceral entrails of their once-grand castle.
The cold metal bites into his hand.
He hisses more in annoyance than in pain and enters.
Quiet, fast footsteps, he walks through the Castle, it's < i > welcoming < / i > ambience doing keeping his thoughts off the blood in the garden.
Well, mostly.
Against his better raising, he hopes that Evie is okay.
In one too many heartbeats, though still unseen, he knocks on her door like the gentleman his mother thinks she raised, when she acknowledges she has a son at all.
" It's me, E," he whispers against the keyhole upon hearing her footsteps.
"Come on in, then," she whispers back. Her voice is gentle, a melody in sheer contrast of the cacophony outside.
She opens the door just a crack, just
enough for him to slip through and not an inch more. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether that might be due to an injury.
Quickly, he scans her form - as pretty as ever, he'd be a fool not to acknowledge that - and spots Are strips of fabric on her wrist. He reaches out, stopping just shy of her skin.
"What happened?"
" Nothing to be concerned of," she waves away his question and shoos him away from the door.
"I saw blood in the garden," he tells her, " you are a better liar than that."
" Will you believe me if I tell you it's not mine?" she ask, her innocent smile that has men and women dropping to their knees in hopes of pleasing her. If that worked on him, Hell Hall would have been hers ages ago and his mother burried. Hopefully.
" I will not," he informs her with his best stern look. (It is good, too, having sent several drunk street rats running just the other day. Sure, they might have just confused him with Diego, but he takes that as a compliment too. Alas, the princess of Evil is unimpressed, her lips set in a pout.)
" I had a present for you, but I won't give it to you unless you tell me," he informs her, Crossing his hands in front of his chest.
" Oh, what do you have?" she lights up, brighter than anything else on this miserable island ever does. Not enough for him to oversee her attempt to redirect the conversation.
He had seen enough of these plays from his cousins. Both of them. And his mother. It must run in the family.
"Talk first , princess ," he smirks at her, mostly because he knows she hates it.
"Please?"
Oh, but Carlos isn't so easy. He leans at the wall and watches her, looking carefully of any sign of pain. In this one way, he is as good actor as she is.
"It is such good gift too," he sighs, " but now I suppose I'll have to let lvy keep it."
Evie pouts more, before slowly sitting down on the bed and motioning for him to do the same. He sits, cross-legged across her.
slowly, she sneaks out her uninjured hand to hold his, just barely, just fingertips. Her touch , always so gentle, is one of the few he can tolerate.
" My Mutti," she sights, "Her mirror needed blood."
Silence lays between them, as she tries to find words that won't sound too bad. She trully is a good liar.
" You know how she gets without it. It was better if I just... gave it to her."
" What about Ginny?" he breathes out, fast, selfish, as Gothel's too loud daughter isn't the one he cares about.
"Snowed in, I assume," she chuckles darkly, politely ignoring his strenghtening grip on her fingers' "And if my mother - or hers- went looking for her, they'd ruin their dresses, hair, and make-up. Which, as you can imagine, is fate worse than death."
He nods seriously. He can imagine. Mostly because his mother is the same.
"And?"
" And I desinfected the wound and dressed it cleanly, with medicinal herbs included," she sights heavily, " Now, my present?"
He smiles, mostly assured, and reaches into his pocket for the invite he brought for her, written by Dulcia Tremaine on heavy paper.
"The ball," he says, as he hands it over, "You should be there. Maleficent never stays more than fifteen minutes."
She looks at him, reluctant, the want clear in her eyes. The hill, however loosely-defined-
He lets her do the calculations.
Everyone will be present, and with no magic to speak of under the Barrier, well, how much sway could one wronged fey really have? With so much Villain kids, armed to teeth with iron weapons?
Her fingers dance over the invite.
"And Mal?" she asks, breathless, worried.
Carlos smirks again: He doesn't know Mal well, but he does know her enough.
"Oh, trust me, Evie," he says, "Mal won't be able to say a thing once she sees you in a < i > real < /i > dress."
@piratecore-art I know it took me ages but look! Story for you! I hope you like it <3
„Uma,“ Harry appears at the door of her dorm, which, laughably, they were not allowed to share, „I have a surprise for you.“
She exhales softly – it’s not that she isn’t glad to see her first mate, she is, it’s just, everything is so much more complicated in Auradon, and she is tired. Everyone has expectations of her, ones that she doesn’t care to fulfill, and it’s exhausting.
She smiles at him anyway, just barely: „I know.“
„And how could you know, my love?“ he asks, holding out his hand for her, „It is a surprise.“
„Well, Gil hadn’t been able to look at me the whole day without crying,“ she deadpans.
