#does it count if he’s literally a fetus

[mediumgayitalian]

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———

For some reason the lack of a little jingling bell throws her off.

It’s a quintessential diner thing, she supposes. A little bell above the door. There’s the weird decor and the pressed cotton uniforms and the yelling chef and the little bell. It was in both Back to the Future one and two. That’s how she knows she’s right.

But when she pushes open the door with windows so caked with grime she can hardly see through them, there is no little jingle. And when she looks up at the door frame, eyebrows furrowed, it seems sad and lonely. She’s never been so aware of the lack of a sound, the absence of a noise. It makes the rest of the silence of the diner seem eerie, wrong. Dead.

She takes a hesitant step forward, door swinging shut behind her. She realizes as she approaches the ordering counter that her hand rests palm cupped on her belly, and removes it immediately.

“Hello?”

There are a couple groups of people in the back, talking quietly over their food. It doesn’t make the diner seem any less abandoned, somehow. If anything it feels like a TV playing on mute in a hospital. Saturated static.

“Seat yourself, girl. You ain’t never been to a diner before?”

The woman that speaks is tall and plump and harsh-looking. A very strange mixing of features. They’re at odd with the diner-specific yellow uniform she wears, collar pressed but skirt wrinkled. Apron dusted with flour and streaked with machine oil. Face pinched, eyes hard, black hair resting in dainty ringlets along her shoulders. Her name tag only reads the name of the business.

“A couple,” Naomi defends. “One even had a hostess.”

The woman — who must be a manager — raises an eyebrow.

“You see a hostess’ station?”

“No.”

“Then why haven’t you sat yourself?”

“‘Cause I’m not here to eat.”

“Well, then, get the hell out of my restaurant.”

Naomi holds her gaze, tilting up her chin. She will not be swayed by orneriness. “I need a job.”

The manager eyes her critically. Naomi’s hands twitch, and the top of her head feels suddenly itchy. Summer before highschool she’d wrote her first resume — Mama’d drawn her a bath and sat behind her and spent two hours slowly untangling the ratty mess of curls on her head with nothing but a bottle of cheap jasmine conditioner and her own two fingers, telling her about lasting first impressions.

“Go home, kid.”

“I’m not a fu —” She stumbles over her words at the last second, catching herself before that eyebrow can climb any higher. It does, and the other eyebrow begins to climb with it, but she rights herself and powers on. “I can vote,” she says finally. “I can throw on a uniform and get blown up across seas. I can — I can adopt a child, if I so choose. Right now.”

The eyebrows reach critical height, brushing the end of her carefully teased hairline. Naomi watches them and their inspiring journey with intensity, instead of noticing how the manager’s eyes drop down to her stomach, linger, and then return to her face.

“You gonna adopt it right outta your womb, or what?”

Naomi snaps her mouth shut.

“Well,” she says, and nothing else.

The manager sighs. “This ain’t a charity.”

Naomi barely manages to bite the snark back from her voice before she speaks.“I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for work.”

Eyes shifting to the tables in the back, the manager leans over the counter, long fingers wrapping around the handle of a coffee pot so old the handle has worn right down to plain metal, and walks over to a beckoning customer. She fills a man’s mug with her lips pressed thin, offering a napkin to a child in a high chair.

“And why would I hire some pregnant kid?”

The customer pushes over a stack of plates without moving his eyes from the newspaper in front of him. There’s a woman on the other side of the table, holding a spoon out to the little kid, eyes desperate and tight smile slipping when the kid’s pudgy fist hits and sends the scoop of scrambled eggs flying. The man brings the coffee to his lips and waves the manager away.

“It’s illegal for an employer to discriminate against a pregnant person,” Naomi says finally. That had been drilled into her head by her Mama, too. That and how to keep her finances separate. She’ll have real trouble with that, what with the zero dollars she’ll have by the end of the week.

“Good thing I’m not your employer, then.” The manager sets the plates by a soapy sink, putting the coffee pot back on the hot plate. “Get lost.”

I am lost, Naomi almost says, almost slamming a hand in the counter to catch herself from her suddenly weak knees. She watches the manager watch her, tight little frown furling the corner of her mouth, through the blur of her eyes, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat.

“Please,” she says, too quiet, then tries again: “Please.”

The manager disappears behind a short half-wall, following the sound of an oven dinging. Naomi gasps silently, bowing over the counter, breathing heavily. She curls her hands into fists and presses them, hard, one to her chest and one right under her ribs. Ka-thump, ka-thump, kickkickkick. Kickkick ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-kickthump.

There’s an echoing clatter as a hot tray slams on a stove top. Scrambling upright, Naomi lifts the little door on the counter, scanning the space. The register is ancient and yellowed, buttons so worn with use the labels have worn away. There’s a thread-thin mat at the base of it. The counters are clean but scratched, walls stained but dust-free. The coffeemaker gurgles pathetically. An apron hangs from a hook nailed to the wall by the kitchen window.

As quietly as she can, Naomi slips it over her head. It’s tight around the waist, so she folds it once and ties it around her ribs, instead, letting the straps dangle loosely at the butt of her jeans. She ties her hair quickly behind her head and steps up to the creaky sink, silently moving the pile of dishes to the empty counter. When the clatter in the kitchen starts up again, she turns the water on as quick as she can — hack gurgle rush — and squeezes the mostly empty soap bottle as hard as she can to make up a lather.

“Hell are you doing?” says the manager gruffly, two pies balancing on her oven mitt hands.

Naomi shrugs.

“You deaf, or stupid?”

She thinks if laughter like a lyre and sun golden hair, plucking at her out-of-tune guitar string and asking a similar question. The ghost of a smile pulls across her face.

“Not deaf. And that’s rude.”

A pie plate crinkles under the press of a knife, and the scent of candy cherry mixes with slightly-burnt coffee. Makes her think of Grammy’s house, the smell of the jams she spent sixty years making soaked permanently in the wooden foundations. The manager finishes plating the pie slices and sliding them under the display glass around the same time Naomi suds up the last dirty mug. She watches her red-painted finger tap, tap, tap on her bicep out of the corner of her eye as she rinses it off.

Unplugging the sink, dirty water gurgling as it drains, she points a hesitant elbow at the dishtowel tucked into the managers pocket. She grabs it, threading it around her fingers, twisting the worn pink tail.

“Freezer broke two days ago.” She picks at a loose thread ‘til it pulls clean from the rest of the fabric, balling it up and sliding it into her pocket. She tugs on the fabric one last time, then tosses it, bundled, into Naomi’s waiting hands. “Tables in the back better have their bill by the time I get back from fixin’ it.”

Naomi hunches over the sopping dishes to hide her smile, listening to the scritch scritch click of the manager’s shoes as she stomps away.

———

Di doesn’t believe in paycheques.

“Great way to get ripped off,” she likes to grumble, slapping a stack of 20s bundled in a stapled piece of notebook paper into Naomi’s hands every Friday. She doesn’t think much of taxes, either, or lawyers, or racecar drivers. Naomi doesn’t quite understand that last one, but she knows better than to ask. As far as she’s concerned she’s still on probation, and probably will be if she works at the diner for another four months. Or the rest of her life.

On one hand, Naomi doesn’t have a bank account, so a cheque would be useless to her anyway. The cash she can use immediately and whenever she needs it. On the other hand, which is currently occupied with sewing back closed the hole she gouged in her backseat for the seventeenth week in a row, she has nowhere exactly to put that money, so it stresses her out.

Maybe she should look into an apartment.

Of course there are no apartment buildings in Sheffield. But she’s pretty sure Iraan is a big enough town to have a couple, as squat as they may be, and it’s only a twenty minute drive. There’s more to do there, too, so maybe she’d actually have a reason to take a day off every week. It’s not like she can buy a damn house with the less-than 3000 dollars she has saved up.

Waddling out of her car, she ducks into the diner. You’d think she’d be used to the lack of bell, now, but she finds that she still anticipates it; finds that her brain still quietly signals to her ears to prep for it. It always sets her off, a little.

“You’re late,” says Di critically, uniform hanging over her arm, foot tap tap-ing on the linoleum floor.

“I don’t have a starting time,” Naomi says lightly. “On account that I am not your employee.“

Di huffs, rolling her eyes. Naomi rolls them right back, snatching the uniform from her arms on the way to the bathroom. She has to wear Di’s, now, because she doesn’t fit into her old one. Di is much taller and broader than her and the stupid thing hangs down to her mid-calf, awkwardly drowning her shoulders, but it’s the only thing wide enough to cover her belly and Di refuses to let Naomi just wear her regular clothes.

(“You’re indecent,” she always says, sneering at her jean shorts, but Naomi has learned to translate you’re indecent but also you can’t have bare legs around hot oil, which she’s come to appreciate. Sure, Di makes her clean the bathroom whether or not she needs to crawl around in her knees to stay balanced, but she doesn’t want her burned to death, at least. That’s something.)

“And your hair’s unwashed,” she adds, as if Naomi had not walked away. She reaches up and adjusts Naomi’s collar, like that is going to do anything to change the fact that she looks like she’s wearing a collapsed tent. “You’re going to drive customers away.”

Naomi doesn’t say, you open before the community centre does, so I can’t shower in the mornings. She does not say, I spent last night trying to change the oil on my car when I couldn’t lie down to reach it. She doesn’t say, I’m too scared to sleep in the community centre parking lot, because my windows aren’t tinted and I don’t know what’ll wake me up.

She says, “The only thing scaring customers away is your busted attitude,” and scurries into the kitchen before Di can order her to clean the friers.

———

Naomi’s favourite part of the diner is the radio.

She can’t believe that Di allows it, what with her general distaste for joy in all of its forms. But it’s balanced on the window sill watching over the oven, antenna extended out the torn screen, dials permanently stuck on an old forgotten country channel. Naomi likes to hum along as she works, frying potatoes or kneading dough, twirling around the kitchen with a mop or a broom. It’s nice even when she’s cramping, even when her feet are sore — she likes hollering along to Dolly Parton when she knows Di is listening, want to move ahead, but the boss won’t seem to let me, likes the way her little parasite goes absolutely buck wild whenever Willie Nelson comes on. She can hear it even when she’s in the dining area, plates balanced all up her arms (and on her belly, too, which is one of the many things she has discovered it’s useful for), humming along to scratching dorks and scritching napkins, working 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin’.

She amuses herself often by making up lives for the various patrons. They’re close enough to the main highway that they get all sorts driftin’ in, from families with bratty kids who upend their food on the floor for Naomi to clean to men in starched suits who never leave a tip. The regulars she’s gotten to know, like the older, stocky, short-haired woman called Bella who smiles softly at her and leaves more than double her bill every breakfast. Or the two young men, college seniors, she thinks, who come in every Saturday afternoon and laugh loudly and talk about strange subjects and rope her into their conversations when there’s no one around and she’s bored.

Other patrons, though, strangers, she speculates. Like there’s a man in the farthest back corner, now, hunched over in the peeling green vinyl seats, scrawling frantically in a tiny notebook. She imagines he’s a private investigator, chasing a lead, about to discover that the woman on a date on the other end of the diner is cheating on her husband of fifteen years.

“Naomi, if you don’t get your ass back to work.”

She throws her hands up. “There’s nothing to do!”

Di observes the half-empty diner, noting the clean tables, neat counters, sparkling kitchen. Each customer sitting satisfied in their table, coffee mugs full, plates still hefty with food.

“Clean the grout.”

Scowling, Naomi stomps to the kitchen, wrenching open the cupboard under the counter and yanking out the Mr. Clean and scrub brush. It’s an ordeal and a half to get on the floor, wincing at the extra weight on her knees, sitting back on her heels with every spray and keeping one hand on her belly while the other scrubs. I Got Stripes by Johnny Cash starts playing through the radio, and she grits out the lyrics with every drag of the brush through the tiles.

“— and then chains, them chains, they’re ‘bout to drag me down —”

A pair of worn black boots come stomping into her line of vision. Naomi finishes scrubbing at a stubborn smear of grease, relishing in how it submits under her power, then rests her weight on her tired hands and tilts her chin up to glare up at her boss.

“I got stripes, stripes around my shoulders,” she sings defiantly, “chains, chains around my feet —”

“I should whip you, you damn drama queen,” Di says darkly, glaring right back. “Had three separate customers come on up to me askin’ me if I’m mistreatin’ ‘that poor young pregnant girl’.”

Naomi smiles triumphantly.

Di scowls, rolling her eyes hard enough to visibly strain her face, and drops some kind of foam pads at her feet. She stomps off without another word, scowling at the radio.

Poking at the pads, Naomi discovers they’re meant to be strapped to her knees. She slips them on, immediately noticing the relief.

For the rest of her shift, she’s an angel.

Di even almost smiles at her.

———

“Naomi, go home.”

“What happened to kid?” Naomi pants, knuckles going white against the counter. She breathes slowly and carefully through her mouth — in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in, two — and grits her teeth, staring determinately at the sticky tabletop until the dizziness fades. “I didn’t even know you knew my name.”

“I don’t.” A roughened hand rests on the small of her back, loosening the too-tight apron straps. “You’re sick, kid.”

“I’m fine.”

She tilts forward. Di barely manages to catch her, settling her slowly on the floor without so much as a comment about how heavy she is.

“The diner is empty, Naomi.” The same roughened hand moves up to the back of her neck, untangling the sweaty strands of hair that stick to her skin. Her voice is unusually soft. “You’re nine months pregnant, kiddo. You need to go home. You need to rest —”

“I need to work.”

With great effort, Naomi shoves her away, standing slowly to her feet. The world is still wobbly and bile climbs up her throat, but she pushes forward, hands half-extended beside her. She reaches back for the wet rag, swiping weakly at the table. An onslaught of nausea makes her pause, mouth clamped shut, breathing quick and deep through dry nostrils.

When she speaks again, Di’s voice is hard. “I’m not asking. Get out of my diner. Go home, or you won’t be allowed back. I won’t be accused of killing some dumbass kid who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“I can’t —” she gags, tears springing in her eyes, desperately trying to wrestle back some control of her body — “there’s nowhere, please, Di, let me —”

She slaps a hand to her mouth, heaving. She hasn’t even — she hasn’t eaten all day. The smell of anything makes her want to vomit. The idea of putting anything more in her body makes her want to peel off her skin. She feels — bloated and freakish and ugly; like an unsuspected astronaut on a sieged spaceship.

Like she’s about to burst.

“Oh, for the love of — Naomi, please tell me you are not nine months pregnant and sleeping in your fucking car.”

Naomi says nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think of Mama’s peony-scented perfume.

“Jesus Christ.”

Stomp, click, stomp stomp. Rattling chain, swishing cardboard. Flicking switch. Turning dial, fading music. Stomp, click, stomp stomp.

Two callused hands on her biceps, dragging her upright.

“C’mon, up you get. Where’re your keys?”

A hand digs around in her apron pocket.

“What, d’you fuckin’ run these over or somethin’? The hell’d you fuckin’ do to these things?”

No jingle on the door. A flipped sign.

“No, obviously you can’t — go get in the fuckin’ passenger seat, dumbass. God.”

Di mutters something about stupid kids and stupider adults, for putting up with them. Naomi smiles tiredly. Daddy used to say that all the time, flicking her on the forehead.

“Roll the window down. You need fresh air.”

The slight breeze coming in from the window is helpful, actually. It’s been a disgustingly hot summer, and Naomi has had to sleep with her windows down to avoid suffocating. She wakes up to mosquito bites in places she frankly did not know could be bitten.

“D’you think you’re going into labour?” Di asks quietly, over Dolly’s crooning. Bittersweet memories, that’s all I’m takin’ with me.

Naomi sighs, shaking her head. Already, the nausea has faded into the background. The sweat cools against her skin, and she stops feeling quite so much like she’s going to die.

“No. It’s only been eight months and a little less than two weeks.”

“…You remember the exact date?”

Well, hello, feverish flush. How I’ve missed you so. Will you do me a favour and cook me alive, while you’re here?

“It was a very memorable occasion,” Naomi mumbles, shrinking back into her seat.

“I see.”

Naomi’s never seen Di look quite so amused before. Her whole face softens, and her brown eyes look warm, for once. Naomi would attack her if she had the strength.

