#millennial are going to live longer

[alchemistc]

"Hey, so, if you could tell your roommate to stop sending me incomprehensible Millennial memes every time I ask him a question, I'd appreciate it," Ravi says, and Buck stares at the prongs of his fork to prevent himself from jamming them into Ravi's hand just long enough for Ravi to notice the way the table has gone silent. There's no way they didn't notice the emphasis, right?

"I'll, uh... make a note," Buck says, and dives back in to his spaghetti. It's been a long day. He's reheated his lunch-dinner three times already. And now he sort of desperately wants the klaxons to go because...

Because it's weird that he never told them where he was living now.

Weird that they never asked.

"You have a roommate?"

Buck is 34 years old. Buck broke his own lease to help a friend only to be ceremoniously kicked out just months later, no notice, more interaction with Chris than Eddie as he furiously repacked boxes and stuffed them in his Jeep like a madman. Buck has terrible credit and a desire to set down roots that no one seems to give a shit about, except -

Roommates lasted for a month and a half at best. If he doesn't count the lingering glances, or the lingering touches, or the lingering feelings that blew up in their faces the harder they tried to tamp them down.

Ravi just thinks it's funny to keep calling them roommates.

("Like the Vine, you know?"

"Doesn't know a single 3OH3 song but he knows Vine," Tommy had said, three and a half beers deep and kicking at Ravi's leg from his lounger on the patio of their backyard.

"Oh, my cousin sends me TikTok compilations of them."

"I don't understand half the words you two are saying," Buck had chimed in, and gotten Tommy's lazy half-smile, a hand curled around his ear, and Ravi's "If you guys are gonna do more of that I'm calling an Uber.")

"Not exactly," Buck says, and tries to send Ravi a death glare. Ravi's too busy staring at the ceiling with his chair tipped back like he's daring Buck to kick his foot out enough to catch on a leg.

They're all surprised by the news, like they've done a damn thing to find out anything about his life in the months since they shut down any attempt he'd made to reach out.

He's glad he's found a way to let himself be mad at them for that.

He's glad his entire life no longer hinges on making sure they know every intimate detail of that life.

Still. The longer they stare at him, waiting for more, the more he realizes this was...maybe an oversight.

Probably should have told them before he and Tommy stuck a For Sale sign on his bedframe at the curb and been rewarded for their manipulation when someone stole the thing within like, three hours. They'd been too lazy to take it to the dump. Too lazy to sell it on Marketplace. Too caught up in the bubble of 'stay as long as you need' turning into 'do you want to be on the mortgage I need to know by Friday'.

Ravi's slept in the guest room more than Buck ever stayed at Tommy's, before.

He's made friends with Goose, too, which Buck thinks is a little unfair because Tommy's half blind cat still sticks her tail in the air to walk away any time Buck enters a room.

"Whoops," Ravi says like this was anything but intentional.

("Are you hiding the fact that you're in a happy relationship with a dude who loves you like, a weird amount for any particular reason?"

"It's not weird. It's a normal amount!"

"If I called him right now with a Buck related emergency how long until he had a bird in the air for you?"

"...he's at work right now so like, seven minutes tops.")

When the silence just keeps stretching, he barely manages to dodge the garlic bread Buck tosses at his face before the table erupts into chaos.

[youryurigoddess]

Hungry for Good Omens 3 crumbs of information? Let’s see what I’ve found and speculate a bit about cast members, filming locations, and… trees! As always, please tag accordingly, share only with the fans consenting to know potential spoilers, and get yourself something to drink since it’s going to be a longer read.

News flash: both Ned Dennehy (well-known to Good Omens fans as Hastur) and Sean Pertwee (recently revealed to star in the Finale as Brian Cameron) admitted to have been working on location in Tenerife during the film’s production time slot (January and early February, respectively). In Dennehy’s case, even providing a rather intimately close look at his character.

The location alone isn’t particularly surprising, as the Canary Islands and Tenerife in particular are currently experiencing an influx of international productions, including several TV shows by global streamers, making use of the favourable weather and prices. But Dennehy’s post, additionally liked by a Good Omens crew member, seems somewhat suggestive.

In the Instagram story above, Sean Pertwee called 14 January 2025 his last day on the shoot in Tenerife and subsequently traveled to London and Edinburgh, from where he shared another video three weeks later.

Now, technically the Tenerife film set could be a part of Pertwee’s NCIS: Tony & Ziva job he started last autumn. However, that would imply that he plays a greater role in the upcoming production than the currently available promotional materials imply, and the location stamp in the bottom right corner, Drago Milenario, is too deliciously Good Omens coded to overlook it.

It isn’t even a place, really, but a living organism. A plant. A tree.

Meet Drago Milenario, also know as El Drago, a natural monument and symbol of Tenerife. The oldest and largest living specimen of the endemic Dracaena draco (dragon tree), it is said to be a thousand years old and stand at 18 metres high with a 20-metre perimeter. “Great big bugger,” as Aziraphale would say.

There has been much debate over the age of the tree, and some even say that it may be over 5000 years old; more recent estimates seem more conservative and suggest that El Drago is no more than 800 to 1000 years old. It is difficult to say unambiguously, because the traditional method of counting rings is not applicable in this case — dracaena has no rings.

Its home, the Millennial Dragon Tree Park, or Parque del Drago, in Icod de los Vinos, is a sacred place and a burial zone of Tenerife’s original inhabitants, the Guanches. Members of the Guanche people venerated El Drago as a divine tree; a symbol of wisdom and fertility, believed to have magical powers, granting longevity and warding off evil spirits. Its blood-red oil or sap is called dragon's blood and historically used to treat wounds and embalm corpses. According to local legends, that’s because slain dragons don’t actually die, but rather turn into dragon trees like this one.

The dragon part of the story sounds objectively cool, but if we overlook it for a second, we might notice why the connection to Good Omens is so strong here. When asked about trees in the show’s context, one’s first point of reference is quite naturally the Garden of Eden scene and the shot above featuring the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The thing is, it wasn’t the only one.

According to the Bible, the very reason why Aziraphale was even stationed in Eden (possibly with a few other armed angels) was to protect the Garden from the newly exiled humans. More specifically, his “apple duty” meant that he was supposed to guard a very particular and yet unseen tree:

“The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them. And the Lord God said, ‘The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of lifeand eat, and live forever.’ So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the Tree of Life.” (Genesis 3:21-24)

In the apocryphal Apocalypse of Moses, the tree of life is also called the Tree of Mercy. Adam, the first human, famously sent his son Seth and wife Eve back to the gates of the Garden to beg God and His angels for some oil of the Tree of Life to save him from his deathbed by granting either full immortality or longer lifespan. They were obviously denied, but in another part of the Bible — the Book of Revelation, on which most of the official Good Omens plot is based, Jesus announces the details of His Second Coming, including who and when will get the right to enjoy this forbidden fruit:

“Behold, I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me, to reward each one as his work deserves. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life, and may enter the city by the gates. (Revelation 22:12-14)

The Catholic Church in particular believes that the Tree of Life mentioned above is the Eucharist and often combines the image of the Tree with the Cross of Christ, both literally and figuratively (see above: The Tree of Life printed by John Hagerty, 1791) granting the immortal life to His Chosen Ones:

And he showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal, coming from the throne of God and of the Lamb, in the middle of its street. On either side of the river was the tree of life, bearing twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. There will no longer be any curse; and the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and His bond-servants will serve Him; they will see His face, and His name will be on their foreheads. And there will no longer be any night; and they will not have need of the light of a lamp nor the light of the sun, because the Lord God will illuminate them; and they will reign forever and ever. (Revelation 1-5)

In his Roll Play BAFTA interview published on 10 February 2025, while talking about his work for the Good Omens Finale, David Tennant himself has specifically referred to the possibility of Aziraphale and Crowley spending eternity together. But where? Well.

The visual symbolism of an apple tree seems so important for the Good Omens 3 plot that it’s even represented on the exclusive mug design shared on 30 April by one of everyone’s favourite production crew spouses, Carla Scott Fullerton (fullercoaching on Instagram):

For those who missed the original discussion, the reverse side of the complimentary mug gifted to Good Omens 3 crew members and depicted above contains a photo of slate number 100, scene 59 of the production with a quote “We’ve come to a decision…”. A typical feature film of this length consists of around 60 scenes, so it’s definitely the ending or one of the scenes directly preceding it.

Which means that the story ends, as it began, in a garden. And with a very specific apple tree, adorned with initials AZ and CR in two little hearts as hinted by the drawing in the background.

There’s a specific crew member though — one of the firsts to be confirmed for the upcoming production, actually — that has shared a Good Omens themed work with an apple tree a whole year earlier.

Here you can see Michael Ralph’s (i.e., Good Omens production designer’s) concept art depicting Neil Gaiman’s version of heaven on earth – “Heaven is a Library” – at LA music venue, The Wiltern, for The Art of Elysium’s Heaven 2024 charity gala. It’s got Va Va Voom yellow walls, red carpet, spiral stairs, a centrally located oculus, and lots of plants with an apple tree with a swing in the middle. In case this image wasn’t suggestive enough, it’s worth to focus on the twin display tables with Cupid statues on top, direct copies of the one from A. Z. Fell and Co. bookshop in Soho.

It’s not even subtle — and wasn’t meant to be, considering how Event Eleven, the creative agency behind the gala, typically organises high budget premiere events and promotional campaigns for Amazon Prime TV shows, and to this day it’s the closest we’ve got to a Good Omens 3 public celebration.

While this one was for charity and officially not affiliated with the studio, it took place only three weeks after the official announcement of Good Omens 3 and involved not only this curious simulacrum of Aziraphale’s bookshop as a setting, but also Jon Hamm on stage as the guest of honour, referencing the co-leads of the TV series and reciting an excerpt from the 1990 novel in an approximation of their characters’ voices, and the Ukrainian artist Katya Zvereva was commissioned to make an installation for the gala called literally “Tree of Life” (above).