He barks out a laugh: „Aye, that’d explain it.“ She smiles over his amusement, too.
„He’s just insufferable out here, isn’t he,“ He mock-complains about their friend, amusement and fondness shining in his eyes. She takes his arm.
„Hmm. You’re just bitter because he looks better in pastels than you.“
He turns at her, almost genuinely insulted by her comment: „Darling, if I start wearing pastels, just kill me.“
She raises her eyebrow at him: „Preferred method?“
„Anything as long as it is by your hand, of course. Now, if you’d follow me, Captain? To the lake?“
She shrugs nonchalantly, mentally resigning herself to whatever both Harry and Gil consider cute surprise.
„Lead the way.“
He offers her his arm, because of course he has, had done so occasionally since they were children. It only became so much more awkward in Auradon, the gesture suddenly shifting to romantic from …whatever was happening on the Isle. One could offer their arm to their greatest enemy if they so wished, the gesture a mockery. Or just for the drama – the Isle <i>lived</i> for the drama.
Uma missed it in Auradon, honestly.
Life was almost boring here.
Just almost, though: she could always count on her crew and Harry particularly to surprise her somehow.
It was a good thing only about half the time.
And with Gil walking towards them with a huge smile, she's unsure of the outcome now.
And really: Under the sunny Auradon sky, on grass so green Uma still struggles to comprehend it, lays stunningly-white picnic blanket with red hearts, complete with a picnic basket. She figured Auradon prep would have these handy.
She arranges her features into a smile as she nods at Gil, who must have been left there to guard the food – they <i>are</i> Isle kids through and through. None of them are about to eat something left around where xenophobic assholes and the likes of Maddy Mim can get around it.
„After you, love,“ Harry gestures at her to sit and she looks at him, searching his face to see if this is a joke.
It is not.
She always knew he was into grand gestures. It was much easier to deal with when these included blood and altars, frankly.
„Harry, no,“ she says, „I am not doing that.“
His face falls instantly, his hands dropping to where his hook is. Uma doesn't stop him, yet.
He holds it tightly as he looks around, as if looking for a thing out of place, or a threat. Finally, he asks:
„Uma? What did I do wrong?“
Her throat tightens.
„Please, my love, what did I do wrong?“
He's sincere, fucking hell. He's sincere.
„Nothing,“ she tells him, her resolution coming back, „I hadn't told you otherwise. But I am not made for this, Harry.“
„This?“
(His hands around his weapon relax minutely, and Uma is grateful for that at least.)
„This,“ she nods, gesturing around, „All of this. Picnics during sunsets, romantic dinners, his and hers matching cups. I can't do this, Harry. I don't want this kind of love.“
„Are you breaking up with me, Captain?“
„We've never started dating,“ she answers, cracking half-a-smile, before coming back to her serious expression. Maybe she doesn't love Harry the way Auradon seems to think she should, but she <i>does</i> love him, and she doesn't want to wound him by her rejection.
„And, Harry–“ she looks at him carefully and takes his hand in hers, the weapon nonwithstanding, „I don't <i>want to</i> start dating. It is not for me. I'd like to stay as we were: crewmates.“ (There is so much in this word: mutual trust and respect, loyalty to death and beyond, should it come to it. Years of friendship and cooperation she'd loathe to undo.)
„Two incredibly hot people who sleep together when they want.“
Harry smiles at her now, his expression lopsided but fond.
„That <i>is</i> true, darling. We <i>are</i> the best looking people on this damn campus.“
(It is probably a good thing no other Villain Kids are around; she swats at his arm playfully.)
„I don't want us to be prince charming and his blushing bride. I don't want us to go on dates to the rose garden, to the ice cream place or to a candle light dinner. That kind of thing isn't for me.“
She pauses, vaguely aware that she should continue <i>somehow<i/>, but Harry beats her to it.
„I'd still like to be with you, Uma. Any way I can – any way you'll let me. As it was before.“
He says it as a prayer.
She doesn't respond, not with words: she pulls him close and kisses him, hard.
„No more surprise romantic picnics, please,“ she says when she finally catches her breath.
„Got it, love,“ he nods, grinning. She's pretty sure he'd agree to political assasination right now.
She considers telling him to mind the endearments, too, but she knows her people, and Harry had been calling her „darling“ since he learned that word. It'd probably be downright inhumane to ask that of him.
„No more dates. No more hearts and flowers,“ he recites, looking at her to see if he got it right – he did, as far as she cares to articulate. She smiles at him.
„So, Captain,“ he smirks at her now, and Uma feels a shiver, pleased they're back to their familiar ways.