Di cruises slowly down Main St, conscientious of the kids ducking in and out of the shops, laughing with their friends. A tween girl looks over at an older boy and whips back over to her friends when he meets her eyes, the whole group of them descending into delighting shrieks. Naomi watches them with a smile and an ache in her chest. She wonders how Molly’s doing. How Esther’s holding up, how Leela is faring. Jen’s at school, now, all the way up in NYC. She hopes they’re well and tries not to hate them for not being here.

Sheffield’s small, and there’s not a street Naomi hasn’t driven down. She spends most of her free time in the community centre pool or the desert around the diner, sure, but she’s been around. When Di turns on Pine St and follows her all the way down, though, she frowns, looking over and asking a wordless question.

Di doesn’t answer. She’s driven them all the way to the other side of town in less than five minutes, pulling into a gravel parking lot and killing the engine.

“C’mon,” she grunts, climbing out of the tiny car and waiting, arms crossed, for Naomi to do the same.

“Sure, sure, let the pregnant woman crawl out of her own seat. Don’t lift a finger or anything.”

Di rolls her eyes.

As soon as Naomi has struggled her way out of the car, which takes her a good four minutes, Di stalks off. In her harried attempt to follow her, Naomi feels like a duck hopped up on an energy drink.

“What kinda money do you have?”

Naomi looks at her strangely. “Uh, what you pay me.”

“Yes, obviously, I meant savings.”

“What you pay me,” Naomi repeats.

Di purses her lips. “Well.”

She does not finish her thought. Instead, she strides down the gravel driveway, heedless of Naomi’s struggle behind her, until she approaches a squat looking building with ‘OFFICE’ printed on the little window.

“She needs a room,” she says to the clerk sitting behind it, gesturing at Naomi.

Naomi looks at her in alarm.

“Di, I can’t —”

“Fifty a night,” responds the man quickly.

“Try again.”

Di’s response is swift and immediate, ignoring Naomi’s tugging hand. She pulls away, resting her hands on her lower back, swivelling her head between Di and the man.

“Rate’s a rate, Di.”

She’s not surprised this man knows Di — everyone knows Di. But the slant to his eyebrows is unfamiliar, the hands clasped easily behind his head. He relaxes back into a leather office chair, heeled boot hiked up to rest in his knee, whistling absentmindedly in the face of Di’s glare.

“Two hundred a week.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not asking, Jed.”

The man — Jed — finally starts to look irate, meeting Di’s jaw-set stare with one of his own.

“I’m sorry, I musta missed something. Did you up and buy this place?”

Di doesn’t answer him right away. She never slouches, always standing at her full height, and she’s mighty tall for a woman. For anyone, really. She has a way of planting herself right in front of the sun, no matter where she is. Jed stares up at her, squinting, cast in Di’s shadow everywhere but where he needs to be sheltered.

“You gotta laundry list of shit you done owed me your whole life, Jed.”

Jed just his chin out.

“I don’t owe her shit.”

Blunt fingers wrap around her elbow. “She’s mine.”

“Ain’t how this works, Di.”

“Says who? You?”

For all her intensity, Naomi doesn’t think Di’ll actually fight anyone. If she would, Naomi would’ve gotten her ass kicked months ago.

(She’s mine. Kiddo. You need rest. Roll down the window.)

(…Well.)

Regardless, a flash of fear flits across Jed’s face. He cuts his gaze from Naomi to Di and then back again, pupils shrinking, and then invariably comes to a decision.

“Two fifty,” he snaps, scowling. “Not a penny less, Di.”

Di nods once. “Fine.”

She tightens the hold on Naomi’s elbow, dragging her away from the window. There’s an echoing bang, bang, bang, interspersed with muffled curses, before Jed stumbles out of a door on the side of the scaffolding. He stomps away without looking back, and Di tugs her along to follow.

“Laundry is your own problem. Clean your own shit. If you miss a payment, I’m kicking you out. Clear?”

Naomi stares. Jed standing in front of another low, old building, but this one is much longer, a door posited every dozen or so feet. A plastic chair sits in front of every door, and every door is numbered.

A motel, Naomi realises.

“Clear, kid?”

“Crystal,” Naomi manages, throat dry. Jed practically throws the key at her head, stomping back to the office. Numbly, Naomi slides it in the lock, pushing open the door.

The room isn’t big. There’s a double bed in the middle, a window in the far side and a dresser under it. A TV rests in a dugout shelf in the wall, and there’re two small doors next to it; a closet and a bathroom, Naomi assumes. Smaller than her bedroom back home.

Much, much bigger than her car.

“You’re gonna have to work another ten hours a week to afford this place,” Di says critically. When Naomi looks back at her, she’s lingering at the doorway, staring resolutely at Naomi’s face. Not a spare glance for the room itself.

Naomi does the math fast in her head.

“Twenty hours.”

Di scowls. “Don’t insult me, kid. Ten more hours a week; make sure you’re early tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you’re sick again, either.”

Naomi swallows. She smooths a hand over the quilt tucked neatly over the bed — it’s soft, if not warm. The pillow is plump.

God, she’s missed pillows.

“Thank you, Di,” she says quietly.

Di makes a small twitching motion with her head that may, in some lighting, be considered a nod, then stalks off. Naomi sinks into the mattress; surprised at how much her feet aches now that she’s off of them.

She swings them up, kicking off her boots, to rest on top of the blanket. She leans against the rickety headboard. She rests her hand on her swollen stomach and slowly, silently, begins to cry.

“You and me and sheer fuckin’ will, kid,” she mumbles, face crumpling. The constant ache in the small of her back lifts, slightly. She stretches her toes as far as they’ll go and cries harder. “We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there.”

———

next

naomi art

[bonefall]

Do you have a top 5 dotc characters line-up? Just ones you like in general

"Top 5" is really more of a... "guys I hate the least" lineup. Characters whose treatment made me so angry it's become spite-love. It's bad in here. It's REALLY bad in here.

In no particular order, the characters I like in DOTC are,

Bumble Not JUST because of how dirty she was done, either. Bumble's amazing. She's confident, she's outgoing, she's funny! She's there for Turtle Tail when Gray Wing is treating her like shit, and friendly to every cat she meets, even when they're being dicks to her. She ALWAYS does the right thing in the end and has the best interests of her friends at heart. She's a GOOD PERSON! The ONE time she was ever ANGRY at anyone was when Turtle Tail just let her get dragged back to their wifebeater. She's only part of TWO books but she's the BEST character in the entire arc, hands down, above and beyond the rest of the cast. JUSTICE for Bumble!

Bright Stream She got fridged, killed in a shocking, gruesome way, with uncomfortable detail put on how the pregnant woman probably died slowly and was eaten alive, ripped to shreds by eagles... for Clear Sky's man pain. Clear Sky literally fucking broods in a moonbeam. All because Gray Wing tripped like an idiot in a horror movie. And it was a WASTE. Bright Stream IS INTERESTING ALL ON HER OWN. Gray Wing was downplaying Clear Sky emotionally pressuring her into leaving, dismissing him going "I HOPE YOUR HUNTING SUCKS SO YOU REALIZE YOU SHOULD FOLLOW ME" with a 'good humored flick of his tail,' thirsting over how attractive Bright Stream is and how lucky Clear Sky is to have her as a mate while Bright Stream is obviously feeling upset about how her shitty husband has been talking to her. And it's actually insulting how the writers never acknowledged this-- that Clear Sky has ALWAYS been manipulative. From BOOK ONE. And then she has these absolutely bizarre Angel Fetus Children that Gray Wing coos about on his death bed, because god for-fucking-bid a single scene go by that doesn't become Clear Sky-centric.

Snake This arc tries SO bad to make this fucking guy a villain. SO hard. They describe his stinky breath and his bad teeth and how icky and gross he is, and they make him kill Frost during Clear Sky's Murder Party as if I'm supposed to blame HIM instead of the ESTABLISHED MURDERER WHO ORDERED HIS MEN TO KILL EVERYONE. Then, they choose HIM to stand up against Clear Sky after he let a murderous evil tyrant into his group against all warnings. And they treat that like it's a bad thing. Like SNAKE is the one who's awful for TELLING CLEAR SKY TO SHOVE HIS HALFHEARTED APOLOGY UP HIS UGLY ASS They even make him follow One Eye's evil lackey in the next book, like they're trying to slander him in hindsight. "Oh nonono, ackshually, Snake wasn't principled at all. He wasn't making a point about how Clear Sky let One Eye into his group and that he's sick of following tyrants. DONT WORRY. THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO DON'T LIKE CLEAR SKY ARE EVIL :)" FUCK you. I'm going to stan Snake OUT OF SPITE.

Tall Shadow While I still can't stand what they did with her and Bumble... she's an interesting character and done SO DIRTY because the writers don't fucking respect women at all They chose to have her go through a "self-confidence arc" because everyone nonsensically HATES her and just wants Gray Wing to lead, where she has to choose taking care of her burn-victim brother over leading because her "emotions" are getting in the way, only to clear up once her family is fucking dead because the books KEEP INSISTING that women in particular can't be leaders if they have an important emotional connection. And THEN they have Shaded-fucking-Moss, her predecessor, descend from heaven after Clear Sky's Murder Party to tut-tut at her for killing someone after she was THROWN INTO A CROWD OF PEOPLE TRYING TO MURDER HER, because I'm DEAD serious, god forbid women do anything. Clear Sky's got a direct body count of 3 at this point, PLUS the indirect body count of a dozen people killed on his orders, but ACTUALLY Tall Shadow is the one who deserves the fucking scolding. INSANE. And YET. She remains a practical person. She's diplomatic when she can be, and harsh when she cannot. Against all common sense, she LISTENS to Gray Wing's AWFUL advice to do Just One More peaceful meeting where maybe THIS time sucking Clear Sky's toes will work, because she is fair. I cannot help but love her.

Milkweed I haven't gotten to her in my read-along yet but she's done so dirty, too. It makes me sick. She's revealed to be a friend of Misty and distrusts the Mountain Cats for, you know... stealing all the native cats' land and murdering her friend? But don't worry, Gray Wing's here to do Clear Sky Apologetics and convince her to go join his group. While there she gets verbally accosted by Leaf, a recurring background asshole, who says she's useless, her stupid babies are stealing his food, and that when she gets sick she's just keeping the whole camp awake with her coughing. So anyway, because the Erins LOVE domestic abuse, they get shipped together lmaoo. Normal book series.

Bumble, Bright Stream, Snake, Tall Shadow, Milkweed. I also have feelings about Wind Runner though, and what they did with her. But GOD, explaining my complicated thoughts on Wind Runner would take a long time. She is both a favorite and also a symbol of several huge problems in WC.

[imarvelatthestars]

Just a Man: I

Pairings: Jango Fett x f!Reader

Content: this is a Headless Horseman au set during a historical time period on Earth with a special focus on Māori culture to honor Tem's heritage; warnings include - decapitation, violence & warfare, mercenary activity, explicit references to colonization, (D)jango is morally ambiguous and a problematic king but we love him anyway, and also smut

Notes: no use of y/n, although the reader is given a placeholder last name.

Many thanks to @moodymisty who inspired it & @wolffegirlsunite who let me yell all my feral ideas at her.

a playlist | next chapter

important vocab: aotearoa - literally 'the land of the long white cloud', the māori name for new zealand korowai - a type of cloak waka - canoe; waka hourua - large double-hulled canoes made for ocean travel iwi - tribe tamariki - children mana - the supernatural, indestructible power of the gods that exists in everything pounamu - special greenstone or jade that many pendants and patu are made out of patu - a traditional māori war club kaitiaki - guardian django - possibly from a romani word meaning "i awake"; fetu - alternate spelling of the māori name "whetu" (wh- = f-)

1575 – Rotorua, Aotearoa

It is cold this night and he draws his korowai tighter around his shoulders. Most are asleep by now and he ought to be among them, but the stars have kept him up, the stars and their reflections on the lake and what lies beyond them all. This wonder is not a new one. Fetu has wondered about the great beyond many times, enough to have been scolded for it beyond what he can count. Yet still the desire remains.

It calls to him now, itching at the back of his throat, at his hands, his feet, urging him to action, to run into the night and never look back. For the thousandth time, he wonders what sort of chaos would erupt in his absence. His wife would be furious and it might honestly be best that he never return should he indeed choose to leave – her fury would certainly kill him. His brothers would shake their heads, his parents would bow theirs in shame and reluctant resignation, but no one would be surprised.

No, he tells himself like he’s done every night before, I will stay. Duty. Honor. These are things that he believes in and to run would be to abandon them. I will stay.

The stars are quiet. So are the gods, though he swears he hears something on the wind, something like the crashing of waves on a shore that whispers, “Go. Run.”

Fetu shakes his head, one corner of his mouth cracking into a smile. He’s letting his mind run away with him again. Best to get some sleep before any more foolish ideas take root.

Sleep does come, but it doesn’t calm the hunger gnawing at the edges of his mind. The not-quite voice from the lakeshore follows him into his dreams and it is here that the world comes alive with thunder and lightning and the rumbling of the earth. He sees things he has never seen before – a great waka of a shape he would never have conceived with cloaks hovering high above the bow, strange weapons that spark as if crafted by god-fire, lands as brown as his skin that rise and fall like the mountains but shift like the sand on the beach, long stretches of ice and snow, beasts of unimaginable heights and with strange faces, taller even than the tallest warrior. All this could be his to explore, the dream tells him, less with words and more with the kiss of the sea breeze on his face.

Think of the legends, it says. And he does think of them. He pictures the ancestors who sailed from Hawaiki to discover this land, the waka hourua that sailed over vast oceans, the bravery and boldness still recalled over fires so many years later. He thinks of the desperation that has burned in his gut since he was a boy and how everyone in the iwi has tried to douse that fire, his parents, the elders, his brothers, his wife. But it doesn’t have to be that way any longer. He could run.

It would be shameful, he reasons.

It would only be shameful if he were to return. And both he and the dream know that he would never want to.

I have tamariki. They are young.

They are strong like he is. They will endure.

I belong here. Even though he has always known that a part of him belonged elsewhere.

Had the ancestors stayed where they belonged, he would not be here now to live and die. Had the ancestors lived in their fear-

Fetu bristles. I am not afraid.

And yet he stays.

He surveys the things his dream has shown him, the almost glimpses of foreign people at the edges of his vision. There is destiny in the wind that pulls at their hair, there are legends in the footsteps they leave behind. There is a place for him, only if he is willing to go.

He wakes to the sound of his son crying. Another bad dream, something about drowning in the belly of a beast whose mouth is too full of teeth. Fetu thinks that facing such a creature would be an admirable end, an exciting end. His skin pimples with the idea. But he shushes the boy and tells him to go back to sleep. After all, it was just a dream and dreams are not always true.

But sometimes. Sometimes they are. This is the part he keeps to himself.

He’s always been good at plans. It’s why his brothers have always deferred to him. He sees things differently than they do, understands how others think and how best to use that to his advantage. He knows when to be quiet and when to speak, when to wait and when to strike. So he knows that now is not the time to run off chasing his dreams. The start of his story must be slow and careful, it must be restrained, and while this restraint burns in his throat, it is nothing new. He’s been waiting his whole life. He can wait a few months more.

The seasons will change with the arrival of the new year. The weather will warm, food will grow, and he will prepare. New weapons will be made, provisions carefully measured in the back of his mind, valuable skills resharpened, deals made with neighboring iwis in the late evenings when no one knows he is even missing.

Strangest of all, though, is the ache that burrows into his sternum when he watches his children. Poa is growing into a man more and more with every day, a man both very like and very different to him. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that Fetu never felt at his age, but there is also his quiet strength and warrior’s prowess. And Omeka is much the same. She is soft at heart, but it is a deceiving softness. She’s wise for someone so young, very kind and very smart, and incredibly fierce. He smiles when he thinks about the man she will marry one day. Whoever he is, he will need all the help he can get.

He's proud. And he knows for certain now that they will endure without him. They will outlive him and carry his lessons on to their own children, and he will live on through them. It could almost be enough, but… it isn’t. There is a difference in his mind between the legacy of his descendants and the legacy of his name and deeds stitched into song.