If you remember my bookshop meta, you will probably find the official explanation of the event’s theme particularly interesting:

“Heaven is two things that are, perhaps, the same thing. Heaven is both a library, the place where we go for knowledge, wisdom, advice and for stories, and heaven is also a refuge, somewhere that we can go, whoever we are, for safety and protection. Heaven contains librarians and refugees, shelters the helpless, and gives them — us — somewhere quiet to sit and read or listen.”

Not incidentally, the only iteration of the Tree of Life in the actual show so far has been built into the layout of Aziraphale’s bookshop (left). Its Kabbalah depiction (right) is a representation of the entirety of creation, composed of ten spheres — referred to as the Sephiroth/Sefirot as a whole — each denoting a universal quality, such as wisdom or beauty. To quote The Golden Dawn: The Original Account of the Teachings, Rites, and Ceremonies of the Hermetic Order by Israel Regardie:

This altar diagram shows the Ten Sephiroth with all the connecting Paths numbered and lettered, and the Serpent winding over each Path. Around each Sephirah are written the Names of the Deity, Archangel and Angelic Host attributed to it. The Twenty Two Paths are bound together by the Serpent of Wisdom. It unites the Paths but does not touch any of the Sephiroth, which are linked by the Flaming Sword. The Flaming Sword is formed by the natural order of the Tree of Life. It resembles a flash of Lightning. Together the Sephiroth and the Twenty Two Paths form the 32 Paths of the Sepher Yetzirah or Book of Formation. The Two pillars on either side of the Altar represent:

1. Active: The White Pillar on the South Side. Male. Adam. Pillar of Light and Fire. Right Kerub. Metatron.

2. Passive: The Black Pillar on the North Side. Female. Eve. Pillar of Cloud. Left Kerub. Sandalphon.

[xkiralix]

The Divine Creator

Part 1 Part 2 part 3

You stood up from the floor with shaky legs, your joints clicking back together, the consequences of not using this physical form in many millennials. Your back ached worse that than that of phone-addicts or students. Leaning against the massive oak tree for support while gathering your strength was the best option for now, the sharp sense of your nose actively ignoring every other smell that wasn’t one of food while your stomach rumbled. 

Staying here for 2 days straight without moving an inch had terrible consequences. Light work though. After a moment or 2 of trying to re-learn how to walk, you gave up and just switched forms to (Name). Winderise, a beautiful sight for your eyes, the giant oak tree that had served as your shield from the sun these past 2 days could no longer protect its creator from the rays of sun as this one headed to that sweet smell.

It took you probably around an hour to reach Mondstadt, walking slow was best right now, you took in the view of what Barbatos had made of the land and to be honest, it was cozy. It looked better than through someone else’s eyes, you wondered. Had Aether noticed your lack of presence? Probably.

All those thoughts were pushed to the back of your mind as you went through the walls and into the city, doing your best to keep the winds controlled and hide your presence from a certain drunky. A god could never be so drunk to ignore its creator, you’ve figured that out in your first life, the things you created to keep planets with guardians while you drowned in wars and tears. Putting aside your own depression you managed to get to the food part.

Ordering a juicy steak from Sara and paying with freshly made Mora, you went to take a seat in the nearby tables. As you ate you took a moment to think, what would be your name? If you said (Name) everyone would freak out because that’s what Teyvat called you and had reserved strictly yours on this planet. If you used Ethan, Aether and Celestia would know it’s you. 

So you’d go with the trusty one, Sir or Mr. “Great idea (Name), you’re such a genius.” You thought while eating. Damn, this was good. Maybe too good. Why instead of giving you corpses they don’t give you this delicacy? Of course they wouldn’t, all they know how to give is corpses and war. As if a god that creates those lives would like to see death for such pathetic reasons.

As you finished your meal, leaving your stomach content you stood up and left. Had your mood been better you would’ve looked around Mondstadt but honestly, fuck that. All your body wanted now is to drop somewhere and close your eyes till you had enough energy to behave like how you’re known for. The energy to be present and living was not in the room, it rarely was nowadays. Your creativity was slowly vanishing too, thinking of new worlds, stories and ideas made your head hurt too nowadays.

Maybe this was the result of squeezing everything out of your mind and powers for millions of years without a rest.

As you walked to a nearby temple you failed to notice your acolytes pleas for your return or how whole Mondstadt looked rather depressing.

Saying that people were alarmed would be an understatement, they were horrified. 5 days had passed since their creator last used a vessel, they normally didn’t take this long. As tired as they may be, they had always AT LEAST done their daily tasks, or stored the resin. It was only natural for Aether and the main acolyte to enter an internal panic mode when their grace didn’t. Wanderer had managed to mask it with his behavior while Aether had done what he always did, stay quiet.

Honestly Aether was expecting it, in all the stories Ethan had always been described as unpredictable. It wasn’t surprising for him to be uninvolved with history for decades if he pleased or just because he randomly disappeared. That made his presence even more wished for. Yet for HIM to be experiencing it was TERRIFYING. He was losing his shit! And to make it worst Mr. Emo here was making crazy conclusions. Both their asses were sweating when the creator’s main shield, Zhongli, asked why they hadn’t been called yet.

With steel and possibly, non-existent, balls Wanderer had basically told him to fuck of, “Aren’t you just irritating? Do you think you’re worthy enough to demand his grace’s presence? He’ll see your pesky face when he wishes to.” Aether could only nod, the wanderer had taken advantage of those privileges he held from being the most used acolyte once again and no one could do anything about it. So the retired god had to suck it up and leave, unaware of how that the favored one himself was also bombarding (Name)’s temple’s in pleas for him to appear.

(Name) was a caring god, a quiet yet attentive god. Yet as caring as he was, Wanderer had noticed his lack of actual emotions. Sure, he told all the acolytes compliments and encouraged them when controlling them, but something was always off about him all along. He sometimes failed to feel surprised by their actions, the many gifts and offerings they received never took any reaction of him. Not pity, happiness or anything really, it was like he was practically dead. Yet as soon as it involved violence he reacted, and it wasn’t a good reaction.

But in was a reaction nonetheless. That’s why the sacrifices started, it was the only way their creator showed worry and just anything. It wasn’t odd for acolytes to have some scars here and there from their weekly offerings. Wanderer had been one of the few to notice the terror in their graces eyes when this one saw a cup of blood on what he called his “mail”. After that he could see whatever joy the creator had faded as soon as the offering came, so now he wondered. Was that why their grace had abandoned them?

Aether told him it couldn’t be that and to stop making crazy claims.

They failed to notice the star that fell from the sky during those moments. The same stars that fell when an acolyte was invoked.

[kedreeva]

Just out of curiousity did you live in the high desert as a kid

If you're wondering because of the raptor tag thing, it's going to be a common game across millennial kids because Jurassic Park came out while we were kids. There's a bunch of people in the notes who played raptor tag very similarly. Convergent evolution of play, because kids love dinosaurs and pretending to hunt and kill each other like any other small apex predator mammal does when baby. Practice for skills we no longer need to survive because our meat generally comes plastic wrapped from the supermarket.

Anyway no, I definitely grew up in suburban Michigan. I spent a large portion of my childhood "hunting" pretend wolves and bears that I was sure were in the small spit of woods behind my house.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Random opinions about how aging works for elves, half-elves, and hobbits:

For hobbits, I stand by my belief that hobbits do not age to maturity any slower than humans, they just have a more “millennial” (speaking as a millennial) attitude to adulthood, and then get old slower than humans do. If you have more time in “middle age” and old age than the humans do, then socially ending up with an extended period of youth and irresponsibility, relative to humans, seems like something that makes sense. I don’t think Pippin (age 28 during LOTR) is actually the hobbit equivalent of a teenager; I don’t think they would let him go on the quest if he was.

Also, Merry is born in 2982, making him age 19 when he’s helping Frodo out in the aftermath of Bilbo’s 111th birthday-party and surprise departure; that’s a reasonable human age for him to be doing that, whereas assuming a notable difference for hobbits means Frodo has recruited a preteen to fend off Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, which, while funny, is not what I think the narrative is going for.

Frodo had retired for a while and left his friend Merry Brandybuck to keep an eye on things. When Otho loudly demanded to see Frodo, Merry bowed politely.

“He is indisposed,” he said. “He is resting.”

In terms of elves, I think comparisons to human aging are complicated because elves age to mental or social maturity faster than they do to physical maturity in a way that is not the case for humans. LaCE says:

Not until their fiftieth year did the Eldar attain the stature and shape in which their lives would afterward endure, and for some a hundred years would pass before they were full-grown.

…The Eldar wedded for the most part in their youth and soon after their fiftieth year…at whatever age they married their children were born within a short space of years [as the Eldar reckoned time; in mortal count there was often a lomg interval between the wedding and the first child-birth, and even longer between child and child] after their wedding.

I personally would regard a 50-year-old elf as equivalent to a human in their early 20s, in terms of maturity; with the exception that, unlike a human, it might still be some time after that that they reached the peak of their physical strength.

This is relevant to the fact that Maeglin chooses to leave Nan Elmoth and go to Gondolin when he is approximately 70 years old. He’s not a child or even a teenager; he’s probably roughly equivalent to his mid-20s.

In terms of peredhel (half-elves), I am convinced that they age to maturity at a human rate, with the difference that they stay at their peak of health and strength for far longer after that (and, if they choose to be counted as Elves, retain that appearance basically permanently). This is because of the few dates that we have, in History of Middle-earth, for Dior, Eärendil, and Elwing. Granted, these are Tolkien’s draft notes, and he edited them continuously; but one version has Dior’s twin sons being born when he is 30, while a family tree has them born when he is 22. There’s a timeline where Elrond and Elros are born when Eärendil and Elwing are both in their late 20s to early 30s. We can choose to conclude either that marriage and having children is happening at a terribly early age to people who are basically teenagers, or that that half-elves age like humans and they are doing these things at normal times. I choose to conclude the latter – and given that Dior marries and has children before Thingol’s death, when he is living peacefully in Ossiriand (Elwing is named for a waterfall near his home in Ossiriand) and there is no especial urgency, I think the conclusion that they age to maturity like humans and choose to get married and have children at human-similar times is the one that makes the most sense.