„I don't suppose you want the gold I brough for you?“
And, you see, Uma is a pirate above all. „Are you kidding!“ she exclaims to the sound of his laughter, „Of course I want the gold!“
The silence hangs so heavy over the port that even Captain James Hook can feel it, through his blood-red cloak and the rum's haze. He just hopes it won't become his <i>fucking</i> problem.
A man can hope.
And if he can’t, well, that’s what the rum is for.
He sneers at his reflection in the cracked mirror and tries to ignore the suspicious sounds of bodies splashing into the sea followed by concerning, deathly silence. Whoever it is, he hopes they drown, even if just for giving him a headache.
Were the sirens still in the port–
Oh, were <i>she</i> still here–
He sneers again and turns his eyes away from his reflection, whose eyes stare at him full of bitter memories.
If he could choose between drowning in those and the choking atmosphere in the port that is inevitably going to become his problem because the universe hates him personally, it wouldn't even be a choice.
Alas, Hell is real, and it comes knocking on his door in the form of mister Smee.
„Captain?“ he asks carefully, a worried lilt in his voice, „You have a visit.“
„Tell them to go away, then,“ Captain James Hook responds, sneering again.
„I'm afraid it won't work in this case, Captain,“ Mr Smee continues, and go figure. He did say heaven and hell hates him personally.
„You see, it's-“
Mr Smee doesn't get to answer, instead James hears him stumbling away, vague sense of dread settling over his shoulders.
The door open.
„Hello, Father.“
It is like looking in the mirror, still, looking at his two elder children: The same sharp features, the same proud posture.
Those two, they carry almost nothing of their mother. (Calista Jane, on the other hand, she was always too much like her.)
So, despite everything going on in his own head, and all the rum in the world, James Hook is dead certain of this: He can always recognise his children.
Nevermind all the unsavoury rumours the port seems to favour.
„My children,“ he greets them, raising an eyebrow elegantly, „What’s the occasion?“
(They rarely visit, and he can’t say he minds – he knows well what kind of a man he is.)
„One better discussed out of earshot,“ his daughter sneers, looking around with open disdain. He sneers right back at her, as he can definitely be insulted on behalf of his crew, poor excuse of sailors and men as they are.
Both his daughter and his son tense up.
„Come on in, then.“
He quickly considers his willingness to deal with whatever bullshit is going on <i>sober</i> as well as the good manners he wishes to impress upon his offspring and adds: „Mister Smee. Bring us something to drink, please.“
He doesn’t clarify <i>what</i>, but Mr Smee is fixed with three terrifyingly similar glares making it abundantly clear. (James is pretty certain a good father shouldn’t enable his children’s drinking so openly, but damn him, time to be a good father has long since passed.)
Mr Smee makes himself scarce, then, and shuts the door behind himself quickly; James looks at his children again.
He leans back in his chair, legs crossed leisurely, and waits if they’ll speak. They don’t seem inclined to, his daughter with her arms crossed in front of her chest, and his son, studying the books in his library as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. (James is a man of a good taste, an educated man, but his son, despite his best efforts, is just using his considerable collection not to look at him. James leaves him to it.)
It is deathly silent, still, the port holding its collective breath as it waits for everything to go to hell, more than it was before. Now, though, James Hook is fairly certain it will not be <i>his</i> problem.
If it was going to be, there is no way his offspring wouldn’t have let him know that already, one way or another.
He lets a self-assured smirk grace his features.
Just then, finally, Mr Smee enters again, balancing a silver tray in his hands: three crystal-carved glasses, a carafa full of amber liquid. No ice – it reeks of fish, rot and seaweed anyway.
„Captain,“ he says, carefully placing a glass on the table in front of him and filling it up.
„Miss Harriet,“ he says, as if waiting for a command to stop pouring early, which doesn’t come; „young master Harry.“
They recieve their glasses with a nod and Mr Smee dissappears again; James tastes his alcohol slowly. Smee brought the good kind, seems like.
„Cheers,“ drawls Harry, and Harriet rolls her eyes back, drinking anyway without further grimace – as she should, it’s a damn good rum.
„So, father,“ she starts, finally, „We have captured the king, as you might have heard.“
James nods, drinking again, even as Harry interjects: „<i>I</i> have captured the king, sister.“
„<i>So</i> not the point–“ she hisses, her eyes burning, and James decides to stop the conversation before it <i>does</i> become his problem anyway.
„Yes,“ he says forcefully, setting the glass <i>and</i> his prothetic hook on the table; they shut up at once.
„I have heard.“ (He <i>had</i>, actually.) „Good showing, that.“
Harriet nods, tense, and Harry drags out „<i>Thank you,</i> father,“ – more a mockery than anything else.
James sneers at his insolent son, who just drinks deeply and continues pretending he is above whatever the fuck is happening.
