#this also feels like one of those things that just hasn’t been considered in law bc of how new a development it is

[death-himself]

this feels like really a dumb question, but is it actually legal for mcyts to use minecraft skins made by other people?

like i don’t think philza or tubbo made their own main skins that they’re most known for, considering they’re just bleach and south park characters

so they’re basically using someone else’s art without paying them or crediting them for it, but also it feels really dumb for a minecraft skin to not be fair use right?

it feels like one of those situations where the creator of the skin could feasibly sue, but also why would they bother

[beezusvreeland]

dear reader - chapter 4

summary: Miguel took the reader’s love and friendship for granted. Something he learns reading her column, when it’s too late…Or is it?

ship: miguel o'hara x f!reader // matt murdock x reader

______________________________________________________________

Chapter 4

“What’s wrong, buddy? Did you buy another shampoo instead of a conditioner?”, Peter raised his glass of beer to Miguel, as he sat on a chair at their usual table. He threw his suit jacket at an empty chair and started undoing his maroon tie. 

“Miggy, you’re putting quite a show for those ladies, huh?”, Pav looked between his friends and a group of women in what was clearly in bachelorette party attire who were drooling over him. 

Miguel just groaned. 

“Bollocks, it really was one of those days”, Hobie used his fingers to give a loud whistle toward the bar. “Foggy, mate, can you get us the strongest bottle of dark beer, please?”

“Many years have gone by since I met you and yet, you’re still the only person I’ve ever met that actually likes that gross liquid”, Peter made a face.

“That really breaks my heart, Peter”, Foggy drops a tall glass of dark beer in front of Miguel, who muttered “thanks” without looking up. “I haven’t seen you like that in a very long time, my friend. It’s a pity your girlfriend is traveling, she is the one who handles ‘soon to be drunk Miguel’ the best.”

“She is not my girlfriend”, Miguel was annoyed. With the crowded bar, his friends and Foggy for remembering him of you. Even the phrase he just said irritated him, which made no sense, he had said several variations of it over the years. God, that probably hurt you, Miguel thought. If he were in love with you and you kept repeating that you were just friends in front of people all the time, he would be heartbroken. 

Miguel always thought of you as a delicate and sensitive person, but he never considered that you could be the two and also be strong. As they said in those boring seminars at Alchemax, you are very resilient. And you probably hated that word. It’s a writer tic, you’d say if you were there, and it makes him feel a little lighter. That and the beer. 

“Oh, sorry, Migs, it’s just you are always together…”

“Miguel couldn’t recognize a good woman even if his life depended on it”, Hobie chuckles. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Hobie gave him a look of boredom. 

“For a genius, you are very dumb.”

“Is she seeing anyone?”, Foggy collects the empty glass bottles from the table. 

“Are you interested, mr. Franklin Percy ‘Foggy’ Nelson?”, Hobie wiggled his eyebrows.

“You are never gonna drop that, will you?”

“Hey, mate, I wasn’t the one who forgot his wallet in the bar.”

Foggy rolled his eyes. 

“You’ve known me for ages, and know I’m in a serious relationship with Karen.”

“We don’t know the details of your personal life”, Hobie said and Peter nodded, agreeing. 

“Just ignore them, Foggy. Y/n is as single as a pringle”, Pav put a loose lock of hair back into place. “But, seriously, why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know, I have a friend, decent guy, has a small law firm, I think they could be a good match.”

“He better be, or else we are kicking his ass”, Pav said, passionately. Hobie, Peter and Miguel stare at him like ‘nah, bruh’. 

“I don’t think you could, he boxes a few times a week”, Foggy smirked. 

Miguel took another gulp of his beer, finishing it. He gave the bottle to Foggy and asked him for another one. Miguel really liked Foggy, he had been a loyal customer from the beginning, but he just couldn’t handle that conversation anymore. You were still away, they should at least wait for your return to discuss such things. Miguel didn’t like the idea of you hanging out with a stranger. He was a protective friend. He hasn’t been, but maybe he should, being more present in your life could be the fastest route towards mending your friendship. At least that’s he told himself.

***

Dear reader,

What are you supposed to do when your crush shows up at your place out of nowhere seeking some emotional validation? Tell him to go fuck himself. What did I do when that happened a couple nights ago? I let him in and spent a whole afternoon listening to his troubles. It was torture, being right there in front of him while he talked about some girl he met on a dating app. Feeling closer to a mother or therapist figure than a possible lover. 