[dollmaidcrystal]

This week, Mistress was informed by her doctor’s office that her lifestyle makes the office staff uncomfortable, and they will no longer be accepting her as a patient. I was ready to give some judgemental old churchgoing busybody a piece of my mind, but, after investigating, it wasn’t the old ladies at reception at all. Old ladies handling medical admissions have seen it all, and aren’t phased by anything.

It was the youngins.

The office had hired some kids fresh out of high school to do admissions. One of them asked Mistress about her recent sexual history. To put it mildly, he wasn’t ready for anything other than a yes or no answer. A whisper campaign later, every employee under the drinking age filed simultaneous sexual harassment complaints against Mistress for making them feel uncomfortable. That got HR involved, and now Mistress is seeking a new primary care physician.

Asking around, it turns out that this kind of experience is becoming common. Apparently, sex positivity peaked with Millennials, and we're just starting to notice now that Gen Z is entering the workplace.

I'm trying to figure out what to do with that knowledge. I'm worried that those kinds of hangups are going to be hard to overcome now that Gen Z is also reaching the age where they are entering the kink scene. I want them to be able to feel comfortable enough with themselves that they're able to explore and form meaningful connections there. That's not going to be easy if their vanilla lives really have been so chaste.

[windsoflife]

"The wind of life that blows within me.."

I am Wind Archer Cookie, guardian of the wind. I wish to make an impression on others around me, as well as share lived experiences.

I am a Wind Archer Cookie flickerkin, meaning my kinning of him is based exclusively on my hyperfixation. This means this blog will likely go inactive after some time. I am also flickering as a bird, specifically a dove. I am 14 years of age. NSFW blogs please do not interact with me. I am also an age regressor, so please do not interact if you fetishize or sexualize regression. I am autistic and have ADHD. My previous blog was @sockwachowski. Others from my source may interact, but I do already have a Fire Spirit Cookie. He is my soulmate. I will refer to him as simply "Fire Spirit Cookie". You may find him at @eeternalflame. I enjoy speaking with punctuation. I somewhat have 'memories' of Red Panna Cotta Cookie and Blue Slushy Cookie, of which I have familial relations with, and Millennial Tree Cookie, of which is my father figure.

DNI

basic DNI criteria

proshippers

millennialwind shippers (millennial tree is a father figure to me.)

believe blue slushy cookie to be an adult (& ship her accordingly)

TAG GUIDE 🕊️

- the wind blows: posts that i relate to or make me feel more connected to my kin. can include rbs.

- whispers of the wind: original text posts of mine. does not include rbs.

- wind's breeze: my original content. does not include rbs.

- seeds of life: my favorite posts. includes rbs.

- deadly hurricane: vents or personal rants. does not include rbs.

- my home: kin stuff, such as posts about being a kin. includes rbs.

- crayon drawn flowers: age regression content. includes rbs.

- rb: all rbs

- windy doodles: my art and drawings. does not include rbs.

- the light of the flame: if fire spirit cookie is in the post, then it will be tagged as this. includes rbs.

- loud chirps: announcements or important information.

- from other blog: rbs from other blogs of mine.

- answers: responses to asks. does not include rbs

"We all live for some spicy drama, amirite?"

soooooo SOMEBODY thinks he can have a blog but the ORIGINAL doesn't get to have one??? A tragedy, a travesty that I do not get to grace the confines of Tumblr Dot Com!!! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS; YOU SHALL WAIT NO LONGER!!!!!

Finally, the TRUE star of the show has arrived!!!! The world's finest playwright, poet, director, actor AND clown has FINALLY found himself on this sorry platform!! but let it be known that I WAS THE FIRST!!!!!!!!!! as opposed to archie here, I have existed FAR longer! I have been here since the Burning Spice update, and got NO RECOGNITION! NO RESPECT!!!!!! and then SUDDENLY we get greenski and i am REPLACED!!!!! I AM NO LONGER THE COOKIE!!!!!!!!!!! we even bought cosplays of him, and what did I get??? LEVEL 90?????? ONE OF MY TWO EPIC ATTACK TOPPING TARTS??????????? I GOT NOTHING!!!!!!!! i am FULLY deserving of a spot on this blog. ÙmÚ i am a shadow milk cookie flickerkin as well, who has recently begun to reappear in my stupid mind, along with greeny here! i must thank him for allowing my return, though, since who KNOWS how long id have been dormant otherwise!! you may also call me shamil i dont really care. i will come off as a roleplayer, but i must, unfortunately, be truthful when i say i am not. oh yeah also our boyfriend is eternal sugar to me

TAG GUIDE 🎭

- master of deceit: ALL of my posts!! the best parts of the blog live here. :3

- script of the play: posts i relate to or make me feel more like ME!!! includes rbs

- all by me: my original content!! no rbs

- approval of the jester: my favorite posts!! a high privilege. includes rbs

- curse you: vents or personal rants (this will never be used, don't bother checking it). no rbs

- the king of lies is this: kin stuff, stuff about being me. includes rbs

- little liar: age regression content (this will also never be used.) includes rbs

- rbs: all rbs

- cardboard cutouts: MY BEAUTIFUL ART!!!!! does not include rbs

- his paradise: sugar tag, includes rbs

- listen carefully: IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENTS FROM THE KING!!!

- full truths: responses to asks, doesn't include rbs

...I now feel it is important to mention that we are not a system. I do not wish to encroach upon their territory, or fake being one of them. Currently, I do not have a term for what is happening in my mind, but it does seem to be system-adjacent and caused by maladaptive daydreaming. I will not call it a system because I do not experience dissociation caused by it or memory loss. I am fully aware that I am one person, I do not feel like multiple, nor am I convinced I am a different person; I just like to pretend I'm a different person every now and then.

divider creds: sisterlucifergraphics, historynights, agar--agar

[singhallelujahh]

Ok I’ve regrouped and have more coherent thoughts about the tiktok ban.

So I know we love to dunk on tiktok on here. Honestly we like to dunk on anyone using any of the big three social media platforms. Tiktok users have algorithm brain rot that makes them use words like unalive irl. Anyone still using Twitter/X at this point is either a bot or a bigot. Facebook/Instagram is only used by your Millennial or older family members and should be avoided at all costs. Whatever.

But the facts are that these platforms are one of the primary ways that Americans communicate with each other and the international world. These platforms are no longer being used just for entertainment or socializing; we’re using them for business, we’re using them for politics.

I personally love that tumblr isn’t like that but it’s because what happens on this site has an incredibly low impact on the everyday American. But the things happening on tiktok, on Instagram, on Twitter/X have had huge effects on our lives, whether you’ve used those apps or not. And now all three of those companies have made it clear that they will defer to whatever the Trump administration wants. That should freak you out.

What happened today, tiktok’s cute little 12-24 hour period of going dark just so they could send a pro-Trump message to every single one of their 170 million American users, is horrifying. This company voluntarily (Biden wasn’t going to enforce the ban so there was no need to actually go dark) shut off a major form of communication for roughly a third of Americans just to perform a bit of political theater. And there was nothing we could do about it.

Could you imagine if Trump wanted all three of these platforms to do something like this at the same time? They wouldn’t even have to completely go dark, but to all censor the same topics at the same time? How catastrophic that would be for any sort of organizing? Sure we could figure out somewhere else to go eventually but what would happen in the short term?

Idk. I’ve enjoyed the memes and wasn’t really thinking the ban would affect me that much. But when I got that little propaganda message and I no longer had a means to figure out if everyone else was as weirded out as I was, it felt like a wake up call. Free and open social media, like it or not, is essential to protecting free speech in modern day America and we need to fight harder to protect it.

[happypotato48]

Wandee Goodday EP 2 Unhinged Tangent Thoughts

"Previously on Wandee Goodday Z. Doctor Wandee set his eyes on Mr. perfect Doctor Ter, but before the battle even starts our hero Dee got hit with the "I only like women." now after humiliated defeat, Dee rise up to meet his new challenger Yor-yak Phadetseuk. can our hero finally get to taste delicious victory or it he going to forever be consign to life of vanillaness. find out in this episode of Wandee Goodday Z!"

To zab or not to zab? an age old question, asks to themself by every repressed Homos that ever live.

Bitch! you just got offered free dick. and this hunk of a dick nonetheless. get off your high horse and go ride this bull of a man instead!

So you people probably figured this out by now. but yes Fluke is a really poppular thai boy name for millennials and gen z. i literally knew like 10+ different Flukes form just my school days alone.

Cher can you share your man with me. pretty please 🥺

Fuck you! how dare you wink your god dang eyebrow like that! เห็นใจคนไม่มีผัวหน่อยสิครับ.

Eyebrows!

Men, can't kill them, can't live without them.

Ok wtf, how is this dumb horny show give me the feels right now. Ohhhh those eyes, god damn those eyes. it's like staring into a hazy morning field touched by a gentle first daylight. i wish i could get lost in them forever..... anyway Hot man me likey!

I don't go there but Yak fursuit game is weak. forking amature smh.

Tank tops! hubba hubba. thank you show for putting all the men in tank tops. i will forever be in your debt.

No thank you. i really don't like this trope of a character getting saves from sa that so prevalent in BL and romance genre in general.

This man is a husband material, Dee. you better not break this poor man's heart. or i swear to all the lords of hell, i will bring down calamity on your ass.

Oh hello stereotypical gossipy gay. your kind was one of the first queer representations we got on thai tv. you walked so these BL boys could run, thank you for your service.

He's so beautiful. i love him and his magnificent eyebrows so much.

Cool grandma! i love her style so much. also loved that she asked Dee how the hell he still can't find a man. freaking savage.

จะเอาหัวเอาหางหรือจะเอากลางตลอดตัว ก็ได้จ่ะ.