„Anyway, father,“ his daughter continues, back straight and voice cold, „We think the little king’s girlfriend might involve the royal guard, instead of just giving us the ransom,“ (There is quiet anger and poison in her voice, and she almost sounds like her mother).
„Might we borrow some of your men?“
James drinks again, slowly: He is going to agree, of course he is. There is no reason to say no – sure, some of his men might die, but what’s the loss? The world will be no poorer for it.
He is just enjoying making his children wait for it.
He finishes his glass and pours a new one, swirling the liquoir inside before he speaks.
„Fine,“ he says, as if he is doing them a great favour, „But you’re handling the funerals.“
„Thank you, father,“ says his daughter, with a hard glare at her brother, „That won’t be a problem.“
„At <i>all</i>,“ emphasises his son, just in case it wasn’t absolutely clear the the corpses of his men will be fed to whatever is left lurking in the uninviting waters of the port. James, frankly, couldn’t care less.
„Deal.“
He drinks again, and considers his wilingness to deal with the cowards that call themselves pirates and his crew to boot nowadays, but eventually says: „You might have mister Smee call the men.“
He gestures to the trumpet on the cupboard nonchalantly.
The grins his children give, well, they’re downright predatory. Alala’s, through and through – he finishes his glass.
„Mister Smee–“ Her voice carries easily and he will not think of it no more–
Yeah, no.
He blinks to clear his head and finds his children and first mate already on board, overseeing the port men (and poor excuses thereso), frantically trying to arrange themselves into a semblance of orderly formation. He stops to check his reflection in the mirror and correct his hair before he joins them.
„Move – we don’t have the whole day!“
„<i>Move–</i>“
There – almost orderly, almost quiet, mostly paralysed with fear. As good as it gets on the Isle, really.
„Some of you,“ he sneers at the gathered men, „Will be joining the Dead Beauty crew tomorrow morning. You’ll be at full disposal to my daughter,“ he informs them, as if there was an alternative other than death – how quick or how painful, looking at his children, he cannot tell.
„Pick who you want,“ he adds towards his children, leaning back at a wall.
The crowd shifts uneasily as his children dive among the sailors, each of which tries to throw others into their path. It's almost comical, really. Pathetic.
They try to evade them the same way they dodged <i>that</i>infernal child, once upon a time, and he feels sorry for forgetting his flask inside.
The efforts are equally futile, of course, as his children grab who they want anyway: His children grab whom they wish, and shove and drag them towards the empty place by the commander’s bridge. Short and brutal movements, effective, even as some of the port <i>gentlemen</i> try to escape or argue.
„Shut your mouth–“ orders his daughter on miserable existence, already slapping him hard enough he stumbles to the side; James nods curtly. There is no other way to treat these useless miscreants.
„Or <i>else</i>.“
He is pretty sure or else includes brutal torture.
She grabs another man, seemingly following a set of criteria he doesn’t bother to read; her rings shine against his scruffed, dirty shirt and he swallows hard – he recognises the jewelry he had gifted Alala all those years ago. It is only right, though, for a young lady to inherit her mother’s jewels.
Unwilling to entertain that train of thought for now, he instead searches for his son in the crowd: An easy feat, considering the space around him. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, catching whoever catches his eye and showing them forward, hard enough they stumble. Disgrace, really, for a pirate to be tripping up on a ship.
James sneers again and slowly, leisurely turns around to retreat back to his cabin, back to his rum and haunting memories of the past, jagged and upset awake as they are now, by his children’s visit. It’ll take time for his mind to settle down again.
„Wife and kids, eh?“ his son’s mocking voice reaches his ears still, pitched in a disturbing lilt that makes James look on, as if that was what he was going to do all along. Luckily, neither of his children seem to notice. And everyone else is too busy noticing <i>them</i> – James will be happy to see them gone soon.
„Yessir–“
„Tell me, does your wife like your tongue?“ Harry mocks the lying man for all port to hear, barely waiting for any sign of response.
„Well, <i>too fucking bad,</i> then.“
What happens next gentleman of Captain James Hook’s caliber couldn’t possibly describe to his esteemed audience. It’ll suffice to say, that miserable man won’t be questioning his orders again.
I know I think about the worldbuilding implications of children's movies too much, and certainly more than the writers did, but Disney's Descendants no. 3's ending was just unforgivable. Descendants no. 1 characterized the core four's villain parents as variously abusive, and explicitly showed the core four being terrified of their parents. And then? After the bridge connects Auradon to the Isle of the Lost? The core four excitedly run towards the Isle to see their canonically abusive parents?? How hard is it to remember what happened literally two movies ago.