The lands of his dreams still call to him when he sleeps. Forests and barren valleys and faded grasslands. He will go there one day. Soon. The weather is almost right. His provisions are nearly ready. His weapons are made. The rest of the world is so close that he can almost taste it.

There is a place at the very north of this land that is said to be the first spot where the ancestors first saw Aotearoa. The rest of the world lies beyond this point. Hawaiki is to the north, apparently, but that is a dead land. His focus is set on the west. Where does the sun go when it sinks beneath the horizon? What people live there? What markings will they bear on their faces, what stories will they tell? He wonders if Poa’s sand beast that eats children whole lives in those faraway lands, and he smiles. There’s only one way to know for sure.

And so the long white clouds of his people fade away with the waves. He sails into the horizon with his own waka and a man from another iwi, a fellow adventurer yearning to discover the untouched reaches of the sea. It is a long voyage and it is hard. Fetu’s back burns under the sun and his arms ache at the end of each day, but he is more alive now than he ever was before. He finds himself smiling. His chest hums with something he cannot name, perhaps some new mana granted by Tangaroa for daring to venture where few will not go.

The land they first come to is not too unlike their own. There is greenery and there are people, a remarkable people that themselves in bright colors and speak in tongues he cannot comprehend. He doesn’t learn much of their language because the sounds don’t quite fit inside his mouth, but he learns enough to understand fragments of stories that tell of islands further up the coast. That is when things change. The land becomes red and cracked and dry, rocky and barren, and he cannot comprehend wanting to live in such a place, fascinating though it is. Yet still, there are people who make it their home.

It's not enough. He wants more. A part of him says that there isn’t much more he can find. He shouldn’t need more. He should be content with what he’s found.

To be content is to be complacent, and that is one thing that Fetu will never be again. He wants more, so more he will find, even if he finds himself sailing to his own ruin, to the underworld itself.

There are so many islands. There is so much water. There is so much world, and he eats it up like a starving man, consumes everything he sees with an appetite so ravenous that he cannot see beyond it. There is only the memory of the dream, the promise given to him by the gods (for what else could it have been?) that keeps him going. His companion left long ago, too tired, too homesick, too weak. He found another. And another. New islands and people come and go, new creatures for him to sink his teeth into, new weapons that crave blood like he craves the unknown.

He never looks back.

Why would he when everything he needs is before him?

He is making his own destiny, carving it out of seafoam and sweat and the constant beat of pounamu above his heart, the only piece of home he deemed worthy.

The stars shift a bit, the weather changes again, but it doesn’t become cooler. Now Fetu finds himself sweating more often than he isn’t. Now his own breath feels heavy in his chest and his hair wilts under the weight of the air. His latest companion suggests they stop and rest.

He travels on his own after that, and the rim of the waka has a dent in it from the force of his patu striking through sinew.

He’s so hungry. He’s never been so hungry before, but no food can satisfy it. It keeps him up at night, burns through him during the day and pushes him through every current and storm. He cannot stop. He’s almost afraid of what will happen if he does. All he knows is that he is searching for something and he has no idea what it is. It calls to him all the same.

The dreams return. They crowd his mind when he wakes. They whisper to him, tell him to keep searching, keep clawing his marks into history and if he tries hard enough, children will know stories of the great warrior who traversed the seas and took the world in his hands, made it his.

And then one day, he sees it. The waka from his first dream, the one that stretches into the sky with cloaks full of sea air. The people that guide it are so strange that it almost scares him. Almost. They are pale like corpses, like clouds. (He came from a land of clouds once.) Their words are sharp and harsh, their teeth are yellow, rotting, and their bodies stink. But their eyes spark like fire. Their weapons are unyielding, harder than stone, painful and brutal in a different way than the wood and whale bone and greenstone his people have used for time untold.

Whatever has brought them to him, he is grateful because for the first time in his life, Fetu feels a knowing. This is where he was always meant to be. He holds the thing they call a “pistol” in his hands and senses something awaken deep beneath his ribs the first time he fires it, something that should never have seen the light of day. It marvels at the destruction wrought by a single little pebble and a bit of fire.

Every day, there is something new to learn. Compasses, maps, pistols and sabers, letters and ink and paper, a new language of sounds and ideas that make no sense to him, but he devours it all, swallows it whole. He learns that the curves and lines on the paper spell out his name, mark places they’ve been and places they will go, immortalize the ideas in their heads so they can never forget them. This is how these people tell their stories. He thinks they must have terrible memories, but he learns their ways without hesitation, makes them his own, stitches their knowledge into his very being so that he can travel in ships like theirs and discover riches like gold and diamonds and spices, and he will write the stories that will live on after he dies.

Finally, his dreams are inching toward reality.

There’s no room for nuance in the life that Fetu the Bold the Brave the Great just Fetu has built for himself. Colonies, empires, they matter little to him. What matters most is turning a profit, since that is what gives power in this world beyond the edge of the sea, and profit can be made on any side. Captains and soldiers are eager to find their local resistance blotted out in the middle of the night – unfortunate accidents and animal attacks take the Império Português by storm – and dethroned sultans and disillusioned nobles are more than happy to find a mercenary to defend their homes, their fortunes, their wives for a night.

His ambition takes him far and he take great pride in his achievements, but there comes a time when his ambition fails him. October 31, 1596 – a curious amalgamation of calculations that the Portuguese like to use to mark the passing of time – is an ordinary day. Fetu wakes up and collects payment for a job well done. He stops the client when he sees that his money is short. This one time, he misses the obvious and all his well thought out plans fail him when a sultan’s sword slices through his throat.

The pain is so hot that it goes cold and the disturbingly uncomfortable sensation of blood bubbling out of his body, his esophagus ripping open and his trachea crackling sends him to his knees. Double crossed for the last time.

The only regret that comes to mind when his vision starts to go hazy is that he cannot kill the man who did this to him, who snuffed out his light before he had a chance to properly shine. He was just getting started. There was still… so much… left to see…

October 31, 1596 – Somewhere in Malacca, Malaysia, Portuguese Empire

After all the stories he’d heard as a child, he’d thought that Hawaiki would be… different, somehow. More water, perhaps, and less blood. But then Fetu has a moment of realization. That blood is his, he remembers it pouring out of him. The ground pressed into his cheek is not the ground of Hawaiki, but the earth of a kingdom far from the one he was born to. It stands to reason, then, that Hawaiki is not a literal underworld in some very far away place, but simply a vision of the place where you die, something you are forced to relive over and over again.

Only, he can feel his chest rising and falling. He can see his breath creating clouds in the dirt. He can hear it rasping in his severed throat. Alive. Oh, he does not like that. fingers map out the jagged tear through his body, slick with blood and saliva and shattered, jagged pieces of something he doesn’t know how to name, but it makes him feel sick. He doesn’t want to know what happens if he vomits now, he just needs to get cleaned up. He needs a doctor, he needs a fucking miracle, whatever those damn Portuguese are always going on about in their book of gods and magic.

The trek between the spot of his resurrection and the only strong-stomached person in the city who can stitch him back up is a bit of a blur. Fetu finds it hard to gauge where he’s going half the time because the world feels out of focus and uneven. His hearing has decreased dramatically, too, and his smell and taste – well, he’s no fool, he knows those things may be lost to him forever. It matters not. He’s still alive and he is not giving up, no matter what the world may throw at him to slow him down. He still has a story to write.

He isn’t entirely certain how this story will write itself, though, because his own capabilities have diminished significantly. Even after he recovers and his throat is somehow stitched together into some semblance of not-destroyed, his eyesight doesn’t return to normal, nor does his hearing or even his touch. The world is muted. Colors are less vibrant and music is more muffled, the smells that were once most pleasant to him now smell of nothing at all, and food leaves him feeling incurably ill. What he had assumed was life he now sees for what it truly is – another kind of death that has transformed his surest desires into mere fantasies.

There is no pleasure in the world. And the hunger that once gnawed at his stomach grows until it becomes so insatiable that nothing could ever quench it, not the blood he draws on the battlefield, not the gold he obtains from wealthy fools who crave control, not the finest silks nor the richest feasts, and not even the knowledge and people of the distant lands he once sought.

He joins a crew sailing for the seat of the empire. Good. He wants to leave these scattered islands full of people who remind him of the ones he left behind. He wants something new, something to satisfy the emptiness that lingers in his belly. But the crewmates whisper in the dead of night, say things they think he cannot hear because they assume he’s asleep. He hasn’t slept since the day he died and came back wrong.

“He’s a savage, like all the rest.” This does not surprise him. The Portuguese are a delicate lot, easily offended by anything they do not understand, and he knows the mere lines of his moko are enough to frighten them. “You see his eyes? Half clouded and empty.” “Can’t even look at him, mate, that scar on his neck is damn ugly.” “Maybe he’s a demon.” “Don’t even look alive.” “Like a corpse.”

These things, however, do.

Is he truly such a gruesome sight to behold? He’d never thought about it. For the first time in a long time, Fetu wonders what he looks like. He thinks about the stench of their fear and the hushed insults they would never dare to voice in the light, and he smiles, and it feels like the first smile of his life.

A demon, he muses. A monster. Monsters live on in legends, haunting the living and children’s nightmares, they are immortal and powerful, feared and respected.

The ship docks in a new land dotted with hills and odd structures. Lisboa, they call it. A quick look at a map tells him he is in another world entirely.

Fetu thinks about the things the crewmates whispered through the voyage and he decides that it would be cruel to disappoint them. He leaves the ship with blood staining his wrists and a quiet in his gut that he has not felt in ages.

September 1820 – Sleepy Hollow, New York

Dead leaves skip over cobblestones. The wind, cool and sharp. One of the horses in the pasture whinnies and huffs, shaking its mane. The evening fog is rolling in already and even while the sun is still in the sky.

The weather has been strange of late, oscillating between the warmth of summer and the biting chill of autumn for several weeks. Today seems to be more autumnal in persuasion, with many trees dropping their leaves and the sunlight taking a particular glint, somehow warmer and darker without any physical warmth to show for it. And while you find this time of year to be particularly delightful, you can’t help shaking the feeling that something is different this season, more than any of the others before it.

Perhaps it’s the withered look of the apple trees, or the petrichor in the wind and the lingering smokiness of chimney fires, or maybe it’s the call of the ravens as they flock overhead the woods. Perhaps it’s just a feeling, albeit a bad one; it will pass, like all feelings do, so you choose not to put too much stock into it.

You end your walk with a final visit by the pasture so you can watch the horses, enjoy the calm and quiet of the moment before-

“Miss Atherwood!” “Miss Atherwood!”

Before the children spot you. But that was a fool’s hope.

You turn so your back leans against the fence and spread your arms wide as the children come running toward you. Cora reaches you first, nearly knocking your feet out from under you with the force of her tiny body colliding with yours. Her arms are around your waist in an instant and you hardly have a moment to compose yourself before Moses appears too, running so fast that he’s little more than a blur before he’s buried himself in your arms.

“We missed you!” Cora cries. She tilts her head back to look up at you better, and you catch the little strand of silver-white hair at her temple as she does. “You were gone for ages!”

You smile. “It was hardly a week.”

“A week too long,” Moses decides, very seriously. “This place is boring without you.”

These children warm your heart like nothing else. Never before have you felt so loved and wanted, so entirely at home, not even with your own family. You press a palm to the boy’s cheek first, then Cora’s, and you smile.

“Well, now I’ve returned and we can continue with all our mischief just like before-“

“So that’s where the two o’ ya ran off ta.” Josiah Minor’s honey-sweet Southern twang is like a salve on your heart. He’s just exiting the house further up the path, smiling brilliantly as ever.

You duck your head and whisper a cheeky, “Just so long as your father doesn’t catch on. Now get!”

And off they go, like a pair of young horses at the races, giggling and pushing and yelping, narrowly avoiding knocking their father down simply due to pure dumb luck.

“’s good ta have ya home,” Josiah sighs once he’s pulled you into a hug. It’s rare, these embraces, but you treasure every one he offers. “House just ain’t the same without ya.”

“Believe me, I’ve never been so happy to be back.”

He raises one bushy eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Worse. But it’s better now that I’m here with you and your rascals.”

He seems eager to hear how your venture home went and you tell him some of it, but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Your grandparents have grown crotchety in their old age, worse now than ever before, and they seem to find fault in everything. They especially find fault in your choice of employment – after all, working under the authority of a former slave is not the sort of appearance they wish to keep up, and it reflects poorly on their choice to adopt you – but you care little for what they deem right and wrong. You’ve only ever known happiness under Josiah’s roof and you intend to stay here for as long as you are needed. Longer, if you can manage it.

Supper that evening is a pleasant affair, full of laughter and delighted exclamations as you tell the children about your travels, the animals you saw along the way, and reveal the gifts you’d chosen for them. Cora adores the little blown glass rabbit you spotted in the market and she chooses to name it “Lula”, although the importance of the name is lost on you. Moses, on the other hand, admires the sketch you made of a Lenape family you passed one day. He’s always been enamored with the original stewards of this land, always eager to learn more about them and their ways, so although this drawing isn’t much, you know it means something to him. And for Josiah, a book you’d gone out of your way to purchase and spent far too much money on, and he almost refuses to take it, but it’s important to you that he does.

“Your wife would want you to take it,” you finally say, softly, no bite or malice but the simplicity of the truth. “She came to mind when I saw it and I thought…”

The book is turned over and over in his hands, but he doesn’t dare to open it. The children lean forward in their seats to see better, and Josiah tilts it toward Moses first to give him the first look.

“’Siddur’. Is this like mother’s siddur, the prayer book?” A coil of his beautiful brown hair falls over his face when he looks up at you.

You nod. “I passed a synagogue on my way home and went in to speak to the rabbi.” Immediately, the children are chattering away, asking you questions about the experience. Not once have they seen a synagogue, they’ve never been outside Sleepy Hollow before. And the last time they saw a rabbi was for Moses’ circumcision – which is to say, such a thing is beyond their comprehension. “I know how much your mother’s means to you, so I thought perhaps a new one that needn’t fear your grubby little paws might be appreciated.” And to Josiah you cast an apologetic glance. “I hope it’s not too forward of me?”

But he smiles. It’s a very sad smile, but there’s happiness there too, a glimmer of hope and love that reminds you of the look he gives Cora when she acts a bit too like her mother. Bittersweet. “Means more ‘n you can guess, Mizz Atherwood.”

The wonderful thing about being a governess in the Minor household is that it simply does not feel like you’re working. Moses and Cora are brilliant pupils who are more often eager to learn than they are not, and they are still of an age where your wisdom and humor tickles them and they choose to include you in their chaos. It’s part of the reason why this house is always so full of laughter. But being employed here has also given you access to all the wonders of elevated class, most notably Josiah’s library.

In his efforts to educate himself and his children, Josiah has collected what you can only assume to be thousands of books, and they cover every subject imaginable. The history of the world, science, philosophy, art, linguistics, maps of foreign lands that you can only dream of, ancient fairy tales and folklore passed down through the generations. You’ve been most enamored with the tales of Scheherazade of late. You wander here when the moon is high and the children are asleep so you may read by firelight, transport yourself to distant kingdoms and times you wish more than anything that you could see yourself. For now, you content yourself with your books.

Only, something catches your eye as you settle into one of the wingbacked chairs near the fire. Something outside.

Everyone in Sleepy Hollow knows better than to go peering outside their window in the dead of night. Local Lenape legends and Old World ghost stories have mingled since the colonies first started, trickling down through each generation until even outsiders like you hear them. There are things in the woods, creatures, things that will look back if you dare to go searching for them.

And so you choose to tug the curtains shut, ensuring that the fabric overlaps so nothing can look in and you cannot look out, but… you do linger. Just for a moment, just long enough to look in the general direction of the thing you thought you saw, whatever it may be.

A chill runs up your spine.

Best to settle by the fire, you tell yourself. The fire is safe. You are safe. Of course you are. You’re simply seeing shadows in the starlight.

It’s awful. It’s worse than awful. There may not even be a word for the pure dread and horror pooling in the pit of your stomach, but the feeling only continues to grow, nameless or not.