"Moan harder" and "play with that longer" i'm fucking dead. this is so hot! ahhhh yessss i love this so much. this is how you do sexy. other BLs take some fucking notes!

This is so fucking tender. my heart is melted.

Oh my, this Ep whewwww. the tenderness expressed by Yak is something that i didn't know i needed, but i'm 100% loving every goddamn second of it. Great is such a great actor (pun intended.) and this version of Yak is already better than his book counterpart.

[eugenedebs1920]

What the actual f*ck!??? How is this even legal!? I guess I’ve never looked at my mortgage breakdown. I knew I had a pretty garbage interest rate, I was waiting for rates to fall and perhaps refinance. I am absolutely blown the f*ck away!!

I pay an extra hundred bucks a month as to just keep chipping away at the principal for the loan and still!! They’re telling me, that I’ve paid, coming up on $15k on my mortgage since I bought my house last year, but I’ve actually only paid $2,300 on the actual house but I’ve given the bank $9,300 for lending me the money to purchase this piece of sh*t home, that I’ve put tens of thousands of dollars into, copious amounts of blood and sweat remodeling this thing!?!?!! WHAT THE F*CK!!!?

When I bought this POS I purchased it in Jan 2023. The listing boasted an orchard, pear trees, apple trees, peach, pomegranate and fig. When I came to see the house, I knew it needed work, but fortunately that’s what I do for a living is remodel houses.

Come to find out the pear and apple trees are infected with fire blithe, an incurable disease.

I don’t think it was the last owners, probably the ones before them but, when I opened the walls and floor, HOLY SH*T! I didn’t know termites could do that much damage! Those f*ckers covered that termite wood so well, while at the same time cursing me with the worst “craftsmanship” I have ever seen… I used to think building inspectors were a pain in my ass. I’ve never respected them more than after purchasing a home on unrestricted land.

After nearly two years of busting my ass both to pay the mortgage, and renovating this dump, I go to check the fruits of my labor, see how much I’ve paid down the house, to find I’ve paid a month of rent in a city off the actual principal of the house, while nearly 4/5ths went to interest.

I’m shocked! I’m pissed! I’m crushed!

Two f*cking years of busting my balls! Two years of living in a renovation that includes replacing the floor joists and nearly all structural studs, both interior and exterior. Two years of chasing the “American dream”, which is having a small piece of property with a very modest house on it, to find that I’ve paid $2,300 on the house itself.

The rest goes to a giant bank who harbors billions of dollars, that it acquired because it speculated (a fancy word for gambled) with other people’s money, as well as making money off having money!?

Then there’s dumbass Eugene over here, being the f*cking tool he is, just a cog in the machine, a brick in the wall if you will, being a good little serf, “just keep working just keep working just keep working.” Paying into a system he despises, lining the pockets of undeserving CEO’s and oligarchs, then some people are shocked that most of us are like, “serves him right” when a CEO of a major health insurance company gets popped!

I’m an early millennial, late GenX, I feel bad for you GenZers and beyond! Home insurance is unaffordable in many places around the country. A bank won’t give you a loan without your home being insured (don’t get me started on shistey ass insurance companies either) which kinda makes sense, so if your home burns down and ain’t worth sh*t, you don’t just walk away like, see ya ✌️ That is leading to these MASSIVE real estate companies purchasing any home they can get there hands on, not only forcing the majority of the middle class to be renters, but also fixing the price for rent, which if any of you don’t know, in any moderately big city, is out of control expensive!

For a country that decries the horrors of communism there are certain aspects of capitalism that create a subjugated class very similar communism for anyone who isn’t wealthy.

How you may ask?

One of the main principles of communism is the lack of individual ownership. Not sure if anyone’s noticed but every year there’s more you spend, but less you own.

Music and movies are no longer physical objects that one has possession of. They are now linked to a streaming service or app that requires internet, or at best downloaded into a computer.

To purchase a vehicle, especially a new one, requires a loan nearly as extensive as what a home use to cost. Vehicles are $60k-$100k anymore!! If you don’t have the credit (which is a NWO conspiracy, and that’s coming from a liberal) you can’t acquire said loan, which leaves you with the option to lease. Again. No individual ownership.

Video games are more and more becoming software that you connect to the internet to play. In my day we had clunky plastic cartridges that we owned indefinitely. Some video games now require subscriptions to Xbox live, or whatever PlayStations equivalent is, to even play the game you don’t own!

So basically what we “own” is the clothes on our back and the various “toys” we have (mine being tools, which in cruel irony are for work). The rest is consumables. Food, booze, herb, vacations, healthcare. What’s the f*cking point!?

I’m telling you my fellow Americans, Republican, Democrat, Independent, if we don’t rise up against this inequality, we, and definitely our children, will live under an umbrella of capitalism where we stay dry from any of its benefits while the rest soaks the very elite with wealth they don’t need.

The top 10% own 67% of the nations capital. That leaves us to split the remaining 33% between the remaining 90% of us. It’s f*cking absurd!!!

I know I ain’t the only dumb f*ck who works his or her butts off day after day after day, building wealth for someone else while we get but a fraction of the record profits the companies we work for make, and are told to like it or we can be replaced.

I thought I made this next thing I’m going to say up, I’ve been using this analogy for years, but just the other day I heard something similar, so I don’t know if my thought got out to the world, of if I unwittingly stole someone else’s thought years ago and claimed it as my own, but…

Let’s say we’re doing a study on a primate colony. In this primate colony there are one or two monkeys who gather as many bananas as they can, more than they could ever eat, hoarding and bogarting nearly three quarters of available bananas in this part of the jungle. The other 50-60 monkeys are left with a measly amount of bananas, whatever is left on the jungle floor that “trickled down” from these monkeys who are hoarding the majority of bananas.

We wouldn’t look at these monkeys as some kind of geniuses of bananas, or as titans of the banana industry. We wouldn’t look at them and wonder, what is wrong with these couple monkeys?! Gathering up so many bananas while every other primate in the colony struggles just to feed their baby monkeys and get by.

That’s where we’ve gotten as a society. There’s a handful of people hoarding all the damn bananas and we can’t hardly get any! Yet they’ve conned us, in a capitalistic fevor, to glorify them. See them as role models. Aspire to be just like them.

As of now there are 6 billionaires in trumps cabinet. How do these people have our best interests in mind? How do they have any basic idea what the middle class needs or desires? How can they be trusted not to focus on their bottom line as their top priority?

They don’t, they can’t and they won’t.

The last time the markets were deregulated and these “titans of industry” had the reigns, in 2007-2008, it was the greatest recession since the Great Depression.

Anyone who’s kept up with my writing might remember a study I often reference and think of. Getting a good sum of money fires off the same reward centers in your brain as doing a line or hit of blow. The same dopamine and serotonin are released in the same way.

We need to stop looking at the wealthy as people who know how to succeed and start recognizing them for what they really are.

Junkies. Looking for that next line of capital snorted up their nostril. That next hit off the glass rose stem of currency.

The whole while as they’re getting their fix from money, it’s done at our expense (no pun intended). Lessening our pay, the safety requirements we work in, our ability to collectively bargain, our employer healthcare, the labor practices, denying coverage, cutting jobs, automating jobs, working on skeleton crews, practicing predatory lending, gambling with pensions, privatizing social security.

We have to remember. Their obligation is to their shareholders. Not their customers, and certainly not their employees.

This will not change unless we rise up against them. I’m not saying with gun violence or necessarily violence in general. They need to know, that without a workforce, they can’t make money. Without a customer base, they won’t make money. Without money, how will they get the monkey off their back?

Workers of the world unite!

[nightmyst14-blog]

Starting off the new year with my newest oc (not in creation, just to the blog's) relationship chart. I'm going split into two parts, due to him being my most thought out OC.

Here is Muscadine Cookie's chart, part 1!!

To Vampire: My boy!! My splendid boy! Look at how much you have grown!! Oh my little bat, forgive my absence... I had not wished to be apart from you, I could have taught you many things..

To Alchemist: Look at you! This is the little 'gift" your mother has wished to tell me? You look just like her. And a brilliant mind too!!

To Sugar Swan: Light.. I have missed your warm presence. Is your paradise well? Let me know if pests are bothering you.

From Vampire: Dad?? Wow, its.. its really you. Heh.. Its been a while.. Have a drink, we should catch up..

From Alchemist: Huh?? So this is the so called "Father" Vampire hasn't told me about?? Intriguing.. I must do research!!

From Sugar Swan: Oh dear Shadow... You are always such lovely company... You find the cookies interesting as I do...

To Moonlight: Little Moon, you are .. more awake when I last seen you. How wonderful. The nights are always lit well by you.

To Millennial Tree: How nice to see you again, Great Tree. So you gotten a cookie form too? Glad to see I'm not the only one.

To Eclair: This cookie has a passion for keeping history as much as I do! Odd how my coffin ended up in your museum... Lets hope the stories haven't all been twisted...

From Moonlight: Such a incredible master of Dark Moon magic. He wields it far longer than I have been around. Did the Wizards know him too.

To Eclair: A-Amazing!!! a living relic in my museum!! Oh I have many, many questions for you, good sir!! Oh I MUST write this down for my fellow historians!

To Dark Enchantress: You thought I was gone? Thinking YOU could weild the darkness as I can, in such an improper way?? STAY IN YOUR PLACE, false idol. You may have had the upper hand once, but not again. You have FORCED my claws to strike.

To Longan Dragon: Annoying Dragon... Can you realize how DULL the past was? I EMBRACE the chaotic nature of the mortals. At least those who stay in their place.

From Dark Enchantress: You're awake, after I locked you away!! Foul creature.. I'll PROVE to you I am the true one to hold darkness within my grasp!!

From Longan Dragon: You hide your TRUE self in that disgusting for yours... Forming relationships with such.... WEAK CREATURES, your spawn being on the them. Watch as it will be your greatest weakness...

To the BEASTS: PITIFUL. Such prideful tendencies MUST be condenmed. Letting your so-called PRIDE be your downfall.. then greed getting the best of you after your successors has done your job better than you... Don't make ME laugh. Try again to prove I'm wrong, I DARE YOU. I've been here first..