But it was also nice sometimes, getting to be alone and so close to each other, he was so relaxed, as if he could just be himself around me. Those moments are so rare that I try to memorize them, so I can use those images to comfort me later when he eventually breaks my heart. He does it a lot and has no idea. 

The girl he told me about? He left my apartment abruptly to meet with her. The thing about pain is that, if you give into it, it becomes really easy to let it erase everything else. I feel like I was better at it in the past, the weight of this unrequited love is starting to break my back. 

I have received some emails from readers asking me why don’t I just profess my love to him? Well, I already did it, on my own way. His birthday was a few months ago and, if there is anything you should know about this writer, it is the fact that I love giving gifts. I’m really good at it. Especially when it comes to the ones I love. With him it wasn’t any different. Normally, I try to pick things that will be useful and make his life easier — he is a practical man and really seems to love those. But this year I wanted to try something different, make an idea I’ve had for a long time happen. 

I asked our friends to tell me about their favorite memories with him . There were funny ones, weird ones and surprisingly thoughtful ones. I wrote them all down as short stories and turned them into a book of his adventures. My own short story was the last one and in it and I chose to be brave: I wrote about the day I realized I was in love with him. It was my way of saying “I love you, you stupid idiot, will you ever see me as more than just a friend?”.

One of our friends designed the cover art and I had it printed as an actual hard cover book. With my heart in one hand and the book on the other, I showed up at his birthday house party, dressed to, hopefully, impress. 

There were a lot of people everywhere, so I waited a few hours to have a moment alone with him. He was upstairs in his bedroom looking for his phone amongst all the guests’ coats and purses. I gave him the book and he seemed excited — drunk, but excited — and he was about to tear the wrapping paper when a blonde woman, a beautiful one, the kind only an heiress or royalty can be, showed up. As I was leaving the room, I saw him throw the box in his bed. 

I’m pretty sure he didn’t read it. Or opened it. Probably lost it. 

So that’s how that went. And this is where this week’s column ends. 

As always, remember: never take advice from someone who’s falling apart.

Love,

The writer

***

You were almost asleep when your phone started ringing. You searched for it on the nightstand without opening your eyes. The next day would be your last at the university and you already missed it so much. There was so much love for that place, those people, even the accent that took you a while to get accustomed to. 

There had been a lot of writing too. A little bit of everything, you got to explore different formats and methods, things you would have never imagined you were able to do. In the morning, you would read a piece of your final project to the rest of the class. The idea of reading out loud for other people terrified you when the course began. But now you were more confident in your writing — and yourself. Rather than fear, you were excited to share a part of you with the faces that had given you so much during the last month and a half. 

“Hello?”

“Hi there! How is my favorite writer doing?”, hearing Gwen’s voice filled your chest with warmth. “Shit, did I wake you up? I thought I had calculated the right time.”

“Well, math has never been your thing”, you could hear her smile on the other side of the Atlantic.

“I’m gonna be the bigger person and not remind you of the time you took so long to count the tip correctly that even the waiters didn’t want it anymore.”

You both laughed. 

“I miss you, Gweny”, you said.

“And I, you! Are you excited for your presentation?”

“Actually, I am.”

“I’m happy to hear that. The day after tomorrow, I’ll pick you up from the airport when you arrive.”

“Will you make me a ‘welcome back’ sign?”

“That can be arranged.”

“And you, what’s going on there?”

“Oh, you know, without you, the bar is just the boys getting drunk and teasing each other”, she chuckled. Without missing a beat, she said: “Have you spoken to Miguel?”

From a princess, you were slowly transforming into a pumpkin. Hearing his name out loud coming from someone so close to both of you made it all too real. Ignoring Miguel’s existence had worked so far, but back at home, you eventually would have to confront him. He was still blocked in all possible communications platforms, so you wouldn’t disappoint yourself refreshing the pages to find nothing from him. You wondered if Miguel had realized how badly he hurt you by skipping that dinner. How that was the last straw and you would never see him the same way again. You didn’t think so, he has always been clueless when it comes to you.

“Not really.”

“Right…He’s been weird lately.”

“How so?”, you weren’t curious, you were just being polite to keep the conversation going. Right?

“I don’t know…”, Gwen lets out a breath. “Lyla told me he is watching Gossip Girl for some reason.”