The blacksmith was killed last night. Brom Bones. He was a fierce sort of man, tall and broad and always working in the smithy. His eye had been cast in the direction of Katrina Van Tassel for several months now, and the whispers in the town say he had even planned to propose to her.

Your thoughts drift to her rather quickly. It hurts too deeply to dwell on Brom’s fate or on the reality of what his final moments would have been. You hope the news doesn’t hit her too hard, though you certainly wouldn’t blame her if it did. To lose someone so close to you, someone you may well have thought you might spend your life with, is a thought that scarcely bares imagining.

You decide to do something for her. It will keep your mind off things (off the stories the people are telling of the blood on the anvil, the hammers bent in half, the bullet holes in the back of the furnace). While Cora and Moses are working on their impromptu mathematics quiz, you set to work on a condolences note for Katrina. A few roses from along the pasture path are trimmed of their thorns and bundled together with twine. It isn’t much, but it is something and it encourages a slightly more positive outlook on the whole scenario, even if only just.

You don’t notice the prints in the dirt until your walk back to the Minor home. The grass by Brom’s shop is trampled and at first you think this is a result of the earlier chaos that had to have arisen when his body was found. You think this is very logical and applaud yourself on your amateur sleuthing, only to stop in your tracks when you notice tracks that do not match any you have ever seen in town before. They’re boot prints, likely large enough to be a man’s, but the shape is odd, pointed at the toe in a certain way that doesn’t make sense to you. The detail is minute, almost impossible to miss, and you think again that it is something easily explained away. Perhaps someone was called in from out of town to deal with the matter. A doctor or added law enforcement would make the most sense.

But then you see the prints again. They lead to and from Brom’s smithy, you realize, and they follow the path. The path you’re standing on. Your heart skips over itself momentarily until you remember that this path if often walked and by folk other than you. Josiah often takes this route, as do the children and any travelers passing through.

You read too much into it, you tell yourself. This is, by all accounts, believable and logical, but your mind starts to wander the moment you come upon the edge of Josiah’s property and find the prints crossing over it.

A flash of the previous night strikes you then. The thing in the shadows, the thing you thought you saw. You thought it had been nothing more than the fire’s reflection on the glass or your eyes moving too quickly to make sense of the outside world, perhaps a raccoon or squirrel had darted past, and its tail caught a glimmer of moonlight. This is what you told yourself when sleep failed to take you and you tell it to yourself again now, hoping to soothe the anxiety hammering away inside your chest, but your thoughts are racing, and all logic has fled because a man was found dead this morning and the tracks leading to and from his home seem to have followed you.

Everything suddenly feels too hot and too cool all at once. With your heart thundering away as it leaps into your throat, you feel your body go warm, but then the sharp slice of fear pierces your spine and ice-cold panic shoots through your limbs.

The thing outside, what was that thing outside?

What if it was nothing? What if you are simply being paranoid?

A quick breeze drifts across the road and carries with it a few dead leaves. They make a crackling sound as they skip by.

It’s a silly thought. Brought on by a sudden bought of hysteria, no doubt. But still, you wonder. What if the thing you saw was no mere critter, but a… a murderer?

A new day brings with it new clarity, and the shadows that had clouded your mind previously are quickly chased away. The warmth of summer is fading fast and September is in its final moments. Food is starting to need harvesting. Fires are staying lit more consistently. Clouds cover a fair portion of the sky, both night and day.

Rosh Hashanah comes and goes, the Jewish New Year that you help Josiah coordinate so the children may have their celebration even with their mother long buried. Yom Kippur comes soon after, not nearly as solemn as you’re sure it’s meant to be, but they are young and Josiah doesn’t have it in him to bring sadness back into his home after the losses they’ve all suffered.

Studies are not put on hold necessarily, but they are somewhat reigned in to allow for other things like afternoon harvesting and cider making, the drying of corn husks for use in crafts you intend to teach them later in the month. Apples are peeled and cooked into cobblers, sliced and drizzled with honey and cinnamon, squashes cut open for stews and mashes. The house begins to smell like autumn and even though the days become shorter with each sunset, there is still a dazzling light that illuminates the Minor household.

And then suddenly it doesn’t.

Because Johannes Van Tassel is found dead. His throat cut, a bullet to the temple, the same as Brom. All while his daughter, Katrina, slept. Rumors start to fly. Gossip cuts hot and quick, and everyone believes their own spin of the tale to be the most likely. All you know is that you may likely retch on your own shoes if you hear one more person speak of it.

You and Josiah try not to let the children overhear the whispers. “They’ve known too much death already,” he tells you, and you understand. After witnessing their mother’s passing before the age of ten, it terrifies you both how cruel and violent the outside world can be. They are still so small, so little and innocent. It would break your heart to see them lose that innocence too soon.

So Bones and Van Tassel’s deaths are simplified for younger ears, lacking any of the gruesome details you have heard on your walks through town. They are told not to be afraid, to stay indoors once the sun goes down, and that you and their father will keep them safe. They have nothing to worry about.

But death is fixated on Sleepy Hollow. With Van Tassel’s passing, something turns up dead every morning. Livestock are left in their pastures with snapped or slashed through necks, travelers passing through are found mutilated outside the inn, townsfolk begin to disappear, picked off one by one, and no one can understand why.

Sleepy Hollow descends into chaos as primitive fear takes hold of every heart and mind. People begin leaving precious jewels, the best sections of their harvest, coins, anything and everything laid out before their homes in the hope that the demon who stalks the streets will overlook them. The church benches are filled to overflowing every day. Guards are stationed at key crossroads, the mayor’s house, the infirmary, the Van Tassel residence, and still every morning another man is found dead, his throat cut through.

The curtains of the Minor’s home are drawn shut during the day. You do not look outside once dusk has fallen, you do not dare to dwell on the image of the thing you saw those weeks ago. You do not search for strangely shaped boot prints. You do not watch the horses in the pasture. You do not leave the house.

And as All Hallow’s Eve approaches, you find yourself falling victim to your own panic and paranoia. Josiah gives you a pistol. You acquire a butcher knife from the kitchen and keep it close to your bed. The children do not sleep well and Cora has taken to crawling into bed with you at night. Moses says he’s not afraid of anything, supernatural or not, but you know he is. You catch him sneaking out of his father’s room on more than one occasion, early in the morning before the servants are awake.

For the first time in a long time, you pray. You don’t want to die, nor do you want the children to be frightened. You want them to live long and prosperous lives, happy and content and full of hope. You fear this is a dream that will never come to pass.

And then one night you wake to smoke and fire.

October 31, 1820 – Midnight

Everything is ablaze. Brom Bones’ smithy is nearly burnt to the ground, the Van Tassel residence is smoking and the women inside are screaming, and Crane is dead. Still, he feels nothing. There is no pleasure in the death he deals, no pleasure in the screams of the burned and dying. But there is blood on his boots and across his chest plate, and that could be enough. He thinks that if he soaks himself in enough blood, he may yet feel something stir in the cold, dark pit of his belly.

He marches on. There aren’t many men left of a strong build and capable age – he saw to that already – so his journey through the sleepy little village is an easy one. What few do attempt to challenge him are cut down quickly, cut through the throat. Always the throat. The ones that get back up again receive a bullet to keep them down.

A girl goes stumbling into his path, her eyes wide and frightened, hair loose around her shoulders. He thinks she begs him for mercy, begs him to take her at the cost of sparing her home. And he finds it strange how this brings heat into his body like carnage has yet to do, but it’s not the heat of lust that clouds his mind. The heat of anger stirs him, pure and righteous fury at the audacity to assume he could be bought for such a price. His knife cleaves through her ribs easily and when she falls, whimpering and crying as blood bubbles between her fingers and her yellow hair goes pink, Django feels alive again. Not by much, not enough to be tricked into thinking that his mortality has been restored, but enough that he feels human again for the most fleeting of moments.

So that’s what he needs. In all his years, he has never craved a woman, although he has known a few. His mind was always set on other sights. But now he thinks he may understand what it means to desire one, not for the sweetness of what lays between her thighs but for the sickly sight of her mouth agape in horror.

His attention flickers then to the house just up the path, the one beyond the blacksmith’s shop. He remembers a woman there, young, pretty enough, remembers her face in the window, her body wrapped up in a cloak as she traced the steps he took from Bones’ shop and across her land, back into the forest. Out of the entire town, she’s the one that’s come the closest to finding the truth. It will be good to kill her. The perfect ending to his scourge upon this town.

He's hardly conscious of the carnage he leaves in his wake, or how he breaks through the barricaded door, the servants shrieking and trembling in the corners of each room. He pays them no mind. All he sees is her, you, fuzzy and half shapeless in the back of his mind, but he will know you when he sees you.

The room he finds you in is simple, plain, sparsely furnished, but he spots you easily enough. Cowering between your bed and the wall, a pistol against your breast. There are shadows behind you that he can’t make out, strangely shaped things that rustle like little kits hiding behind their mother in a storm.

All he sees is you.

What remains of his vision is tunneled and fixated on you, your eyes, how wide they are, how the sparse rays of moonlight catch your irises. His boots are loud and heavy in this room. Your chest rises and falls as he steps closer. His fingers begin to twitch, eager to lift his blade and slice through your flesh, hoping, pleading, desperate for relief. He doesn’t know if he’s the one pleading or if you are.

The sound of a pistol firing takes him by surprise, for surely he hasn’t fired his prematurely? But then the dull ache of something lodged in his shoulder tells him otherwise. He turns.

This man reminds him of something, someone. He cares not who or what it is. He cares not for this man and the smoking gun in his hands. A quick flourish of his wrist is enough to topple him, and so he turns back to you.

His heart no longer beats, but he thinks he hears the ghost of it now as he advances. This is it. This is the moment he has been dying and living for. Your blood will be the answer. It must be. He raises his hand and-

“No!”

Time has not stood still for Django since the day he died, but it pauses itself in this moment. Long enough for him to see the whites of your eyes. Your teeth are bared. You’re screaming. Your pistol is smoking, and his sternum feels shattered. And this time you advance upon him, a knife brandished in your other hand as you scream and scream, and when you move, the shadows behind you are illuminated. The knife flies, buries itself in the crook of his arm when he raises it, and it hits him with enough force to make him stumble. But what brings him to his knees are the shadows, the children.

224 years have passed since he first died. Even more have come and gone since he left Aotearoa, his iwi, his tamariki. He didn’t even realize he still remembered the words. 224 years and he still finds that he would know them anywhere.

He sees Omeka curled into a ball and crying, though she’s trying to be brave. He would know that face anywhere. The wide brown eyes, so kind, so wise, the dark hair streaked with silver, the mark upon her temple that she was born with. He sees Poa, still just a boy, not yet a man, sees his lip snarl and curl, those little teeth bared and flashing against his dark skin, the big brown locks of hair Django still remembers grooming for him.

And then he sees you. Your weapons are spent, you have nothing, yet still you stand before his children like a warrior. You will not let him harm them; he knows this. You will give your life in defense of theirs.

The tamariki are shaking. Poa is crying now, but he hovers over his sister like a kaitiaki. He is proud of what they have become, proud they are his, yet all he feels now is shame. For how far has he fallen? To draw blood from an innocent woman, to loom above innocent children like a warmonger, to crave the fleeting flickers of their heartbeats as if their blood would fill the empty hole inside him? His people have not been above the consuming of flesh before, and it would be so easy. It was so easy; it has been for years. To take thoughtlessly, to kill every time he felt alive and every time he didn’t, to let the blood of his victims sink beneath his skin so it became a part of him. Yet sitting between your four walls, covered in gore and rattling with an anger so fierce that it threatens to burn him alive, he finds that this one time, it is not so easy to take.

He runs.

He’s never run before. He did not run from home, he left it behind when it no longer served him. He did not run from his past, but chase after the future, the promises the gods whispered in his head. Django has never run, neither did Fetu. But here in this village on the edge of the map, in this country built on blood and theft and desperation, both halves of him turn tail and run.

All the while, he sees their faces. The Poa he raised himself and the Poa he found under your protection flicker back and forth, morphing together so their faces become one. Both Omeka’s do the same. He cannot tell where his tamariki start and yours end.

He remembers the men he voyaged with, from Malaysia to Portugal, the ones who had convinced themselves he was a monster, the moment he convinced himself that he would become one. He remembers the sultan who took his life and the faceless, nameless doctor who stitched him back together. He remembers the face of every person who has met their fate at the end of his blade or his pistols.

He remembers the blood. So much blood. He recalls desperate nights where he licked his hands clean, hoping it would reinvigorate him, start up his heart anew, trigger the breath that once stirred in his lungs. That is what he had hoped for here, though he hadn’t fully realized it then. He had only wanted to feel something, anything. Just once more.

He can certainly feel now. He feels the burn of bile as he dry heaves inside his helmet. He rips it off and his head goes tumbling through the grass, and it hits him, stronger than any wave or weapon, exactly what it is he has become.

Django wishes he could die. He wishes more than anything that he had never been cursed with this half-life, that he had never dreamt of the worlds beyond his and chased after them like a child chasing after its mother. He was a fool. He is a fool.

He thinks of Omeka’s face and his body retches, even while his head is still detached. The world is out of focus, blurry, and his senses are so dull that he can’t feel a thing beyond the queasy rumblings of his gut. The shame.

taglist: @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @multi-fan-dom-madness @deejadabbles @rain-on-kamino @wings-and-beskar

[codenamesazanka]

All Might, who’s been sort of AFO’s counterpart for most of the series - his childhood flashback/backstory is so lovingly portrayed. Smiles and laughter, a picture book, a mom - his mom who had put aside her work so she can play with her kid, likely because he ran up to her and asked and she indulged him. Toshinori was so, so adored and cherished here, it's obvious to see, even if his family later died. This loving scene is the start of a path that lead to him wanting to be a Hero.

Meanwhile, we turn 180 degree to look at AFO. and you really can’t say anything about his childhood flashbacks/backstory other than “well, no wonder he turned out fucked”. which is not a new concept for the series, where we see again and again harsh, unsupportive enivornments (esp. ones that people are not saved from) contributes to them lashing out and going villain. I think this environment would count as one of them.

Except apparently we’re 100% not supposed to see this as part of that pattern? No, AFO was already bad before all of this, when he started out as a parasitic fetus. Everything that's framed here about AFO's story pointedly tells us not to sympathize - in fact, AFO is sorta responsible for his own condition, because he killed his mom by draining her life force, because he was conceived an arrogant baby, he was born believing the world belongs to him.

(Which personally I think sorta falls flat to declare when this baby literally has absolutely nothing in the world but his mom’s corpse and a little brother. The 'incarnation of greed' works when AFO grows up and does have wealth and power and five hundred orphan-minions and then still wants more; but for a newborn experiencing extreme deprivation, it's strange to say. Again, though, that doesn't apply here, because AFO sorta did this to himself in the womb. That he is on the streets during the meta-abilities apocalyse, looks to be portrayed as something he deserves, or at the very least the direct consequences of his actions. his unborn baby actions.)

idk. seeing these two backstories side-by-side makes me sad. One kid gets love; the other gets chewed on by rats five minutes after he was born (But Don't Worry Too Much Because He Has Only Himself To Blame).

(Oh, but what about Yoichi? The twin brother who was there in the womb with his parasite twin, there with the rats and the dead mom? He turned out good. He experienced the same extreme deprivation, in addition to abuse from his older brother, but he ended up good and kind and just. So Yoichi is not only a refutation to any excuses that AFO might get due to Awful Childhood, he sorta gives AFO negative sympathy points.

But I think that only works if they both started out similar and one rose above their shit situation, and the other, say, took the easy way out by succumbing to his worst instincts, then there's something there. Here, I don't think these aspects of Yoichi's character makes AFO's portrayal any less bizarre. I don't think it can, when the twins are 'basically normal kid' and 'Parasitic Fetal Incarnation of Evil Greed'.)

[cannoli-reader]

Okay, then where do these sexist ideas come from? Why is it so common in the series that people think that's what RJ was trying to say about the sexes?

You'd have to ask RJ why it's in there.