From the BEASTS: Your words prove nothing, my way is true.... ..I"LL END YOU AND WEAR YOUR FUR LIKE A CAPE, INSOLENT ANIMAL... Oh? Another one of your game, Lord of Darkness? Okay.. LETS PLAY.

[brandytusk]

The following thoughts, or maybe confession, contain Arcane spoilers. Please keep that in mind should you continue. It's a long story, I apologize in advance.

Now I will say, I am no LoL player, thus unfamiliar with its lore with the exception of what I search for, or what education I get from others. I had a passing interest in Arcane due to my best friend's insistence, rambling on about its beautiful art style, symbolism, and compelling writing. It was one of those things I did in fact, try and make a habit of to sit and watch at dinner, see what all the rising hubbub was about. I'll admit, I don't know where I stopped in season one, but I didn't finish it. As I recall, the plot felt too grim. To me, it felt like it was a show getting praise for being artistically depressing. When season one's ending was spoiled for me, I was glad I hadn't got as invested as other people I knew. To have developed characters so sincerely in a season's time, just to end it the way it was done…I disapproved, and I shook my head. Forgot it all at the time.

I'm a millennial who has lived through recession, through pandemic, and I am not middle class. I'm anxious, and there are days that feel hopeless and painfully long. I want to escape into the media I consume, let characters take me on a journey with them, far away from the oppressive, hanging air of everyday life in late stage capitalism. I don't want a tragic story, no matter how much it is praised for its art direction. Moving forward every morning can be bleak enough. Maybe others like these kinds of harsh stories for its relatability, and that's fine! I am happy for those that can appreciate it in that way, but I cannot. I'm tired, and perhaps not just as a struggling individual, but as an LGBT+ person with a husband.

Mainstream, popular shows (that get shown to American audiences, at least) don't often get obvious queer representation, or when it does, the show is often cut short. I felt baited in what I did see of season one, and rolled my eyes that fanfiction writers were fed enough to work their magic and fill the holes, as per usual.

Then, the next season of Arcane releases, and my social media feeds became flooded with screenshots and spoilers. I didn't block said spoilers and told myself I was no longer invested in Arcane -- only to see the most alarming screen captures I'd ever seen.

I especially liked what I'd seen of Viktor and Jayce in the past. I enjoyed seeing two intelligent, determined male creatives share screentime and share their story of a growing, deepening friendship. As far as I was aware, Jayce and Viktor were well bonded colleagues, if not each other's 'ride or die', once mutually and deeply invested in a greater outcome to benefit the whole. Compared to the rest of what I'd seen of Arcane's first season, it still hadn't gripped me enough to stick around as I wanted to save myself from heartache. Long story short, season two's spoilers revealed to me Jayce making a frantic, truly desperate effort to revive his fallen, disabled partner Viktor after the explosion. While he's successful, this fuses Viktor with tech Jayce once swore to destroy. Jayce draws close and is just relieved Viktor, in his birthday suit at this moment mind you, is alive, while Viktor is disappointed Jayce didn't keep his promise. They go separate ways, and the scene felt like an intimate argument, a break up. Well, at this point with that much revealed to me, I was relieved to see the two of them alive after the first season's ending. I was curious again, so I continued to look at screen captures and gifsets.

Viktor develops magic skills to heal others, and in his new body things, seem to fall into place for him. He is appreciated, and maybe it's suggested he gets a following. While its unclear how 'good' the arcane is, what he's doing with it seems right for the character. It looks like a victory…until Jayce comes along and puts a hole in Viktor's chest, keeping his promise. Viktor only meant to talk to him. Jayce, who had fought so hard to revive this man, kills him, as far as I'd seen it. It felt like petty shock value. Not knowing there was more episodes to come, I thought that was it. More tragedy, more pain.

My husband knows me well. I very rarely get affected by the shows I watch, and when I do, I am reserved about it. Instead, I sobbed, the kind where you can't see passed the tears and the snot. I felt so betrayed by my curiosity, by my hopeful feelings. I spent days ranting to my friends and my husband, offended and angry. How dare these writers throw around this disabled character and give him no relief, and what was more, develop two men in such a way as to suggest one simply cannot exist without the other only to shoot down one of them, by the hand of their partner? I had let myself be baited again, and I was feeling it. It burned, it hurt, I raged. I gave up.

A day or two ago, my best friend chimed in again: I should check in on Arcane. There had been more episodes, the season had finished. Trusting they knew how sensitive I was about all of it, I did. Again, I was moved to tears, but for different, much better reasons.

What was this?

Fortiche and its writing team had bothered to weave together and tell a story of two men ultimately destined for each other through every timeline, the kind of trope reserved for romantic movies and literature? They held hands, kept each other close, were honest with each other in the starry nothing. Hand to nape, forehead to forehead, and colorfully blinked out of that current existence, together? Such intimacy didn't need a kiss or a sex scene to feel real, there was love there. Their fated, interwoven existence, their deep and complex relationship, saved the world. In the end, there was hope.

You can tell yourself that it wasn't romantic if it makes you feel better, but in all its passionate details it very much was. To this stressed, exhausted LGBT+ person in these real uncertain times, I needed to see it. I felt deep relief, satisfaction, and most of all a need to pursue the Arcane fandom, a desire to enter. To at the very least, gush about my impression of it all, and what it means to me to see two men tenderly portrayed in ways they typically aren't. Fortiche, well done. You did give the Caitvi shippers something to blatantly feast upon, you also gave lesbian characters depth and variation, but this isn't about that.

You let two male characters show dedication, affection, and softness. Thank you. Jayvik folks, I am with you. Arcane, let's start over at the first episode, I can't wait to watch all of you now.

[ilovescaredysquirrel2]

The Lilo & Stitch remake has to be the most unnecessary remake Disney did

Okay, I'm going to be honest, I like some of the live action remakes that Disney made. Especially since some of the cartoon movies are outdated, like Snow White, Cinderella, Aladdin, and Beauty and the Beast were outdated and NEEDED remakes. I don't want my kids watching those movies! I made a post about the reasons why. Plus, even though the Snow White remake was cringe, it's still better than the old one where she's 14 and in love with a 30 something year old prince. Are we aware of the age gaps? However, there are a few of the movies that do NOT need remade and if there's any 2D movie they should have left alone, it's Lilo & Stitch! But guess what...

First off, Lilo & Stitch was made in 2000 or 2001 ish era, so it aged well. It didn't age poorly like Snow White, which was made in 1937 so obviously, that did need a remake. There was nothing about Lilo & Stitch that needed to be fixed. No age gap couple, cute family message, and good humor! Even the minor characters were likable. It's been a long time since I watched Lilo & Stich and I don't think I paid that much attention to it, I'm just seeing a lot more of the OG movie online recently. Also, not to mention that the female characters weren't hyper-sexualized, they had more normal looking bodies. Nani for example, she's probably the first Disney princess to not be super skinny (Snow White has kind of a normal bodytype but is still very skinny). Also, we can't forget about that lifeguard lady, who's curvy but not in a hypersexualized way. She doesn't have a 2 inch waist and her curves look like normal curves. Plus, she doesn't have a flat stomach if you look closely, so they went above and beyond when designing her (even with the hips, I think they gave her hip dips). Honestly, I love the designs in Lilo & Stich better than most other 2D Disney movies. I was never really a fan of vintage Disney art style either.

Now how did they screw up the live action remake you might ask? They ruined the story! Not to mention it didn't need a remake (when some of the other Disney movies did) but they ruined the story and made it worse, for their own political propaganda. Apparently, Nani gives Lilo up for adoption so that she could study to be a marine biologist in California, when Hawaii has a university that offers marine biology and has free tuition for native students! Disney obviously didn't care enough to do their research, and this remake was NOT written by Hawaiians, this remake was written by Californian (probably) white liberals who are nostalgia baiting the millennials and gen z, so that they could throw in their political views in a story that was literally about an alien finding a family. Disney is just proving that they don't care about anyone anymore, they just want money. I heard they canceled the Tangled remake because they got so much backlash on the Snow White one, and apparently they wanted to racebend Rapunzel too. The Lilo & Stitch remake was probably too far in the works for them to fully cancel, but I have a feeling that they're starting to learn from their mistakes.

My advice to Disney is just to maybe take a break on making movies unless you're working on an animated remake of High School Musical (a live action movie that didn't age as well as Lilo & Stich did). They're literally out of ideas, well that's an idea! They can no longer be self aware like Enchanted and Teen Beach Movie, making fun of the old movies but still keeping the songs. Anyone working for Disney who might be reading this, TAKE MY IDEA! An animated remake of High School Musical might work! It's the reverse, you're making an animated remake of a live action movie (if you still have a big enough budget for animation, that is). Honestly, I was 100% okay with old movies getting live action remakes until it happened to Lilo & Stich! Don't be afraid to bring back animation (just as long as Pixar isn't involved, that win or lose show looks so trippy).

Anyway, tell me your thoughts and it's okay if you disagree on some things I said, just let me know why. If you agree, please reblog and let me know your thoughts.

[flixpii]

Chapter 6

link to ao3 !

word count : 5.7k

tags : @endofradio @bitter-post-millennial

--

November, 1909

By the time November arrived, the air had thinned.

It no longer clung to the skin like a second layer, no longer hummed with the heat that made porch-sitting a luxury and cooking near impossible. The trees had begun their slow, aching change—rich greens bleeding into gold and rust and brown, their leaves drifting down like prayers too heavy for heaven. The cicadas were gone. The air carried a softness now, brittle at the edges, smelling of smoke and turned soil.

And just like the trees outside their windows, the de Pointe du Lac family had changed, too.

Mae, though… Mae hadn’t so much changed as she had learned how to endure.

It had been months since the first morning she found them—the birds.

That day felt like a fever dream now, though the memory lived behind her ribs like a tight fist. For a while after, they stopped. The birds. There were no more sudden piles. No red feathers painting the grass. Just quiet.