“What? Why?”

“I have no idea”, your best friend laughed. “Lyla said everyday he will stop a few minutes to talk to her about the episodes he’s seen and ask questions about the characters and their relationships.”

You remembered referencing Gossip Girl in one of your columns, but that couldn’t be it. It was a really popular show and Miguel didn’t even know what your writing was about, so he couldn’t have read it. So silly of you to consider the possibility that it had something to do with you.

“He is probably trying to impress his latest conquest”, you said, knowing you would be thinking about it, about him, even though you shouldn’t.

“Yeah…you’re probably right.”

***

How could you ever go back to sleep after talking to Gwen? You walked back and forth in your room, trying to get the tension off of your body. You made yourself a camomile teacup and sat in front of your computer, opening your final project doc. 

Dear love,

I guess this is goodbye

To you

And to the girl that I was before

The one who loved you selflessly 

She was young

Thought she had all the time in the world

That if she just stuck around

You eventually would see her

She wrote about you every week

Even made a profession out of it

She didn’t exactly hide it

But you didn’t look for it either

On your birthday, she typed her way into your stories

Everyone already knew 

If she is writing, it’s probably about you

On her birthday, you showed up late 

Messy hair, sweaty forehead, creased clothes

A box of fancy chocolates in hand 

Which you had already told her about

Long before she asked you what did chocolates mean

And you said it was for special occasions

If you don’t know a lot about someone, give them chocolates

That’s what you said 

She would never forget it

Just like your brown eyes

Beautiful hair

A jawline she would fight a war over

The way you pinch your nose 

When you are frustrated 

But don’t know how to say it

All of your different intonations

She liked the soft one the best

When you showed you are so much more

Genius doesn’t cover it

She always knew that someday you’d save the world

Until then, she waited

Held you, listened to you, 

Felt into all of your traps

The most cruel being 

The flirting one 

Where you’d flirt with her,

Hold her hand, even say a sweet thing or two

And then pretend you didn’t

As soon as someone more interesting came about

There were many someones

Ashamed, she would wonder what she could change

Her hair, her makeup, her clothes

Maybe even a boob job or a filler

Anything to become the one you choose 

But in the end, she turned into me

I’m someone else now

That craft you never wanted to hear about

Now makes me stronger

I kind of believe in myself

Can you believe it?

(Don’t answer that)

Waiting isn’t suitable to me any longer

I want to be wanted

And be able to want without holding back

I know you have a good heart

But you never wanted mine

So I will nurse it back to health

To love my family, friends and myself 

And who knows, maybe someone else

Someone who sees me

Appreciates me

Wants me

I guess this is goodbye

To you, the old me and the pain

______________________________________________________________

<< chapter 3

>> chapter 5

all chapters

______________________________________________________________

dear reader playlist

[cricketnationrise]

hello! :) THIS IS SO CUTE I CAN'T WAIT FOR A POSSIBLE CRICKET EXCLUSIVE!! because i am obsessed with u fr but that's common knowledge. <3

for the ficlet fest, if you'd like:

time stamp: 2:23am

location: brownstone

character: alex/henry

song: this is me trying by taylor swift (only if you want!!!!!!!)

rating: whatever you'd like

but like you can go any direction with this I'm just always projecting my adhd/anxiety/not good enough feelings onto alex on a regular basis :')

my ao3: firenati0n | Archive of Our Own (same as tumblr user)

THANK YOU SO MUCH! SENDING LOVE XOXO

your cricket exclusive is here! i actually went full on henry pov with this one bc my brain got stuck on the trying of it all. so have some first post-canon fight make up. this is actually the longest ficlet yet, but somehow i don't think that'll be a problem 😂 💜🦗

read the rest of the ficlets here!

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

2:32am, brownstone

The brownstone is quiet when he returns, which is completely reasonable for just after two-thirty in the bloody morning. 

It’s also immaculate, which is decidedly less so, especially considering the state of the place when Henry stomped out a few hours ago. 

The hallway is clear of trip hazards, shoes neatly in the rack. The kitchen gleams in the range hood light; counters clear and wiped down, small appliances lined up as precisely as Buckingham guards. Peeking his head in the for-once dark office reveals two tidy desks, chairs pushed in, and both of their laptops plugged in and charging. 