However, from a Watsonian viewpoint, my guess would be saidin and saidar. Jordan once responded to a fan question about the lack of organized religion in WoT, by saying that the One Power takes the place of religion in people's minds, they don't need to imagine a man on a mountain throwing lightning bolts or a carving up a giant's carcass to make the world, because the One Power exists to explain away unknown phenomena.

Now, as world-building goes, this is kind of bullshit, because that's not how religious people think. Isaac Newton, Louis Pasteur, Gregor Mendel, Copernicus and even Galileo were all practicing Christians, who, so far as I know, did not find their scientific knowledge undermining their faith. For that matter, the Abrahamic religions are fairly light on details intended to fill in the blanks of why the sun moves across the sky. But the important thing here is that is how Jordan believes it works.

So I think, due to the knowledge of the One Power, and the complementary differences between saidin and saidar, people in the world of WoT have a reason to perceive the One Power as indicative of the basic nature of the sexes. The knowledge that they interact in different ways with the Power influences how people see the sexes reacting in different ways, even if they really are not. It's just selective perceptions.

Selective perceptions affect the fandom as well. I watched a YouTube series with a couple who were reading the books. When they got to the boat ride in tFoH, they got all huffy about the women suddenly calming down and getting back to their normal selves because they had children to take care of. But you know what? That is literally the only interaction with children Nynaeve or Elayne have in the entire series (unless you count Elayne's pregnancy, which I don't seeing as how her usual reaction to her pregnancy is resenting measures imposed on her for the well-being or safety of the fetus[es]). Rand notes in EotW that Mat's paranoia relaxes around children. Mat reverses course on his stated refusal to help people who can't do anything for him at the sight of crying children. Loial gathers children under his protection in the Stone of Tear during the Trolloc attack and Rand is most affected by the sight of a dead child, which comes closer than anything else to taking him over the edge. Perrin turns away from the front lines of a desperate battle where he is in command, in order to carry a child to safety. At a near apex of his hardness in RJ's books, Rand is concerned about the fates of a couple of street children in Tear. And then there is Olver. Even when you flip the roles, Thom and Lan take a far more avuncular and personal role in their relationships with the Two Rivers boys than Moiraine does. The books are chock full, from the outset, of examples of the male characters reacting to children and caring about them, with only the one incidence of Nynaeve or Elayne doing so, but because of their preconceptions, these reviewers criticized the series for portraying women as inherently maternal.

People are really inclined to notice patterns that confirm their preconceptions, whether things they want to believe or things they find objectionable, and see them whether they are there or not. When you have the One Power making such a huge difference in the lives and experience of men and women who channel it, it naturally makes people inclined to favor or fear things about them. And while knowledge of the differences between saidar and saidin might have been lost since the Age of Legends, the taint creates an even more glaring contrast. Many people don't even understand the taint or channeling in general, and so there might be all sorts of reasons in their heads about why male channelers are a threat and women are not.

[wildwormies]

do snips for the last largest lobster, but also count how many times they say "last largest lobster" in the episode

I feel like I’ll regret that but ok

Save them

Also DO NOT make a seagull power disc. The brothers should never have that kind of chaotic power

Logically I know they’ve stated several times that other villains commission Zach for inventions but why does Gourmand need to be mr. one man army you cook my guy

Why do you guys use the miniaturizer over every inconvenience IT ALWAYS GOES WRONG

LLL count: 1

Also what metrics are you using to judge lobster size, how do you know this is the last or the largest? As biologists you disappoint me

Also also image I’m doing the little cinemasins counter sound each LLL

LLL count: 2

Why her jacket so desaturated

https://youtu.be/xnO__znv6R8

“Zach made this for me!”

Oh. Oh honey no

LLL count: 3

I just. Love this moment and love Martin so much

[Points] FETUS

(not a thought behind those eyes)

Chris being a gigachad himself bc he’s great this episode

Peeping

OK BUT HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO FUCKING MURDER CHRIS. WHAT THEN GOURMAND. YOU GONNA HAVE HIM WITH SALAD ON THE SEA SIDE??

Fucking dramatic

Ok but why do they bounce off each other so well. Why are their interactions what make this episode so fun

LLL count: 4

LLL count: 5

Puntable

Precious

Plays this with my nonexistent little worm fingers

Obligatory pretty shot (minus Gourmand getting his ass kicked)

Olé!

Bro pass the popcorn I’m dying doing this soundtrack

Ahem

(LLL count: 6)

Just. This whole thing. Snips literally can’t convey how hilarious this is

LITERALLY DON’T HELP HIM. HE HAS TRIED TO KILL YOU MULTIPLE TIMES

Cry

[POINTS] GIGACHAD

New hc this whole ep was Chris’s dream because my god

“Guy I’m right here!”

“There he is! In his baby lobster suit!”

I’m in love with this ep ohmygod

[skiplo-wave]

Something must be in the air because I just witnessed drama with my next door neighbors. I'll spill the tea for you...

This couple couldn't conceive naturally, so they decided to hire a surrogate mother. Her husband didn't understand the assignment and fucked the chosen surrogate mother. So when they go in to get her fertilized they discover she's already pregnant. The wife didn't answer why her husband was so excited until he explained what happened. The surrogate mother was so sorry about what happened and the wife ended up leaving the husband. So a few short months later, this was at the end of August. The surrogate mother and the ex-husband decides to pursue a relationship but come to find out they are 1st cousins. Unfortunately the fetus has abnormalities. Now I don't know the full extent of it but she is still keeping it. I am assuming that the baby can live normally outside the womb then. I am not sure. The ex-husband tries to go back with the ex-wife claiming that fucking a cousin doesn't count as cheating LMFAO. The ex-wife at this point, unknowing to him at first, has been hooking up with his uncle. His uncle walks out - he is hot btw - and he flips out and is literally screaming. You know what he does to try to get back at her? He then supposedly according to the argument I heard, he fucked the ex-wife's cousin that turned out to be related to him through the mother sides (no the ex-wife and ex-husband is not related).

SKIP HE FUCKED TWO OF HIS COUSINS!

This ex-wife laughed so hard she was crying. I think the ex-wife and the uncle is moved in together now. Which was pretty quick but she seems a lot happier than she was though.

Can you imagine the ex-husband reaction when she possibly becomes his aunt? x'D

what in the actual god damn

[yariktrapov]

CONTROVERSIAL TAKE

Warning: i am going twitter mode controversial.

So. I watched that one video essay about abortion and it was supposed to advocate for pro-choice, and i was pro-choice originally, but i think i switched side to some gray area.

So. I, as a person, am lazy. Extremely lazy. So i don't research topics if not much depends on it. If i don't need it for a debate or a assignment i'm not gonna think on it too hard.

So my core morals are mostly based on feelings, not thoughts. And i'm sure many people out there are just like me.

So. This video. I suggest you watch it. Very enlightening.

The questions i had was: 1. When is it immoral to get an abortion? And we kinda got the answer in the video: when the person expresses their desires which is at birth.

But.. does it?

No! I disagree.

So that prompts another question.

2. When does the future person gets desires they can express?

The desire comes from the new human, so the human must have something to create this desire. I am hinting onto a little thing called a nervous system.

So. Basically. I think a fetus can express desires, we just don't have the technology to observe it yet.

For example: the felus shifts in the tummy, and kicks and stuff. It does so because it wants to. A desire is here.

But also there's another question: Can the desire be expressed through the pregnant person? Like cravings. Does those count? Can we say that the fetus wants a certain chemical and requests it through its bearer? Or is the fetus a natural part of the pregnant persons body and not a separate entity and therefore it can't have desires before some point in time? So. I

I am stopping my thought right now. Fuck, i got a terrible unrelated realization.

I think i'm in the house of a psycho rn actually. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I feel scared now. Fuck.

I didn't get a dorms room (those are extremely cheap and i am, as my family is dirt poor). So my mom asked his friend to give me a place to stay. He gives her a place to stay all the time so one more person won't be an issue.

I met this guy a few times, he gave me and my mom a few rides, he's kinda aggressive in the roadrage department, but a good driver. Very talkative also.

But i met many of my mom friends so they all blend into the same image for me. I forget the details she tells me because they all have similar names, faces and mannerisms. I can't tell them apart, literally. I meet them so rarely.

So. I meet this guy again. He has the "All women belong in the kitchen" mentality, but to be honest, all of her friend have this shit. I tolerate it, because these dudes are kinda a big deal, i get a few benefits for my great acting job. But yeah, that's not concerning.

We get into his car and he tells me that we're gonna clean his house today, because he does those "clean thursdays" and it's totally is his thing. My mom confirmed he made her clean and cook for him, bc woman. But he did help with the cleaning.

He shauferred us around for our errands for a while and i was a bit creeped out for his smile but it was ok, i get scared of men a lot, that's chill.

So we get to the place and my first thought is: "Poggers! There's no carpets and the furniture is all leather. It will be a piece of cake cleaning up in here!

So we made lunch, ate it together while listening to some typical Alpha male war podcast. Sketch.

We start cleaning up. I do the kitchen. I thought i did a decent job but then i went to look how they were cleaning.

They. Were. Wiping the fucking walls and everything with the window cleaner. And i mean everything! Normal things: TV, windows, mirrors. But also: doors, walls, wooden furniture. Idk if literally anyone else does that!

AND HE DOES IT EVERY WEEK APPARENTLY!

IT WAS HILARIOUS AT THE MOMENT BUT NOW IT'S FUCKING NOT.

So i thought he was just a dude obsessed with cleaning and misogyny. Wierd but not totally out of the ordinary.

And then i made a convo that went something like this:

Him: Good job cleaning.

Mom: Are you feeling tired?

Me: Yeah. I was tired from the journey before! I didn't need anymore work today.

Him: Well, now i won't give you anymore work today. We'll see about tomorrow though.

Me: And that's how he treats his guests.

Him: That's how i treat the guests i like!

Me: Oooh, i get it. Where's the shotgun?

Mom: Yarik! (Well, she said my real name but i won't get my name on the internet nonono)

*end of convo*

And that's when it hit me. The fucking shotgun.

FYI

Owning firearms is kinda illegal here. Owning guns comes with a legal reason, a permit and BIG SURVEILENCE.

There was one friend whose shotgun my mom found in the closet while cleaning.

Ha!

It was. him.

I did not remember it was him! These men, they are all the same to me! I did not remember the name!

So then i started theorizing.

We have a bald strong kinda violent man, with misogynistic war-obsessed mentality. Who owns a gun and does a casual deepclean every week, has no wife, kids or pets and has leather non-absorbant furniture. (Also i missed to tell you that he's a devoted patriot, a communist and he's also gives out insults like candy on halloween)

So i think there's 3 scenarios:

1. That man is afraid someone will plant a corpse in his house and frame him.

2. He might be afraid of someone intruding on his house and doing something to him or his house. So he accepts the possibility of shooting a perpetrator.

3. He's a fucking phycho and thinks he can shoot us if we disobey him! I am panicking i am panicking i am panicking i am panicking. Wtf wtf wtf wtf He's got a gun in a big city. With a silenser btw. Why?!? My mom thought he was a sniper. Sniper my ass, he's a psycho. Crazy person

Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A rubber room. A rubber room with rats. And rats make me crazy. Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A rubber room. A rubber room with rats. And rats make me crazy. Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A rubber room. A rubber room with rats. And rats make me crazy.

If you can't tell i did this because i need to calm down.

And i can't to my mom about it because she's a terrible lier and an even more terrible actor.

I'm sure i can play it cool for like a week or two. I'm a champion at ignoring my problems. I'll finish my problematic rant later when i don't feel my heart in my feet.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Mah Boyfriend

BTS + BigBang Jeon Jungkook x Idol!Reader Characters: Jeon Jungkook, Kwon Jiyong (G-Dragon) Summary: You recently announced your relationship with Jeon Jungkook, making the internet explode and a lot of sasaengs come for your neck. Regardless though, you were loving your best life with your boyfriend. Word Count: 3k+ Warnings: Idol AU, girl group member!reader, stress, invasion of privacy, sasaeng, graphic depictions of aggression, threatening, fluff, SUPER FLUFF, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF, the use of y/n, fake edits, fake insta story edits, fake social media edits, typos, etc.

A/N: let your favs date or perish. This has been in my drafts for so long that BTS had like 23 comebacks damn and the gif I originally used of jk was so fetus T_T. Anyway here nonnieHHAHAHA I HOPE UR STILL THERE LOL

My chest was laid against a pillow, which was laid against my bed. My hair was messy and my torso and neck was covered by a big, fluffy sweater. I popped a garlic flavored peanut into my mouth and chewed, blinking at the lens of my phone. "Ya, everybody--" I continued crunching, "should I do an ASMR?"

For a moment, I blinked and watched as a bunch of comments scrolled by.

I ate another nut and looked over my shoulder, "It's so quiet here without the unnies."

I sniffle and turn back to the screen, realizing my mistake, regretting your comment, "YA DON'T START SAYING THERE'S SOMEONE BEHIND ME!"

I shove a bunch of nuts into my mouth and start munching on them angrily, "Guys, you know how much of a scardey cat I am. I will literally cry."

In the silence, I watch the screen roll with so many comments. All of them were saying there genuinely was someone behind me.

After reading one that said, "I am not joking I promise you there is someone behind you," I nearly wanted to cry.

I took in a breath and turned over my shoulder, squealing when I saw a man standing there with a blank expression. He immediately breaks into a laugh as I coil up in a bundle of nerves and catch my breath.

The phone atop the pillow slips as I do this.

The man grabs the said phone and puts it near his face, fixing his hair as he grinned in amusement, "hi everyone, it's Jungkook." He holds up a v shape with his fingers and brings it to his cheeks, posing as he sticks his tongue out.

I regain composure and growl. I kneel up on the bed, grab the pillow and hit the idiot with the pillow.

Jungkook only find this amusing and pulls back, whining exaggeratedly. He points the camera to me then points a finger, "YA, Army, look, she's attacking me!"

I groan, "that isn't even Army!"

"I'm sure some of them are!" Jungkook fights back as he chuckles.

I throw the pillow at him, as a last resort, and put my hand out, "okay give me back my phone, I'm still doing the live."

He pulls the phone away, "No. You're supposed to be getting ready for our date!"

"You're here too early! Our date is in two hours."

"Wrong again," Jungkook says, turning the phone round back to him, "everyone, please tell this girl to get ready. Do you know she takes 5 hours to get ready?"

I shake my head and run off the bed, grabbing the pillow on the floor and hitting Jungkook with it.

"Everyone please! I'm being oppressed!" he says pulling back, trying to keep the camera steady on me. I do not relent however. And it doesn't take long for Jungkook's roused playful side to surface.

He eventually raises a brow at me and disregards my phone, keeping it in his one hand and grabbing my pillow with the other. After forcefully yanking my weapon off my hands, he then quickly comes forward and tackles me into a tight hug, making me whine at the quick contact.

"Help!" I barely get to whine as Jungkook groans and lifts me up, spinning me around the room.

I squeal and manage to dig my fingers onto his shirt when he does this, so I don't shoot out of his hands and slam my head against a table and die. Not that he would let that happen, but he can be a little crazy.

"JUNGKOOK PLEASE STOP!" I complain, only making him laugh.

When he finally does, I'm put on my feet, but my head is spinning and I feel the garlic nuts begin to rise up. I let out a burp as I regain my composure and gracelessly fall onto the side of my bed.

Jungkook, who was also thrown out of balance, plays it off and started waving to the camera, "okay goodbye everyone. I promise I'll make it up to you by posting something from our date after!"

I turn to Jungkook as he says this and call, "YA! Don't you dare!"

But alas, the live didn't even get to hear me say that as Jungkook waves the viewers off.

I scowl at him as he sits down next to me, throwing my phone on the bed and grabbing my face, "go get ready!" he says in a cutely aggravated way.

He continues to squish my face and I break out of his grips. I give him a look and stand just to lay down on my bed, "I want to see what they were sayin-"

"Who cares what they say," Jungkook groans and grabs my wrist, "I'm like s hungry I'm going to boil you oil and make you fried chicken."

I raise a brow at him and make a face, "... that's pretty... graphic."