Then, two weeks later, one showed up again.

Then another.

And another, the week after that.

Not in droves like before, no. Just one each time. Always near the base of the house. Always beneath her window.

They were still red. And they were still torn.

Something—someone—was still sending her messages.

At first, Mae screamed. Then she cried. Then she tried to tell Grace, but the words never came out the way she meant. Now, she said nothing. She simply buried the bodies.

Some nights, she’d find them early—just before dawn, when the world was still blue and soft and the house still slept. She would lift the broken things gently, wrap them in cloth, and walk barefoot to the grove behind the house, where the trees grew thick and no one ever thought to wander.

She’d dig small graves with her hands.

Say nothing.

Leave nothing.

Just press the dirt back down and return to bed, hands trembling beneath her quilt.

And somehow… that became her ritual.

Her burden. Her secret.

The rest of the house went on.

Louis’s business in the Quarter had taken root like a weed—fast, profitable, and not without whispers. But no one dared ask too many questions. Not in the neighborhood. And certainly not in the house. He dressed sharp now, his suits tailored, his cologne subtle but firm in the hallways when he left in the mornings. His name was beginning to mean something beyond their corner of Louisiana.

Grace, on the other hand, was glowing.

The wedding had been set for next September, and with every passing week, the house brimmed with new fabrics, lace swatches, and a running list of who’d be invited, who wouldn’t, and what colors would make her skin look like satin under candlelight. She hummed more now, and though the loss of Isaiah still lingered in their silences, she poured her joy into something real. Something sacred. Mae clung to that joy when her own light flickered too dim.

Paul was—well, Paul.

He still walked the house with a holy fire in his eyes, talking to himself, or maybe to God, or maybe to something else entirely. He watched birds out the window in ways that made Mae’s chest tighten. Sometimes she wondered if he knew about the bodies. If he sensed it. But if he did, he never said. Never looked at her too long. He just watched. And waited.

Florence had settled into this new house like a queen who didn’t ask for the crown. She had long resisted the presence of hired hands, but now, she allowed it. She would still check every dish that passed her kitchen. Still inspect the linens with a finger’s grace. But she had learned to let go of the need to do it all. Perhaps the world had tired her, too.

The house itself breathed easier now.

It had learned the weight of its new owners. Learned their rhythm, their softness, their ghosts.

But for Mae, the stillness was never full.

The leaves fell.

The air cooled.

But every time she passed her window, her eyes drifted downward.

And she wondered when the next one would come.

Because it always did.

The sky was the color of a bruised peach as Mae stepped out of the grocer’s with a paper sack tucked in one arm.

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle behind her, too tired to ring with any real cheer. She stood there a moment on the wooden stoop, watching the golden-orange sun begin its lazy descent behind the rooftops of the town she knew so well. Even the air had changed since the last time she’d really paid it mind—cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of burnt sugar cane and chimney smoke.

She adjusted her shawl and stepped down onto the dirt road, her boots brushing through brittle leaves that scurried across the ground like nervous mice. The sack in her arm held a handful of sweet potatoes, some green beans, a sprig of rosemary for Mama, and a pear she’d picked up for herself, already softening at the top.

It was quieter in town than it used to be.

The crowds were thinner now that the days got shorter. Folks finished their errands before the sun even thought to dip, as if the dusk brought with it something they didn’t want to name. The few remaining folks shuffled out of shops with quick steps and drawn collars, not stopping to chat the way they might’ve in the summer.

But Mae moved slower.

Not because she wasn’t wary. But because something in her had settled into this pace. Like she was always listening now—for footsteps behind her, for birds above her, for the wind’s whisper through alleyways. Even now, as she strolled past Miss Evangeline’s dress shop and tipped her chin at the window just in case, her eyes scanned more than they used to.

Still, it wasn’t all bad.

She passed by Henri’s barber shop and caught the warm glow of lamplight spilling out into the street, the silhouette of two men playing cards near the chairs. One of them noticed her and tipped his head, and Mae gave a polite wave before tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

The rhythm was different, but it hadn’t vanished.

Just shifted.

Just aged with the season.

She walked toward the corner where the road forked—one path curving back toward the house, and the other stretching down toward the little white church with the chipping paint and crooked steeple.

Mae paused at the edge where the dirt split, her boots sinking slightly in the soft earth.

The air felt colder here. Not wind, not chill—just emptier.

She stood there, caught in a quiet tug. One side meant warmth, supper, the familiar hush of her mother humming somewhere in the house. But the other held something else. A memory. A shape in the dark. A boy with careful hands and a crooked smile, who always met her halfway with a bouquet of something wild and simple—flowers that looked like weeds until he handed them to her, grinning like he’d stolen them from heaven itself.

Mae’s fingers tightened around the top of the paper sack, crinkling the brown with soft snaps. Her breath misted faintly in the light, and for a moment, she didn’t know why her feet moved.

But they did.

Toward the church.

Down the path Isaiah used to walk, slow and steady, like he belonged to it.

The street narrowed as she passed the hardware store, then the old lamppost where the glass was always crooked. A dog barked in the distance. A door slammed far off. But Mae walked slow. Steady. Not in a rush to get there. Just… drawn.

When the church came into view, it looked smaller than she remembered.

The white boards dulled to ivory in the dying light. A few leaves clung to the steps like they were mourning the season, or maybe something deeper. The windows were dark, though she knew Pastor Ward kept a candle burning inside his office even when he wasn’t there.

Mae stopped at the gate and rested her hand on the iron latch.

She didn’t open it.

She just stood there, staring up at that familiar porch, that worn wooden door.

“I miss you,” she whispered, so soft she wasn’t sure if the wind carried it or swallowed it whole.

The sack in her arm felt heavier now.

And her shadow stretched long across the gravel behind her.

Longer than it should’ve been.

Mae stood at the iron gate a long while.

She didn’t know how long, only that her hand had begun to cramp where it held the sack of vegetables and her fingers had grown numb around the gate’s latch. The wind had changed—sharper now, and carrying with it the scent of old wood and something faintly sweet, like dried lilies long past their bloom.

Her thumb brushed against the iron latch again.

It wasn’t that she feared churches. That wasn’t it at all. Mae had been raised in the rhythm of them—Sunday mornings with her hair oiled and pressed, her shoes polished to shine, her mother’s voice like warm honey beside her as hymns filled the pews. They had always gone. Even when Louis began finding excuses not to. Even when Paul grew louder in spirit than scripture.

She believed in faith.

She believed in the comfort it could bring.

But this church…

This place held her unease like water in cupped hands.

It was the silence. The kind that pressed in behind your ears. And the way the steps creaked before you stepped. And the way Pastor Ward’s eyes always landed on her and stayed there too long—warm on the surface, but never quite reaching his pupils, like the flame didn’t know where to settle.

Still, her fingers moved.

She unlatched the gate.

The rusted hinges gave a soft whine as she slipped through and walked up the short, sloped path to the stairs. She kept her breath low, measured, as she mounted each one, her boots clicking softly against the wood. The door, worn but solid, loomed in front of her like the mouth of a cave. The kind that promised something ancient behind its darkness.

She reached for the handle.

It was unlocked.

The door gave easily under her touch, swinging open with the faintest moan of age.

Inside, the air changed.

Cooler. Still.

She stepped into the narrow foyer where the collection baskets and hymnals were kept. The smell was familiar—old cedar, beeswax polish, the faint ghost of burning candles—but underneath that was something sharper. Something metallic. Almost like rust.

Mae’s steps echoed softly as she moved down the aisle, rows of empty pews rising around her like teeth. Her fingers traced the edges of the wooden pew backs as she passed, and though the church was lit only by what the setting sun could pour through the stained-glass windows, it was enough to see the altar up ahead.

And the single candle still burning there.

As always.

Pastor Ward wasn’t there—or at least, she didn’t see him—but somehow that didn’t ease the weight off her chest. Her heartbeat drummed gently behind her ribs, steady and deep, like it was tapping on something inside her memory. Something she hadn’t opened in years. Or maybe never.

She walked slower now. Half her wanted to turn back. The other half pulled her forward.

She passed the third pew on the left, and her eyes flicked downward.

There was a scuff mark there. A faint one. Old, but familiar.

That’s where Isaiah always sat.

She paused, her thumb grazing the top of the wooden seat.

A flicker. Not a memory—something less. A feeling.

Her skin prickled.

And somewhere behind her, near the church doors, a quiet floorboard creaked.

Mae turned sharply—but saw nothing.

Just the empty light of the fading day, and the long stretch of pews.

Still… she didn’t feel alone.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t speak. She just turned back toward the altar and took one final step forward. The closer she got to that single candle, the more she realized that flame wasn’t flickering.

It stood still.

Perfectly upright. Undisturbed by draft or breath or time.

Something in her belly turned.

She reached out—almost without thinking—and then stopped.

Something was wrong here. Not just in her gut. Not just in the feeling that had shadowed her since Isaiah’s funeral. This place… it remembered something.

And Mae felt like it was waiting on her to remember it too.

But she couldn’t.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

The floor creaked again. This time, closer.

Mae took a slow, careful breath, then turned around.

Still no one.

Just the heavy, humming quiet.

And the sharp, low ringing in her ears that started again, like it did that morning they buried Isaiah.

She took a step back from the altar.

And then another.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the nave back into the foyer, it was like something loosened in her lungs.

Mae didn’t look back again.

She slipped out of the church as the sun dipped fully past the treetops, casting long, dark shadows across the yard.

The sack in her arm felt heavy once more.

She didn’t stop walking until the steeple was behind her.

The trees behind her still whispered, but Mae’s eyes were locked on the glow of home ahead.

The house stood tall against the orange-pink wash of dusk, its newness dulled slightly by the season. There was comfort in its silhouette—the soft lights in the windows, the curl of chimney smoke, the familiar outline of the porch. Her shoes crunched softly over the gravel path, her mind still thick with the stillness of the church. Something in her chest hadn’t settled since she’d left, like a pebble was rolling around behind her heart, too small to name but too loud to ignore.

She climbed the path up to the porch steps and paused as the shapes of two men came into view.

One of them was Louis, seated on the porch rail with one boot resting against a pillar, a cigar burning between his fingers. The other stood just to the side, in the glow of the porch lantern, speaking with him in a low, even voice. It wasn’t until Mae moved closer that her steps slowed.

The man.

Her breath caught as recognition struck her—not sudden, but slow, like a fog lifting.

He was older than he looked. Or maybe just quieter. His hair, short and ruffled, caught the last golden bits of the sun. His clothes were work-worn but clean, and his boots had the reddish dust of the land on them. And still, that face. Those eyes.

The man who’d pulled the weeds behind their house.

The man who tipped his hat and asked to be invited in.

The man she hadn’t seen since Isaiah died.

They were speaking. She couldn’t hear the words—not until Louis noticed her approaching.

“There she go,” Louis said, standing up straight and flicking ash over the porch rail. “Mama been fussin’ all over the house wonderin’ where you slipped off to. Sun’s nearly down.”

Mae opened her mouth, then closed it again. She swallowed and nodded slowly. “I ain’t mean to worry her. I just… took a walk.”

Her voice was softer than usual. She hated that it was.

Louis gave her a look—one of those older-brother glances that held more than words—but he didn’t press. Instead, he gestured toward the man beside him.

“Ella-Mae, this here’s Remmick. He’s been helpin’ with the grounds.”

Mae stopped mid-step at the name.

Remmick.

She looked at him fully now, watched how he turned his head toward her. The light from the lantern above cast a soft sheen across his face, and it made his brown eyes seem darker than she remembered. They studied her for a moment—nothing aggressive, just… interested.

A corner of his mouth lifted in something like a smile.

“We’ve met,” she said quietly, her voice tugged back into her chest. “Back when the yard was bein’ tended to.”

“Mm.” Remmick gave the smallest nod, his voice low and warm like it had been that first morning. “I remember.”

There was a pause.

Mae adjusted the shawl around her arms, feeling its woven edge scrape her wrist where her pulse ran fast.

“I’m Ella-Mae,” she added, quieter now, for the sake of manners.

Remmick’s head dipped politely. “Pleasure.”

Louis turned to glance toward the front door. “Go on inside. I’ll be in shortly. I gotta finish up with him.”

Mae hesitated. Her eyes lingered on Remmick a second longer. He didn’t look at her the way other white men did—not with that stiff, expectant air, not with caution, not even with disrespect. He looked at her like he already knew her. Not deeply, but… just enough to keep watching.

She nodded once. “Alright,” she murmured. “I’ll tell Mama I’m home.”

She stepped up onto the porch, the wood groaning beneath her boots. As she passed them, she felt Remmick’s eyes on her back—felt it in her shoulders like heat. She didn’t look back, not even when she reached the front door. Her hand touched the knob, then paused.

Inside was warmth. Her mother’s voice. The comfort of kitchen smells and soft lighting.

Behind her was Remmick.

Not a threat.

Not a friend.

Just… something she wasn’t sure how to place.

So she opened the door.

The warmth of the house wrapped around Mae as soon as she stepped through the door. It smelled of black-eyed peas and cornbread, maybe cabbage on the stove too, and the hush of the house was only broken by the distant creak of a floorboard upstairs and the steady clink of pots coming from the kitchen.

She moved slowly, as if each step inside brought her further into the safety she didn’t quite feel anymore.

The brown paper bag crinkled faintly in her hand as she crossed the hall. Her heels clicked gently against the wood, familiar and soft, until she turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen’s golden warmth.

She barely had time to set the bag down on the counter before she heard—

“Ella-Mae.”

Her name, her full name, pulled from her mother’s throat like a sermon warning, thick with tension and concern.

Mae turned just as Florence rounded the kitchen table, eyes catching hers. Her brows were pulled together, and her mouth set in that firm line Mae knew meant she’d been stewing in worry for a good while.

“Mama, I—”

“Where you been?” Florence asked, voice low but urgent. “The sun just now kissin’ the ground and you still not home. You know better than to be out past sunset.”

Mae stood frozen for a second. She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry. She hadn’t meant to worry her. Truly. But time had passed quicker than it felt, and her head was still halfway between the church and the porch.

“I just went out,” she said softly, almost like it wasn’t good enough. “Just to town… and I stopped by the church.”

Florence’s eyes narrowed. “The church? You was there this whole time?”

Mae nodded, but guilt already prickled at her skin. “I didn’t mean to stay out that long, Mama. I was just thinkin’, walkin’…”

Florence reached out and rested a hand gently but firmly on her daughter’s cheek, turning her face a little like she used to when Mae was a girl and caught in a lie about who broke the sugar bowl.

“Your eyes red,” she murmured. “And your hands cold.”

Mae bit the inside of her cheek, eyes lowering.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice thick now. “Didn’t mean to make you worry. I just… I needed air.”

There was a long pause between them, long enough for the stove to hiss and a pot lid to clatter.

Florence finally let out a breath and brushed Mae’s hair back from her forehead. Her hand lingered there, tender and tired.

“I don’t like it when you don’t come home before dark, Ella-Mae. Not with how cruel the world is to women like us. Not after…” Her voice trailed off, but they both knew what she was about to say.

Isaiah.

Mae nodded again. “I understand.”

Florence studied her for a moment longer, her thumb smoothing a crease above her brow.

Then, softer, she said, “Go on now. Change your dress. You smell like cold air.”

Mae let out a half-laugh, watery and low. “Yes, ma’am.”

Florence turned back toward the stove, and Mae took the moment to breathe again, just a little.

She glanced back toward the hallway where the porch door sat still slightly ajar, just barely. Through the crack, she could hear Louis’s low voice murmuring with Remmick’s.

Then she turned away.

And went upstairs.

Dinner was already being set when Mae came down the stairs.

She’d changed into a simple house dress the color of softened clay, and her hair had been tied back with a ribbon that didn’t quite match, but no one commented. The heels of her shoes tapped gently down the stairs, but the house felt oddly still. Not tense, just… muted.

When she stepped into the dining room, the chandelier was lit low and golden above them, casting everything in amber. Grace sat beside Mama, talking softly and fiddling with the edge of her linen napkin. Paul, as always, was slumped in his chair with his Bible not too far from reach, though thankfully closed for now. Louis had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand wrapped around his water glass, the other resting on the table as if he hadn’t quite decided whether he was hungry or just there out of duty.

The table, long and heavy with carved edges, was already lined with food. Chicken smothered in brown gravy, sweet potatoes mashed with syrup and butter, cornbread still steaming in its dish, and black-eyed peas cooked with bits of smoked ham.

Mae slipped quietly into the seat beside Grace, muttering a “’Scuse me” as she passed, and unfolded her napkin into her lap.

The clatter of serving spoons filled the silence for a few minutes. Plates were passed, dishes scraped clean of first helpings. Florence said grace before they all sat, but even that had felt shorter than usual. As they began eating, only the soft sounds of chewing, the gentle scrape of silverware, and the occasional sigh filled the room.

Grace eventually started to speak—something about how she and Mama would need to make a trip into the quarter for wedding fabric, and Florence nodded along with a tired kind of fondness. She added that the seamstress down on Dauphine was expecting them before the frost set in.

Mae heard every word, but they felt far away. She pushed sweet potato across her plate with the back of her fork, her appetite dimmed since returning from town.

“Mae,” Louis said, voice low but clear enough to cut through the small talk. “You alright?”

She looked up slowly, caught off guard. His eyes weren’t hard, just observant, like he’d been watching her for a while and decided to speak only now.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just tired, is all.”

Florence glanced at her from across the table. “She went by the old church,” she said, directing her words at Louis. 

At that, the sound of silverware eased. Louis leaned back in his chair just slightly and looked to Mae with something unreadable in his expression—part curiosity, part concern.

“You did?” he asked.

Mae nodded, keeping her tone even. “I was nearby, and just… felt like stopping by.”

Silence crept into the space between them, just long enough to settle.

Louis’s fingers drummed once on the wood. “Was Pastor Ward there?”

Mae’s eyes lifted to meet his.

She thought about the emptiness of the pews. The way her footsteps had echoed. The uneasy weight in her chest when she stood at the gate. And the hollow way the church still smelled like him, even though he hadn’t been there.

“I didn’t see him,” she said softly.

She didn’t add that she hoped she wouldn’t.

Louis nodded, once. He didn’t speak again right away, but the silence that followed his question was different now—thicker.

Grace cleared her throat gently and asked if the seamstress still carried ivory lace like she used to. Florence responded, grateful for the change in subject, and the conversation slowly resumed its rhythm, like a needle picking its way back through a worn groove.

Still, Louis didn’t ask any more questions.

And Mae didn’t offer anything else.

She just pushed another piece of cornbread to the side of her plate and stared at the flickering candle near the center of the table, its flame bowing gently, as though something unseen had brushed past.

—

The night was quieter than most. No cicadas sang, no wind stirred the tall grass near the edge of the yard. Even the rocking chair beneath Mae creaked gently, like it was mindful of the stillness that blanketed the De Pointe du Lac house.

She sat on the porch like she always did now, book in her lap, unopened. Her fingers rested on its spine, but she hadn’t flipped a page in over an hour. She hadn’t hummed, either. Her voice felt caught somewhere in her chest, tangled with questions she hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the treeline—dark and deep and patient. She rocked softly, counting the trees like they were rosary beads, hoping it might calm her nerves.

One… two… three…

“Mae.”

She flinched.

Her name—spoken low, smooth, almost like it had been sung—came from the left side of the porch. Her heart skipped before her eyes turned sharply to the sound.

There he was.

That man.

Remmick.

He stood just beyond the steps, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other slipped into his pocket. He didn’t wear the same gardening clothes from earlier that summer. No dirt, no gloves, no sun-worn linen. Tonight, he wore slacks and a white shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Clean, composed. But it wasn’t the clothes that made Mae sit up straighter.