"GAH!" he screams, "I'M HUNGRY, BABE! I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" Jungkook complains, throwing himself back, shoving himself on me, making both of us grunt on impact.

"YA!" I shove him, "get your heavy ass off me!"

He shifts to look at me and begins to shove me off the bed, "well, then get your ass of the bed and get ready, for goodness sake."

I am ejected off my bed and I stand before I'm fully shoved off, "okay, okay, whatever you say, you rat."

"YA! WHO ARE YOU CALLING A RAT!"

A few days after the livestream incident, I had been receiving a tidal wave lot of hate comment on my photos and even on my groups videos, although we were currently inactive and on break.

To be fair, it was so much worse when we first went public with our relationship. There were so many saseangs that sent me death threads and gruesome things in the mail like entrails, bloody boxes or art, threatening letters, and even food that may most definitely had been poisoned.

Having that thought at the back of my head was frustrating, thinking all the food sent to me was poisoned..

I knew better than to actually try it though.

Once before, I ate a cupcake that was given to me by a supposed fan, and me and a staff member shared the it, bringing both of us to the hospital for food poisoning. It was pretty traumatizing to the point I don't feel comfortable eating anything that was given to me by a fan, which sucked because I know for a fact there were genuine fans out there that wanted to share a treat with me that they actually enjoyed.

I was getting pretty used to it, the hate. I mean even before going public with my relationship, I had it, although not to this extent.

I got pretty good at pretending I didn't care, although most of my group mates would call bullshit on it.

It just happened that Jungkook knew me all too well.

Which was why he had me scooped up in his arms, sat on his lap, head on my shoulder, mumbling over and over again, "tell me what's wrong, please. Tell me what's wrong, please. Tell me what's wrong, please. Tell me what's wrong, please..."

I faced away from him, since I was adamant I was completely fine, and had tried to get out of his grip. Of course, that was nearly impossible, since I was a limp noodle compared to him.

I sighed in defeat, trying to wrangle out of his arms, "Kookie, I'm fine. I swear."

"Tell me what's wrong, please. Tell me what's wrong--"

"Jungkook," I say firmer, waiting for a different reply.

"Tell me what's wrong, please."

I lean back against him and turn my face, "Jungkook."

He lightly butts his head against my shoulder, continuing his mantra.

I bring my hands to his arms, pulling his arm away, so I could face him. He braces me, counteracting my actions, thinking I was going to run away again. When he realizes I just want to turn to him, he loosens his grip and halts his resounding words.

When I meet his face, he gives me a wounded puppy look and asks, "are you going to tell me now?"

I place my hands on Jungkook's neck and pout back, "I really am fine, Jungkook."

He knits his brow, "and I know who much hate you've gotten since our last date post. You manager even called me and told me about the hate mail you've been getting. I told you not to open them."

"Yeah, but some of them are disguised as actual fan mail. I can't take the risk of throwing actual fan mail away."

Jungkook sighs, "I know. I don't like it when you get upset like this though."

I deflate upon seeing his expression and snuggle against his neck, caving in, "it's not that bad, Kook."

He releases a breath, rubbing my back, "I'm just worried about you, always. I can't help it when I'm, like, so in love with you."

I chuckle, "you're so dramatic."

"I'm seriously thinking about suing now," he says aimlessly, "I've been talking to my lawyer."

"Jungkook, they're probably just immature kids. When I was younger, I got upset when my favorite boy group got in a relationship too. I learned to get over it though when I got older and realized I was super immature."

He sighs, "I love my fans, but it's so hard to love them when they say they love me but hate you. I don't understand how they can think they're a fan if they do that."

"Kookie," I pull back and look at him, "they're just kids, cut them some slack."

He pushes my hair back and pouts, "you're too good to me."

"Well," I hum, then break into a soft smile, "you're hot and rich, so."

Jungkook breaks into a laugh, "Aha! I knew it! They were right about you. You just want my money and my body."

I roll my eyes, "duhhhh."

Jungkook grins and then crushes me against him, giving me kisses all over my head. I chuckle against him and wrap my arms tightly against his.

"I guess that means you know I bought tickets to G-Dragon's concert," he casually says.

I pull away and give him a look, "you said what now?"

He snickers, "well, while you were so busy blowing my money on snacks-"

"That you insisted you buy," I raise a finger.

He makes a half amuses, taunting face, and corrects himself, "that I insisted on buying, and so you went off and bought the whole store," he grits his teeth and squeezes my face in his palms, "I was waiting online for tickets and I managed to get two for us."

I straighten up in excitement, and whisper-yell in disbelief, "Jungkook, are you for real?"

He scoffs exaggeratedly and raises a brow, "would I live up to my sugar daddy status if I wasn't?"

I burst into a fit of excited giggles.

On the day of the concert, I was nothing but energetic and excited. Although the concert was going to be pretty late at night and Jungkook had work in the day, I was already getting everything sorted out for the night.

I was in the middle of watching An Interview with a Vampire, when suddenly, I heard a knock on my door.

I thought it was strange, because it wasn't like I had ordered anything or was expecting anyone. Then I thought perhaps it was Jungkook already. But then again, he wouldn't need to knock.

I checked my phone and saw he hadn't called or left a message either.

I decided to check anyway, and went up to the door, looking through the peephole, "who is it?"

I see a person in a delivery uniform. She replies, "delivery."

It seems she was holding a box of takeaway. I replied back, leaning away from the peephole, ready to walk back to the couch, "sorry, there must have been a mix up. I didn't order anything."

"No, there is no mix up," she says, then saying my name and supposedly my order.

"I didn't order that," I retort, crossing my arms.

"It's been paid for already. It was sent to this address."

I tilt my head, thinking maybe Jungkook ordered it, "who ordered it?"

For a moment there was silence.

I knit my brows and lean back to the door. Once I'm close enough to see who was on the other side, suddenly my door gets slammed on, "OPEN THE DOOR, YOU BITCH!"

I recoil and feel a chill run down my spine.

"What? Did you think I would say Jung Jungkook bought this for you?" she accused and suddenly throws something to my door, "well you're fucking wrong, you psychotic, gold-digging, whore!"

She begins kicking the door repeatedly, and I begin to fear she might break the door down.

"YA! OPEN THE DOOR!" she screams as I run off to get a chair to bar the door off.

Her knocks don't relent and I get my phone and contact the owner of the building, immediately dialing the number.

She's still banging on the door when the landlord picks up.

Later that day, when I tell Jungkook this after he's arrived at my place, he is absolutely delirious.

He wipes his face and paces around as he mutters curse words under his breath. He turns to me and gently brings both his hands to my shoulders. He rubs the skin with the pad of his thumb, "are you okay?"

I sigh, "I'm still pretty scared and really disturbed, but I'm... okay?" I release a dry and nervous chuckle, "I'm better now, much better than when she left and when security came with the landlord to check up on me and file a report."

Jungkook has his brows knit. He sighs, "and they contacted the police?"

I nod.

He gives me a look then wraps his arms around me, "I'm so sorry this happened to you, baby."

"It's not your fault."

"It is though," he says, "they were here because they were deluded by the idea of me."

"Jungkook."

He pulls back and caresses my face, "are you sure you still want to go to the concert tonight? We can just stay here and watch movies and cuddle."

"You're not going to get a refund for that, though! How could I?"

"Do you honestly think I would care about money right now?" he says, giving me a concerned look, "you were just in something really scary."

"I was, but staying here won't change or help that," I reply, frowning, "I, in fact, think it would be much better if we just go out and have some fun in that concert."

"You sure, honey?" he mutters lowly, pulling me closer to him.

I nod, "absolutely."

Needless to say, it was the best decision I had for the day by far. Well, besides not opening that door.

I was stood next to Jungkook, holding hands in anticipation. It was crazy being on this side of the arena. But it was still as exhilarating, and perhaps even more fun being the viewer than the performer.

When the lights began to change, the crowd went absolutely livid.

I couldn't help but scream along with the crowd. It was so powerful that even if you weren't excited, you would be.

The song began to play and within a few moment, back up dancers came and the stage began to do its theatrics.

Then came the moment we were all waiting for.

"EVERYBODY MAKE SOME NOISE!"

I had never shouted louder in my entire life.

G-dragon was absolutely electrifying onstage. He was so charismatic and commanded everyone's attention wholeheartedly. Each song came with so much energy and heart.

I was experiencing a high, as if I was on a rollercoaster, though I was safely put on the ground. And each time something happened, I would turn to Jungkook who had already turned to me and we both cheered and embraced each other through it all.

"See," I yelled over the music, "I told you this was a good idea."

Jungkook smiled over to me through the dim lights, "well, you are always right."

And when the concert was nearing the end, a staff personnel came over to us, an began to talk to Jungkook.

I looked between them, thinking something must be wrong. Jungkook gave me a quick glance and smiled, reaching out his hand to me. I took it and he then brought it to his lips to kiss my knuckles.

Once they're done speaking, Jungkook leans to me and gives me a kiss, "come on."

He leans away and I give him a look, but clearly follow him anyway, even though I had absolutely no idea where we were going.

We walk hand in hand as we were lead through the area.

We find ourselves in the telltale bustle backstage, and I begin to have an inkling on just where we were going.

I tug on Jungkook's arm and flash wide eyes. We were in a place quiet enough so when he looks at me and leans in, I whisper, "are we going to meet G-dragon?"

He pulls away, giving me an incredulous look, shaking his head. He brings a finger up to his lips and turns away. My heart begins to beat so fast.

There was no mistaking it when we were backstage. I was greeted and greeted a bunch of staff members, some of which I actually recognized and worked with before.

It was pretty wild when we were brought directly backstage and a few moments later, G-Dragon came walking down towards us.

"Oh," G-Dragon himself calls with a toothy grin, "hello."

I am too stunned to speak and look at him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. I pull on Jungkook's arm as he turns to me with an ecstatic look on his face.

He and I bow in regard to our sunbae as he comes closer after wiping his sweat off.

G-Dragon reciprocates and shakes his hands, "yah, you two don't have to be so formal with me. Besides, we both have met before, right."

We nod and agree to his words.

Jungkook beams, "G-Dragon-ssi, you were absolutely amazing out there."

I quickly agree, "I was having such a bad day but then all of my stress got wiped off because of how loud I screamed."

He chuckles at this and slaps a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, "ah, thanks. You don't have to be so formal. You can just call me Jiyong. After all you two are both much more successful than me."

We are quick to deny this.

"Wah, without G-Dragon and BigBang, and our all senior's hard work, we wouldn't have reached were we are now," Jungkook says shaking his head.

"There you are again, being so formal," he scolds back.

Jungkook corrects himself, "Jinyong hyung."

"Wah, I can just call you Jiyong oppa?" I ask in disbelief.

"Well," Jiyong chuckles, turning to Jungkook, "better not in front of your boyfriend."

I redden at the teasing remark, "he isn't the jealous type."

Jungkook quickly turns to me and snaps, "no. I am. I am totally the jealous type."

We burst into a fit of laughter after this.

"I'm really glad I was able to make your day better, though. Honestly. It's one of the things that make me love doing what I do so much," Jiyong says, making both of us nod.

"Me too," Jungkook agreed.

I smile, "me three."

Jiyong smiles, "well. I would just like to give you both a bit of advice. If you ever have a bad day and some crazy person comes knocking on your door-"

I give Jungkook a look, and as does he.

"-just stop and think about why you're doing this. Remember why you love doing this. For me, at least, this helps me get through bad days."

After he says this, I reach out for Jungkook's hand and he grips it firmly. When I turn to him, he's already looking at me and giving my hand a kiss.

"Wah, really?" Jiyong complains looking around aimlessly, placing his hands on my hips, "right in front of me?" He sighs shaking his head, "you really know how to make a guy feel single."

[cnovel-readalong]

TGCF Character List: Non-Spoiler Edition

The Mains

Xie Lian:: The Crown Prince of Xian Le. A thrice ascended (twice banished) god who now wears the mantle of the God of Misfortune and God of Scrap-Collecting. Other Heavenly Officials look down on him.

Ruoye:: Xie Lian’s spiritual device. It has the appearance of a bandage that is wrapped around his arm, but he can command it and use it as a weapon or tool. Ruoye is shown to have emotions and attitudes.

San Lang:: A young man Xie Lian meets on the road. San Lang is highly intelligent and talented at all things. He knows a bit of everything and has a very cynical view of the world.

Hua Cheng:: A Devastation-level (high ranking) demonic Ghost King also known as the Crimson Rain-Sought Flower or Scourge of Heaven. He is the most powerful and dangerous of the group known as the Four Great Calamities.

E-Ming:: Hua Cheng’s blade. A long, curved silver scimitar with a decorative pommel that contains a glowing red eye. E-Ming has a psychic connection to Hua Cheng, and he can sense its moods and emotions.

The Heavenly Host

Mu Qing // Xuan Zhen:: The Southwest Martial God. A former servant of Xie Lian’s in their mortal life who earned the rank of a full god after Xie Lian’s second banishment. Has a volatile relationship with Feng Xin // Nan Yang.

Fu Yao:: A junior disciple under Mu Qing // Xuan Zhen. Despite his master’s hatred of Xie Lian, Fu Yao occasionally sneaks off to help Xie Lian on his adventures.

Feng Xin // Nan Yang:: The Southeast Martial God. Xie Lian’s former bodyguard, he was also brought to the heavens by Xie Lian initially and earned the rank of a full god after Xie Lian’s banishment. Has a volatile relationship with Mu Qing // Xuan Zhen.

Nan Feng:: A junior disciple of the god Feng Xin // Nan Yang. Despite his master’s hatred of Xie Lian, Nan Feng occasionally sneaks off to help Xie Lian on his adventures.

Ling Wen:: A literary goddess and friend of Xie Lian. Only Ling Wen greets Xie Lian upon his third ascension, and she often helps him research things. Ling Wen is the linchpin of most Heavenly business. Known as one of the Divine Tumors.

Shi Qing Xuan // The Wind Master:: One of the Five Elemental Lords, Qing Xuan often takes the form of a woman. With their stunning looks (in any gender) and eager personality, they make fast friends wherever they go.

Shi Wu Du // The Water Master:: Dubbed “Tyrannical Waters” by San Lang due to the practice of demanding tribue from those who sail upon the seas and oceans. Elder brother to Shi Qing Xuan // The Water Master. Known as one of the Divine Tumors.

Ming Yi // The Earth Master:: A frequent companion of Shi Qing Xuan // The Water Master. Not much is known about the Earth Master because he likes to keep a low profile.

General Pei Ming // Ming Guang:: Northern Martial God. Pei Ming is a legendary womanizer. He makes sure his statues look handsome and has frequent dalliances with worshippers. Known as one of the Divine Tumors. 

General Pei Su:: A junior official in General Pei Ming’s household. He acts as an underling and errand boy of Ming Guang.

Quan Yi Zhen // Qi Ying:: Martial God of the West. A young god who has no cares for his position. He ignores Heavenly summons, frequently beats up his worshippers, and does nothing but eat and sleep. Despite this, his popularity and power keep growing.

Lang Qian Qiu // Tai Hua:: The Martial God of the East, born the Crown Prince of Yong An- the kingdom that grew upon the ashes of Xie Lian’s own. He enjoys throwing himself headfirst at any situation he thinks makes him look heroic.

Jun Wu:: The Heavenly Emperor. Despite banishing Xie Lian from heaven twice before, he has a certain fondness for the god and often sends him on special missions in the mortal realm and helps him build his reputation among the other gods.

Ghosts and Demons

Night-Touring Green Lantern Qi Rong:: Though only a Wraith-level demon he is counted among the Four Great Calamities. He mainly creates disgusting and cheap imitations of the other Great Calamities biggest achievements. Has a particular hatred for Xie Lian.

White No-Face Bai Wu Xiang:: The eldest of the Four Great Calamities and first to reach Devastation-rank. He is the one who destroys Xie Lian’s kingdom before vanishing himself.

Black Water Demon He Xuan:: One of the Four Great Galamities. He keeps to himself. Though Hua Cheng is the Demon King of the Land, He Xuan is the Demon King of the Seas. The two mainly keep to themselves and avoid one another’s turf.