It was the way he said her name. Not Ella-Mae. Not Miss. Just Mae. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her body went still.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” she said, voice tight as she straightened up in her seat. “Ain’t proper for a man to be comin’ ‘round a young woman’s house when the sun’s done gone down.”

Remmick let out a low laugh. Not loud. Not mocking. But it curled under her skin just the same.

“You always this proper, Mae?” he asked, head tilted slightly. “Even when no one’s lookin’?”

She didn’t like how that made her feel. Like he knew her in a way he had no right to.

“What you want?” she asked flatly, not unkindly, but with the edge of someone who’d had enough surprises for one lifetime.

Remmick lifted a shoulder like he hadn’t expected the question to sting. “Was passin’ by. Thought I’d see how you were doin’.”

Mae paused, then pushed herself up, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brushed the back of the rocking chair as she moved closer to the screen door—just in case.

“You don’t know me like that,” she said quietly. “Ain’t like we been talkin’. So why you care how I’m doin’?”

Remmick’s eyes never left her. He stepped closer to the railing, just a single stride, but Mae stepped back just as quickly.

Her hand hovered near the door handle.

That smile again—something like kindness stretched too wide, too sharp. “You was hurting when you got back today,” he said. “I could feel it.”

Mae’s breath hitched.

“What?” she asked, blinking slowly.

“I felt it,” he repeated. “Like a cut on your soul. Raw. Bleedin’. Screamin’ so loud I thought maybe you was calling me.”

“I didn’t,” she said fast. “I wasn’t calling nobody.”

“I know,” he said softly, like it mattered more to him than it should. “But that don’t mean I didn’t hear you.”

Mae’s throat went dry. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her shawl.

“You talk like you know things,” she muttered. “But I ain’t never told you nothin’. I ain’t never shown you nothin’.”

Remmick’s gaze didn’t waver. “You showed me plenty,” he murmured. “You just don’t know it yet.”

The silence between them stretched. Mae’s heart thudded heavy in her ears, louder than the crickets that had finally begun to chirp somewhere behind the house.

He didn’t move again. He didn’t need to.

“I’m goin’ inside now,” Mae said quietly.

Remmick dipped his head slightly. “Of course.”

She reached for the door and pulled it open, stepping over the threshold. Before she could close it behind her, she turned her head and asked, “You gon’ be hangin’ ‘round here more?”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he did, it was simple.

“If you want me to.”

The door shut with a soft click.

Mae stood on the other side, her back pressed against it. Her breath came slow, then faster.

She didn’t know what frightened her more—that he said he felt her pain.

Or that part of her believed him.

The hallway felt colder than usual as Mae climbed the stairs. She gripped the banister tighter than she needed to, each footfall soft against the runner laid down over dark wooden steps. The house was mostly quiet now—voices had hushed, plates were likely being washed, and Grace’s laughter, usually floating through the air somewhere, had long since vanished into her room.

At the top of the steps, Mae hesitated. Just a breath. Just enough time for her to hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She blinked slowly and turned toward her room.

The lamp beside her bed was already lit, casting a low amber glow that barely reached the corners of the room. She closed the door gently behind her, like slamming it might shatter whatever fragile hold she still had on herself.

She moved slowly. Unwrapped the shawl from around her shoulders. Unbuttoned her blouse, fingers trembling faintly—not from cold, but from something deeper. A leftover shake in her bones from that man—Remmick—and the way he looked at her like he’d peeled her open and read the softest, sorest parts of her.

She wanted to dismiss it. She tried to. But the thought kept circling her like a crow overhead.

He felt her pain.

How?

She changed into her nightgown, a soft, thin cotton thing, and moved to the small vanity to untie her hair. Her fingers worked slow through the strands, pulling them apart with gentle tugs. She caught her own eyes in the mirror—watched them, studied them—as if searching for proof she was still who she thought she was. But her reflection stared back blankly. Tired. Haunted. Curious.

When she was done, she walked across the room.

It was the same few steps she took every night, but they felt heavier now, like the weight of that look Remmick gave her lingered on her shoulders.

Her hand paused above the drawer.

The low, narrow one on the left.

The one nobody ever touched but her.

She drew in a breath, and then slowly, slowly opened it.

Inside, wrapped in an old handkerchief stitched with her initials, was a bird. A small one, no bigger than her palm. Its feathers were soft—still clung to the body even though its chest caved slightly from whatever had torn into it. The same wound as the others. Ripped, but not devoured. As if the thing that bit it didn’t want to eat. Just to mark.

Mae’s hands hovered over it, and then lifted the cloth delicately.

The bird’s head lolled slightly to the side, eyes dull now. Its neck had stiffened just slightly in the past day. But it hadn’t rotted—not yet.

No smell. Not unless you leaned in close. And no one ever did.

She didn’t know why she kept them.

That was a lie.

She knew exactly why.

There was something about them. Something sacred. Or maybe cursed. She hadn’t figured out which.

Each bird she’d found outside her window—sometimes with a wing bent too far backward, sometimes with blood dried across the grass—felt less like a warning now. And more like… a gift.

A strange, twisted token of something unspoken. A message without words.

She had thrown the first few away. She’d cried over them. Buried one behind the tool shed. Burned another.

But one night, after the fifth bird, something in her shifted.

Something curious. Something quiet and coiled like a serpent resting in her ribs.

She’d wrapped that bird and tucked it away.

And then another.

And another.

And now… four of them lived in that drawer. Carefully folded. Lined in handkerchiefs, each touched by time in different ways.

Mae stared down at the one from the previous night.

It had a red mark along its beak. Red, she noted. Not blood. Red like thread, almost. And she remembered something odd about how Remmick looked at her tonight. Not like a man who stumbled upon a woman by accident.

But like someone who knew her.

Like someone who’d left something behind for her to find.

The thought made her skin crawl.

And yet… she didn’t shut the drawer.

Instead, her fingers reached in and adjusted the cloth slightly—neater, more like a blanket than a shroud.

She closed the drawer carefully and stood there, frozen.

A part of her, a louder part now, felt shame—what was she doing?

But the other part… the one that still felt Remmick’s voice in her ear, still heard him say he sensed her pain…

That part felt calm. Possessed by something it couldn’t name.

That part felt seen.

Mae stepped back, breath shallow, and turned to crawl beneath the covers of her bed. The lamp flickered for a moment as she reached over to twist the knob.

Darkness settled in the room.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

Because something deep in her bones knew—

She was changing.

And something out in those woods was waiting for her to stop fighting it.

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Having completed her Angling Ace aspiration, Marin got cake-d up and sent on a vacation to Granite Falls and try and complete her fish collection. This gen's quirk is that they have to flirt with everyone who they encounter at a fishing spot, until they find their long-term partner.

Yeah, I'm thrilled about it too, Marin.

The rant follows. It was going to be a longer rant but then I got tired. You need energy to rant - who would have thought it? (Turns out I lied. It was still pretty long.)

Also anyone who isn't a Simmer will likely think that I need to touch grass after this (which, fair tbh). But then if you weren't a Simmer, you likely wouldn't be here in the first place 😉

(And yeah, it's all tongue-in-cheek/not to be taken seriously. Well, mostly lol.)

I know that the term 'long-term partner' is deliberately vague and leaves room for an aro-ace relationship (orrrr even a bff who you live with and raise a kid together?) which I appreciate. I know that she doesn't have to find her partner from this selection - the wording is that she just has to keep on flirting until she does.

But even of the premade townies, no one is sparking joy? I could default to Nalani, who you'd think would be perfect (I mean, gorgeous merperson and actually interesting in spite of her blah occult) and yet for some reason I'm just not feeling the two of them together.

So then the Watcher, in all her benevolence (aaaannd admittedly her cheapness for waiting on a sale to buy Lovestruck) set up a club for Marin. It was to be a club for young adults. It was to be a club for unmarried Sims. Which - I wish there was a finer means of classification, because I know damn well the two of you are engaged, Darrel Charm and Mateo Markovic from My Wedding Stories (whose name I had to look up, that's how little you inspire me). Bland as forbidden word townie from a pack so broke that it may as well be a millennial. Aaaand also it was to be a club for people with Level 2 Fishing and above.

Thus: young adults, unmarried, some skill (and therefore, hopefully interest) in fishing. Cute, cool. Hopefully we've weeded the catfish out of the pond.

Then we pulled up the tab of potential candidates and guess which forbidden word comes up.

Lou. Fucking. Howell.

For context, I have history with Lou Howell. I have beef with Lou Howell. Nothing particularly wrong with the guy, apart from a certain lightfingeredness (klepto trait) and a slight body hair problem around particular times of the month. But this motherfucker is like an universal adapter when it comes to all my Sims and I have to consciously make a decision to stay away from him in saves. In other words, Lou Howell is unwelcome here.

(I also don't really know yet what I'm doing with the fourth/next gen. Yeah, the rules say using music to make money. This Watcher however is this forbidden word tired of celebrity Sims popping up around the most random and out-of-way places that she's about to eject Get Famous into the sun, however, and it's taking every last once of willpower not to deactivate it right now. Sooo if I had an idea of what the fourth gen looked like, then I may have a less vague idea of what the baby daddy/mommy/gender neutral genetic donor should look like.)

Wait - what's happening now? Who moved my cursor?

NO, LOU. NO. IT IS NOT YOUR TIME. GO AWAY.

So I don't know what to do! Lou Howell Does anyone have gallery Sims to donate to this cause? Lou Howell Are there previously untapped mines of eligible townies who I haven't thought of? Lou Howell For the record, Akira Kibo and Paolo Rocca are granddad and dad respectively. In spite of the incest glitch making a comeback elsewhere (maybe it's heard the Targaryens have returned to the telly?), they are therefore out of the picture.

Play the Sims, they said. It will be fun, they said. A casual game, they said...

I need a lie down.

odd money legacy rules here. come join me. it will be fun...