Lang Ying:: A peaceful ghost spirit of a young boy infected with the Human Face Disease- the very plague that destroyed Xie Lian’s kingdom. Lang Ying was traumatized and lives with Xie Lian in Puqi Shrine as a form of therapy.

Ban Yue:: The former High Priestess of the Ban Yue peoples. Though the Ban Yue kingdom died out long ago, an ancient grudge between Ban Yue and her general Ke Mo turned them both into active ghosts.

Ke Mo:: Former general of the Ban Yue kingdom, Ke Mo was a father figure to the young priestess Ban Yue before she betrayed the kingdom to slaughter. His grudge against her turned them both into active ghosts.

Lan Chang // Jian Lan:: A prostitue in the Ghost City. Known for wearing layers of makeup so thick that it literally flakes and chips off her face as she speaks. Lan Chang finds herself in the center of a Heavenly fight.

Cuo Cuo:: A demonic fetus spirit who devours the body and soul of babies still in their mother’s womb. Before Cuo Cuo was violently cut from its mother’s womb and murdered it was likely the child of an unknown Heavenly Official.

Humans of Note

Gu Zi:: A child who comes to live in Puqi Shrine, the main residence of Xie Lian, after his father is possessed by a demon. Gu Zi is too young to understand possession, and so he follows the demon as if it were his real father.

[averyonelovesjack]

learning to raise a baby ~ daniel seavey

requested: yes:)

Can you please do an cute imagine about y/n and Daniel having a baby together and taking care of the baby and figuring the parenting stuff out together. Ur amazing

summary: follow a few different events in the life of daniel and y/n learning to raise a baby.

warning(s): baby, literally too lazy to edit this i’ll come back later lmao

word count: 2608

author’s note: i have such baby fever omg 

disclaimer: i def need to clarify that i am 18 years old and do not have a baby and i have no close friends with babies (in person, at least) therefore this is purely fiction. i watch a LOT (i mean A LOT) of family vloggers and like teen mom accounts raising their kids, so basically all of my knowledge comes from that. i hope no one takes offence to my depiction of it, but my intention is purely just to write this cute fic idea, and i don’t want to pretend like i know anything about parenting or raising a child or anything like that!! okay that’s all!!

I could barely see my feet as I painfully took in another breath of air and started walking forward. Awoken at 3am with terrible back pain and a pool of amniotic fluid at my waist, Daniel and I now rushed to grab our hospital bag and make our way to the labor and delivery section of our nearest hospital. 

everything went so fast. before i was actively having a child, it felt like my pregnancy would never end, but now that it’s actually happening and i’m having a child, it felt like pregnancy flew by.

just a few days ago, i was sitting on the countertop in my bathroom, impatiently waiting to see if i was pregnant or not in hopes that daniel wouldn’t get home from the studio early and find me. i had just given daniel the surprise of his lifetime when i woke him up at four am to tell him i was pregnant because i just couldn’t keep it from him anymore to do a fun reveal. i remember how we both cried, too excited to even go back to sleep. 

just a few days ago, daniel and i were sitting in my obstetrician’s office as we got to hear our eight week old fetus’ heartbeat for the first time. we both cried. it feels like just a day or two ago we cut into a pink colored cake and found out that our precious baby girl would be coming. all of the breakdowns about what stroller to buy and which crib matches the nursey best felt like just moments ago. and now, all of a sudden, i’m ten hours into labor and i’m ready to push.

pushing was painful, but the thought of holding a sweet babygirl soon just kept me going. daniel squeezed my hand tight, standing by the end of the bed watching our beautiful daughter make her way into the world.

i gave the final push and soon i heard a cry that made everything in the whole world worth it. they say you never truly understand love until you’ve had a child, and as soon as i held our daughter, i felt an overwhelming sense of truth in that statement. i never knew such a distinct moment could be the greatest day of my life, but as soon as i laid my eyes on her, i knew that i would never get a day greater than this one. 

our daughter laid on my chest for a while as daniel sat by my head, holding both my hand and hers. eventually, the nurses cleaned her off a bit and wrapped her tightly in a swaddle for daniel to finally hold his daughter. i watched the tears fall from his bluer than ever eyes that never left her little face. by the way she settled in his arms and fell asleep, i knew i was going to have a daddy’s little girl on our hands. 

it felt like forever, just watching daniel and our baby getting to know each other. soon enough, though, the doctors finished with the stitches and i heard a knock at the door. 

within seconds, both of our parents came into the room, bearing wide smiles. daniel sat in the seat next to me, both of us staring at the beautiful baby in front of us. 

“does she have a name?” keri asks, slowly walking up to the two of us, careful not to be too loud. 

daniel and i look at each other, and then i give him the nod to tell everyone. “callista avery mae seavey.”

“our little baby callie.” i smile at the name. daniel and i both loved the name callie, but wanted it to be a nickname. avery was after his bandmate who really helped us through this whole preparing to be parents thing. mae was a pretty nickname from my side of the family that was good to separate avery and seavey. our little callie mae. 

***

it was three am and both of us were awake to callie’s loud screaming. turns out that daniel and i had a very colicky daughter who, when awake, wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. daniel was in the nursery trying to grab more diapers and wipes that, out of exhaustion, we forgot to restock last night when we ran out. i held callie in our arms, rocking her gently and trying to get her to go back to sleep. 

“does she have a dirty diaper?” daniel asks, placing the diapers in the corner of our messy bedroom. a few days into callie’s life, we realized we should’ve left the changing table in our bedroom until she was ready to sleep in the nursey, but both of us were too tired to even think about moving the furniture around. so for now the corner of the room was storage and a changing pad on the bench was our late night changing table. 

“i don’t think so.” i answer, giving him an exhausted look. “her diaper isn’t heavy and i tried to feed her, but she doesn’t seem to be hungry. i think she just woke up and is being colicky again.”

“how long did the doctor say the colic will last?” daniel asks. 

“she didn’t.” i sigh, going to take a seat on our bed as i continued to calm callie. daniel sat beside me. “go back to sleep, i got her.”

“no, i know you’ve been awake all night. try to go to sleep, i’ve got her.” daniel says, and then takes callie from me. “did you take melatonin tonight?”

“yeah.” i say. “i know your body goes through a lot of changes postpartum, but i’m really not liking the insomnia.”

“okay, well, you lay down, and i’m gonna sing to you both, okay?” daniel says and then starts to rock callie to sleep as i laid beside them. and then he started to sing softly. 

***

callie was born a little over three months ago and daniel and i haven’t had a date night since then. when we fearfully realized that last week, jack and anna were both quick to offer some help. we hadn’t felt comfortable leaving callie yet, especially since she wasn’t always the easiest. we had lots of help and people offering, but neither daniel nor i were good at asking for help. that’s definitely something we’re both still working on, especially now that we have a baby. 

finally though, jack and anna convinced us. originally, we were going to leave them with daniel’s parents, but anna and jack were pretty convincing. jack had lots of experience since he himself is a dad, and anna was very close with gabbie when she had lavender. jack also decided to invite zach for some more company, which was cute.

daniel and i had a hard time saying goodbye to callie, even though we really were only going to be out for two hours at most. we knew neither of us could stay away for that long. 

the restaurant wasn’t too far from the house, which was nice because it cut down on our time away from callie. i think both of us were a little nervous to leave her. we both know that she’s three months old and other people are more than capable of watching her for a few hours, but it’s still hard to not be worried about all of the things we could be missing out on.

“oh my gosh, anna just sent a picture of callie.” daniel says in the middle of our dinner, holding up his phone to show up me the picture of our daughter in the adorable pajamas her aunt bought. 

“i miss her.” i admit, knowing he was feeling similarly. “do you think they had a hard time getting her to sleep? i hope she’ll be good for them tonight.”

“i’m sure she was fine.” daniel says, then later . “you know, maybe we should skip dessert. relieve them a little early.”

“she’s growing up so fast.” i tell him. “i’m not ready for her to keep growing.”

“we’re gonna blink and she’s gonna be cursing us out because we wouldn’t let her go out with her friends.” daniel continues. “not that we would do that, because honestly, i’ve always thought we’d be a little cooler than that.”

i laugh at his comment. “oh, we’ll definitely be cooler than that. we’re not gonna be the lame strict parents that doesn’t let their kids go out with their friends.”

“oh definitely.” daniel agrees. “except i will be strict about doors open if someone is over. i don’t care who she’s in her room with, but that door better be open. i am taking no chances.”

“i feel like that’s fair.” i add. “i know we’re parents, but wow, until i think about that future, i kind of forget.”

“i’m very glad that’s a long ways away.” he comments. “i’m barely ready for her to be three months old, we do not need to get ahead of ourselves. take this parenting thing one step at a time.”

“i could not agree more.” i smile, leaning over the table to kiss daniel’s lips gently. 

***

i walked out of my one year old’s nursery with her in my arms. we watched as daniel and anna hung balloons up around our california apartment. it’s just about an hour before callie’s first birthday party, and now more than ever, i could not be more grateful for daniel’s family’s offer to help us set up. 

rather than fighting with figuring out food for the party, we decided to get it catered. christian and tyler offered to go pick up the food at the restaurant for us, which was extremely helpful. his parents were setting up some decorations around the front of the apartment. 

i had just put callie in her adorable dress that i specifically picked out for this party. we weren’t the type to throw parties, so we weren’t 100% sure what to do or what to expect, but we decided to just stick to family and close friends. callie was too young for us to strictly invite her friends over. at this stage in her life, her friends were whoever was at mommy&me that week. 

the party was going to be small. daniel’s family, my family, daniel’s bandmates and close friends, and then my close friends. 

thankfully, we finished decorating and setting up with about thirty minutes left to spare before the party. rather than worry, i decided to just sit on the couch with anna and daniel. keri took callie from me, wanting to spend some time with her granddaughter, and giving daniel and i a brief break before the party started. 

“i cannot believe she’s a year old.” anna exclaims to me. “you guys have been parents for a year. that’s crazy to think about.”

“it’s definitely a little bit weird.” i giggle in response. 

“you guys make it look so easy, being young parents.” anna says. “i know i’m younger than you guys, but still, i cannot imagine having a kid anytime soon.”

“i didn’t think i would either.” i tell anna. “for me, i wasn’t really ready until i met dani. i realized that i was ready because i wanted to do this with him. it’s different for everyone, i’m sure, but at least personally, that’s how i knew we could be parents.”

daniel wraps his arm around me on the couch, kissing my cheek softly. “yeah, it’s the same for me. when you find someone you want to do everything with, it gets easier to imagine yourself parenting together.”

“that is really cute.” anna says. “this is what i mean, when i say you make it look easy!!”

“it’s definitely not easy.” i laugh. “but it’s a little bit easier when you work as a team. we talk things through and decide together, instead of just making decisions separately. it’s a lot easier to feel like you’re making the right decision when you talk things through.”

“and that is all the parenting advice you get, because while i am most definitely ready to be a dad, i am not ready to be an uncle.” daniel says, getting protective over his younger sister. 

“being an uncle is way easier than being a dad.” anna laughs. “but trust me, i’m not having kids any time soon. at least not intentionally.”

“well, i have to be the cool uncle. someone’s gotta bail the kid out of jail and hide it from you.” daniel jokes.

“first of all, why would my kid go to jail??” anna asks. “and second of all, you might’ve been first in the race for cool uncle before callie arrived, but since becoming a dad, you’ve fallen behind. the cool uncle can’t have kids, that’s not how that works.”

“well i’ll break that standard, because i’ll be the cool uncle.” 

“i just want to be the aunt that gives good advice at one o’clock in the morning.” i tell them. “someone’s gotta do it. i expect that for callie, anna, so i will do that for your kids.”

“oh, of course. nothing but the best for callie. and future kids.” anna agrees. “speaking of, future kids? any thoughts on that? mom wants me to scope that out.”

“eventually.” i smile. “sooner rather than later.”

***

daniel took callie on a walk. he’s been really adamant about spending at least thirty minutes a day on a walk with her. now that she’s getting a lot more balance and ability to take a lot more steps, he loves taking her to the playground a few blocks from our apartment. usually, i like to go with them, but today i made up an excuse about things i had to get done at home.

i felt especially grateful for that routine of his today, because i needed a few minutes to myself. i’ve been feeling particularly nauseated recently, and as soon as i woke up the other day, i could feel that i was pregnant again. in the past, i had always thought that when i was paranoid about being late, but now that i’ve actually experienced pregnancy, i can feel that there’s a little fetus inside of me.

daniel and i haven’t exactly been trying, but we haven’t been taking as many precautions as we were when callie was first born. now that she’s over a year old, we feel better about having another baby. we weren’t too rushed, because we lot spending time with just our little girl, but we didn’t want to wait too long and have her grow up without a sibling. having a sibling was always a priority of daniel and i’s. seeing as we both grew up with siblings, we know how important it is to have a sibling. 

my stomach fluttered with butterflies as i followed the instructions on the pregnancy test. after realizing i was pregnant with callie, i had bought a ton of tests that i didn’t end up using because it was so obvious that i was indeed pregnant. that was extremely helpful for right now when i don’t have time to go sit in traffic for thirty minutes just to go to the pharmacy. 

i sat on top of the counter, leaving the pregnancy test face down while i tried to scroll through tiktok and distract myself. it was probably the slowest five minutes of my life, other than finding out about callie. 

the timer went off on my phone. i take a deep breath and carefully lift the pregnancy test off the marble bathroom counter.

pregnant. 

[kandi-pendragon]

Ok I have been annoying My Merlin Discord Server about this book so its time I moved onto bothering Tumblr with it :)

I am begging you. Anyone. Everyone. If you are able, go out and buy/read Merlin: The Lost Years by T.A. Barron. It focuses on Merlin’s youth, much like BBCM, but the plot is entirely different. It starts with Merlin, seven years old, washing up on the shore of wales, half dead and not knowing anything, even his own name. It skips ahead five years and hes living with a woman who insists his name is Emrys and that she is his mother. This is the first book in the series, and from what ive read so far his goal is to go out in the world and find his real parents, his real home, and his real name.

Some highlights:

•Thebookhasamapthebookhasamapthebookhasamapthebookhasama—

• “Since that day, I have seen many others, more than I have the strength left to count. Yet that day glows as bright as the Galator itself, as bright as the day I found my own name, or the day I first cradled a baby who bore the name Arthur.” This is the second paragraph. It is also the words that made me officially sell my soul to this story.

• “His eyes, like his hair, where as black as coal, with scattered flecks of gold. His ears, which were almost triangular and pointed at the top, seemed oddly large for the rest of his face.” Why does this paragraph remind me of BBCM fics? The flecks of gold in his eyes, the famously large ears?? This seems familiar 👀

• “To my surprise, when I released my hold on the worm, so did the ant. It turned toward me, waving its tiny Antennae wildly. I caught the distinct feeling that I was being scolded. ‘My apologies,’ I whispered through my grin.” Name a 12 year old as cute as Merlin. I’ll wait.

• I shouldnt be this happy over them calling him Emrys. its not a coincidence, its not reffering to BBC merlin, its literally part of the legends. I just love that name so much >.<

• Like 30 pages in and hes already wondering if hes a demon. makes me think of the line “I’m not a monster am I?” ....why must Merlin always be so sad?

• He is so dumb. Such a stupid little child.

• Theres this kid named Dinatius and Merlin puts him in his PLACE. Fucking asshole gets what he deserves. Merlin just tells him: “Look! Treasure from the sky!!” Knowing full well a bird is about to shit on his face lmfao

• Hes clumbsy in this too!! Although theres a more legitamite reason for that 👀👀

• Nobody: Not a single soul: Merlin: *Walks into a horse*

• HE IS A FETUS. A LITERAL CHILD. I LOVE HIM.

• Me @ the author: Sir. Sir please leave him alone. He is twelve. I’m not even 100 pages in. Stop traumatizing him please.

• “I have nothing to loose but my life” I- thATS KIND OF AN IMPORTANT THING TO LOSE MERLIN

• 80 pages in and hes nearly drowned twice 😃 what the fuck

• I am so glad I started learning Welsh because if I hadn‘t I would have absolutely BUTCHERED these town names

please god I am begging you to read this. Anyone. I am literally in love. Please send help

[ciceroballtorture]

the boys <3 (if you didn't only watch the mommy milk scene) and the alien franchise if you feel like it dlfjsd

chiara im not sure what implication is worse. that ive watched the boys for an extended period of time OR that im deranged enough to have seen only and exclusively the mommy milk scene.......

THE BOYS

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most): annie starlight. idk shes blonde and i want her to raw me. i think that is abt the best i can achieve with this show

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped): kimiko!! idk she is cute and she goes all in for murder and violence, whats not to love

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave): madelyn stillwell ig? my milf was really out there weaponising milfdom even if by god i wish she didnt. deserved a pay rise for all that she had to do. misoginy at the workplace

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week): does the ant-man guy who does the pussy dive in the first episode count? i guess?? icon??

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave): ashley barret, for the pathetic fave category. my girl is out there being a secretary to momy kink guy with all the help her wobbly moral compass and spine made of jello can afford. literally so me <3

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason): homelander. those freudian issues compel me (derogatory)

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell): homelander again. im just traumatised. like. heyyo. and ill stand by this statement in the likely case jackles is going to get his tits suckled by this dude.

ALIEN

blorbo (favorite character, character I think about the most): to no-ones, surprise, DAVID 8 WEYLAND. literally the most cunt an android has ever served. literal cultural reset. i cannot talk abt this man enough, and by god if the comments of my mutuals are of any indication yall have heard me talk abt his a whole lot

scrunkly (my “baby”, character that gives me cuteness aggression, character that is So Shaped): elizabeth shaw. shescute, but shell abort your alien fetus right in your face. queen.

scrimblo bimblo (underrated/underappreciated fave): vickers. those daddy issues give her the edge. less serious response, the homosexual rock guys, homophobia may have killed them but they touched balls for sure before it did

glup shitto (obscure fave, character that can appear in the background for 0.2 seconds and I won’t shut up about it for a week): the engineer from prometheus. mental illness luv

poor little meow meow (“problematic”/unpopular/controversial/otherwise pathetic fave): also david, still for the pathetic and 'problematic' (with the quotation marks) fave. HE

horse plinko (character I would torment for fun, for whatever reason): elizabeth's shitty partner whose name escapes me

eeby deeby (character I would send to superhell): walter. simply bc he is the castiel of my prometheus. there to homosexual it up, but i do not fundamentally care abt him and superhell is a good place as any to squat and not be on my scree

[bthump]

If you were Miura's chief assistant and decided to end Berserk in a couple of chapters, how would you do it (ofc it'd be an open and abrupt ending, but still)?

hmm interesting question. this is tricky lol, all the endings I like to imagine require like, another arc of build up to work.

well, casca sees moonlight boy, remembers fetus, flashes back to eclipse bc that's all interconnected in her mind, behelit opens. i know that much lol.

OK I KNOW. Casca sacrifices moonbaby which is not a werebaby but is an astral projection by the fetus griff grew out of or whatever. Sacrificing it removes any fetus influence from Griff. OH that's why NGriff is here also, and it's a bit of a fakeout, like, it seems like he showed up bc fate required him to be sacrificed but then only the fetus part is sacrificed and it actually maybe makes him more undefeatable, oh no. also maybe he gets a black swordsman femto-esque villain moment where he gloats about this. Or if not him, Ubik does.

This would be better if Griff takes off and we got a whole nother arc in between but w/e, so basically Casca goes monster, Farnese is also there and like, power of friendship convinces her to chill and not get between Guts and Griff, bc I need them to just fight without distractions. idk. or maybe she does try to attack Griff too and Guts goes beast of darkness and injures her. whatever.

guess they're still in the vortex for this bc elfhelm being around would be too much to deal with. Femto goes back to Griff form to taunt Guts and they sword fight and the godhand just think it's funny I guess. void is like, 'really guys, do we have to do this' and slan's like 'shut up i'm trying to watch the show' and griff is basically toying with guts. Oooh also their commentary tells us that Griff is not all powerful, like 'yeah sure he's got the advantage, but after all he did return to that pitiful human form, and the black swordsman is full of surprises, don't count him out yet' that kinda thing.

from guts' beasty pov griff is a shining light in front of him.

uhhhh this can't go on too long bc you said only a few chapters lol. so like, it's not an epic battle, it's just guts trying and ngriff easily evading/countering him.

hmm Guts being all hidden away in the armour makes it harder to get a moment for NGriff to fuck up because of his feelings which obviously have not actually gone with the fetus :/ Well okay, how about Griffith ends up standing on the dragonslayer and they both have a whole ~moment~ where they stop and stare at each other. Kiiinda want Guts' consciousness to return here but it might be too much. Hm. Actually yeah, ok here's what happens: from Guts' pov we get a whole bit where he remembers human Griff and his consciousness returns, his helmet retracts, they fuckin make eye contact, Griff smiles, and then Guts sends them both over the edge of a platform.

Bc they're in the escher room from yk chapter 7 and also the swirl of hell souls is there below them. gotta mention that.

griff grabs the edge of the platform, guts grab his hand, they look at each other again, maybe guts is like, 'i'm not letting go this time,' if i want to be really heavy handed about it, close up of their hands - and griffith is holding on just as tightly to guts' hand. then griffith's fingers slip.

during their fight we also got a moment with casca and injured farnese, bc yeah I guess what I'm saying is Casca tried to attack and Guts fucked her up and now she's huddled in a corner with Farnese. And their moment is something like Casca, in mostly humanoid form, knocking Farnese aside with "a what are you doing, didn't you see what happened? what I became?" while F is trying to bandage a gaping wound and Farnese coming back and resuming with something like "Stop it, I'm staying right here at your side." They just need /something/ vaguely conclusive and hopeful, bc I'm not brainstorming an epilogue montage lol.

So yeah. idk maybe the final panel should be Casca and Farnese clinging to each other, while the godhand retreat, with Guts and Griff's swords lying on the ground.

so let's see that's like, 1 chapter for behelit to open, 1 chapter to make sacrifice, 1 chapter of everyone going holy shit and guts going beast of darkness and injuring casca, 2 chapters fighting, 1 chapter end. Rushed, like even just this should be like 10 chapters with an epilogue, but can't really help that.

That said, if you literally just meant a couple chapters as in two chapters, thennnnnnnnnn fuck it, moonbaby transforms into Danann who tells Guts she helped guide them all there and asks what he's going to do now, Guts looks back at Casca and Farnese and smiles sadly and asks for a lift off the island, alone this time, without even Puck. Danann gives him a magic thing that unlocks the fast travel system and mentions that Griffith can use it too, and in fact he's on the move right now (bc we gotta have some explanation for griff's disappearing act). Maybe with some implication that Griff knows he’s off to meet Guts for a final duel or whatever lol. (And the assumption is he can manifest clothes and armour. Or is it. Maybe that’s the secret hint they’re actually going to fuck when they meet up.) The last page is like, Guts walking into a portal or whatever, shot of his pouch ft behelit, shot of the brand, shot of him from behind with dragonslayer slung over his back, doublechecking he’s got a condom in his wallet.

lmao i spent all those paragraphs on the long ass first answer trying to squeeze in as much of the stuff I like as I could but honestly the 2nd one is way better when you don’t have any opportunity for build up and it has to be v truncated. Just Guts going off alone back on his revenge bender. i’m leaving my stream of consciousness answer as is anyway.

ty for asking! this was fun :3

[aethersea]

you know what, I never do these things, but actually I’ve decided I would like to get to know people better! I would like to partake of the mortifying ordeal! I would like to talk about myself for a bit!

ok for the next...let’s say five days I will answer any of these things that people tag me in, or any random personal questions you plop in my ask box. I don’t have an ask meme on hand but just....pick one you’ve seen recently, or make up questions of your own, and I’ll answer. (the answer might be ‘nope that’s private’ but I will answer.) (@ the anon who asked for book recs - I see you, I’ve been thinking of books all day, I’m going to give you SUCH a long answer, I hope you don’t regret your choices bc it WILL be full of gushing)

alright, let’s go!

🌻 Tag 9 people you want to get to know better

Tagged by @booksandchainmail​

Last Song: I’m currently listening to “Falcon in the Dive” from the Scarlet Pimpernel musical on loop. I watched one or two Scarlet Pimpernel movies when I was just barely too young to fully get what was going on, and the story’s held an odd but deep-seated place in my heart ever since. A few years ago I found out there’s a musical and most of the songs are pretty stellar (go listen to “Madame Guillotine” if you like big ensemble broadway numbers, it’s a banger, the bit where he cries out for God has been running through my mind on and off for a few days now haha not like that’s topical or anything), so every once in a while I spend a few days listening to them a lot.

Sometime last year I read the actual book, and got super into the whole concept of the Scarlet Pimpernel for a while. I plotted out Pimpernel aus for several fandoms, I read the entire wikipedia article, and I went looking for bootlegs of the musical. I didn’t find one, but I did find a full radioplay-style recording of the script, complete with full musical numbers, and listened to it like a podcast.

Reader, I was so disappointed. The play adds some scenes, bc a lot of the dramatic tension of the novel comes from internal conflict and that doesn’t stage super well, and the very first scene of this play – a play written in the NINETIES – features our dashing hero rescuing some aristocrats from a French prison, and then saying to the person in the next cell, who begs for rescue but is not an aristocrat, “We have enough of your kind in England.”

Enough! of your KIND! What in the merry frickety HECK my dudes!! The book has some rather unfortunate™ takes but it is from 1905, it’s regrettable but sadly to be expected. This play is from 1997. It has NO excuse. This scene wasn’t even in the book! What! the heck!

I was so disheartened that I lost my excitement for the play, and a couple songs later I stopped listening. It occurred to me just a few days ago that you could actually stage that ironically, with the person in the cell giving the audience a “can you believe this” look, and then the rest of the play could feature assorted non-aristocratic ensemble members constantly looking at the audience like they’re on The Office. And hey, maybe that’s what they did, or something similar – maybe that was never meant to be taken as a cleanly heroic stance, and the play deals with it in a complex way. It’s possible. I wouldn’t know. Kinda doubt it though, based on song lyrics.

Favorite Color: red, probably

Last Movie: I watched that new lesbian christmas movie with my family for christmas, the one with kirsten stewart and the guy from schitt’s creek. it’s very sweet and good and kinda sad, and I really enjoyed it. it also incidentally has the best gay best friend trope in probably anything ever, bc it’s not a trope (I didn’t realize until several hours after watching that it technically fits), it’s just a guy who is the protagonist’s best friend, and they’re just all gay, and then when he Gives Relationship Advice as a gay best friend always does, it’s advice about how to deal with your partner’s hangups around coming out.

actually every part of the gay best friend trope becomes better when they’re just best friends who are both gay. the big dramatic gestures (in this case, driving some ungodly distance in the snow on no notice) go from “haha how kooky” to “queer man will do anything he needs to to rescue his queer friend from an isolating & potentially triggering situation”. the relationship advice isn’t “honey you deserve some self-respect, treat yourself”, it’s a deeply sincere reminder of the vulnerability that is shared across almost everyone’s queer experience, and look I could ramble about this for a long time before reaching a coherent point but I’m INTO IT, okay? I’m into it.

Last Show: you want me to remember what show I last finished???? impossible, cannot be done, it was a long time ago and the adhd has eaten everything that happened before last week. here, instead I’ll tell you about another movie I watched, late at night with my mom in cozy companionship just a couple days ago. it’s called Quigley Down Under and it’s about a cowboy who goes to Australia and kills a bunch of racists, 10/10 would watch again. it’s from 1990 but it feels much older, with the music choices and the cinematography of a 70s Western. the cowboy is great, honorable and fearless and kind, but the breakaway star of this movie for me is the woman who attaches herself to his side and refuses to leave. her name is Cora, and she’s crazy, in the sense that she’s not altogether tethered to reality, but this never for a second diminishes her agency. she’s fierce and clever and compassionate, and she basically never does anything she doesn’t want to in the whole movie. her arc is about overcoming trauma by taking charge of her own fear and facing it head-on, she is never belittled or dismissed by the narrative or the protagonist, and look she’s just so cool. I love her. she’s so vibrantly alive. her story could probably have been handled with a bit more nuance, but honestly for the 90s it’s pretty great. I’m no expert, but I found nothing objectionable in it, just a bit of heavy-handedness.

anyway the theme of the movie is that racism is evil and racists deserve to be shot, and this too could have been handled better (not a single aboriginal character speaks a single line of english in this movie), but it follows through on that message in every way, while still being a fun kinda campy cowboy movie. overall a very good time.

Currently Watching: started showing my sister Hilda the other day, and she’s liking it! I love that show, it’s so incredibly cute. can’t wait to see season 2

Currently Reading: lmao I wish. lately the brain has firmly rejected all attempts to read anything of any length. currently pending, bc I was halfway through them when my brain stalled out, are tano’s fic What Does Kill You Can Make You Stronger, Too, a Toby Daye book - I think it was The Brightest Fell, I got like half a chapter in and haven’t picked it up in over a month, the Locked Tomb series, and probably a few other things too. ooh! also a book called Making Sex by thomas laqueur, which is my fancy academic reading that I’ve been doing in short bursts for the past year or two when I feel fancy and academic. it’s about the development of the concept of biological sex and of gender in Western society, and it’s fascinating. has among other things introduced me to the idea that until quite recently, fathers were a matter of faith. the mother? yeah, you can watch the baby pop out, we all know who the mother is. but the father? how can you know? how can you really know? we have paternity tests these days, but for all of human history up until now, we've just had to take fatherhood on faith. (not to mention we didn’t even know what fathers were contributing to the production of a fetus. clearly it was something, since you can’t get pregnant without a penis getting involved, but we have literally not known what until the past few decades. and that is wild. it has colored ALL of human history, all of our conceptions of society and family and kinship and gender, all of it, and it hadn’t even occurred to me until it was spelled out for me in this book, and it’s just......wow.

Salty, sweet or savory: for christmas my sister and I made seven different types of cookie, most of them involving chocolate somehow.

Craving: no bc I ate so many cookies. unless sleep counts. or maybe pringles, it’s been many moons since last I had a potato chip and I miss them.

Coffee or Tea: no thank you

Tagging: @coloursisee, @krchy-tuna, @sam-j-squirrel, @xzienne, @mirandatam, @viciousmaukeries, @sepulchritude, @elidyce, and @navigatorsnorth bc it’s been a while since we’ve talked, and I’m super hyped that you’re married now. v happy for you!

[jackinalex]

Favorite jalex moments?

God, I’ve been mulling over this for so long. And there are sooo many moments, that I love, so I decided to just list ten so that I wouldn’t go on forever and ever and ever. This is in no particular order, btw. I also just stuck to videos, even though there are SO MANY pictures and instances in print interviews and radio and podcasts that I love, too. 

1) This one, that I will never see the full version of bc it was on Kerrang, but it’s literally just them snuggling and Rian and Zack being annoyed, but unsurprised lol. “Don’t be sad. I’m gonna put on your favorite Green Day tracks and as we listen, I’m gonna cuddle you and snuggle you and fumble you.” Also, “hold me.” And idk if it’s because he’s trying not to laugh or what, but Alex kind of blushes and looks away when Zack calls them out lmao. 

2) Bro this fetus interview is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. They bunny kiss and Jack is sitting on Alex’s lap and Alex kisses Jack’s cheek and Alex is just so precious.

3) Can’t leave out Alex’s “curvy blue penis.”

4) Here at 0:19 when Alex cuddles into Jack and Jack just kind of smiles and lets him do it. 

5) This is the dumbest shit ever but it never fails to make me laugh. And it’s not technically jalex, but it involves both of them sooo it counts.

6) “Me and Alex are married, sorry.”

7) There are a zillion video of Jalex kissing, but I especially love this one. This one, too, since it’s so recent. I’m allowed to have a two-parter, goddamn it. It’s always before or during Damned If I Do Ya, which has had me a little suspicious for years.

8) Another bunny kiss. 

9) “Jack Barakat is the love of my life.”

10) And like obviously, “does jalex exist?” because it’s fucking iconic and will live forever.