The den at the base of the stairs makes Henry pause. The stacks of books have been put away. The coasters on the coffee table have been relieved of their burdens of half-drunk tea cups and abandoned coffee mugs. In the dim light from the street lamps through the window, Henry can even see vacuum lines in the carpet. A second glance has Henry taking cautious steps inside.

There is one thing out of place after all. 

On the couch, propped on a few of the numerous throw pillows Pez insisted upon, and tucked into the quilt Ellen sent them, is Alex. Like an anchor to the ocean floor, Henry is drawn into the room, and to Alex’s side. 

He kneels between the coffee table and the couch near Alex’s head and just looks for a long moment. Alex clearly hasn’t been sleeping well. The couch is too short, even for Alex’s shorter frame, so his legs are tucked uncomfortably. His curls are more of a wild mess than normal, like he’s been tugging at them. Alex is gripping the quilt as tightly as he normally clutches Henry, and there’s deep furrows on his forehead. 

Henry should let him sleep, probably—neither of them have been sleeping all that well. Increased paparazzi presence as Alex’s first semester of law school starts and Henry takes a more active role in the shelter has been stressful. But Henry can’t help but reach out and try to smooth those lines on his forehead. Something churning and tense settles inside him when his gentle touch has Alex’s eyes blinking open, a small smile on his face when he recognizes Henry.. 

“You came back.”

“Of course I did, love.”

Alex exhales messily, blinking back tears now. “I wasn’t sure— After earlier—”

Henry shushes him with a hand on his cheek. “I will always come back to you. Promised I was done being an obtuse fuckin’ asshole, didn’t I?”

“You still left, though,” Alex says.

It’s Henry’s turn to fight back tears. “I could hear myself sounding more and more like Philip at his worst. It scared me. I didn’t want to subject you to that, to even inadvertently use my knowledge of you as a weapon. So I left before words I didn’t actually mean could find their mark.” He sways forward, resting his forehead on Alex’s, needing to be closer. “You deserve more than sharply aimed words, especially when you haven’t done a thing wrong.” 

“Hen…”

“I’m sorry Alex. I shouldn’t have— I knew it would be different once the paparazzi got wind of our plans, but I wasn’t prepared for how much more invasive they would feel. I’m having a hard time adjusting to life beyond Kensington’s thick walls and I started to take it out on you.”

Alex’s hand pulls on his shoulder. “C’mere.”

Henry climbs onto the couch and sprawls undignified on top of Alex, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Alex’s hands, as ever, hold him steady, rubbing large circles across his back.

“There were two people in our fight, Henry. You aren’t the only one struggling. Or taking it out on the person he loves.” He presses a kiss to Henry’s temple. “I could hear echoes of my parents, but couldn’t figure out how to stop the word vomit. And that scared me—I never want you and I to be like them.”

Henry pulls his head back to meet his gaze fiercely. “Never.”

Alex smiles at his vehement tone, but it's got a rueful edge to it. “We’re gonna have to figure out how to talk about this stuff before it blows up in our faces again.” 

“Not tonight, though?”

“Nah, not tonight.” 

They’re quiet for a long moment, curled around each other on the couch, when a niggling thought finds its way past Henry’s lips. 

“Alex?”

“Hmm?”

“Why were you on the couch? Did you— Did you not want to be in our room?”

Alex holds him tighter. “I— You left and— So I was cleaning, and I did this room last, and when I was done there was no way stairs were happening, so I just collapsed here. I didn’t  actually think I'd fall asleep, I don't usually when you aren’t right next to me.”

“So it wasn’t because you wanted space from me?”

“Fucking hell, baby. No, I never want space. I want the opposite of space from you. If I could figure out a way to crawl into your rib cage every night I would.”

“Oh.” The last bit of tension leaves Henry’s body at that and he relaxes fully on top of Alex. 

“Yeah, oh.” Alex chuckles. “But, as nice as you feel on top of me, it’s late and this couch ain’t big enough for the two of us.” 

“You fit on it better than I do,” Henry can’t help but tease.

“First of all, rude. Second of all, I also have to pee so get up before I shove you off.” 

Reluctantly, Henry stands and reaches down to help Alex up after him. Henry folds the quilt and hangs it over the back of the couch, smoothing the last wrinkles with his hand. When he straightens up, Alex is only halfway up the stairwell. 

“Meet you in bed?” Alex whispers.

Henry climbs up to meet him. “Always, love.”

[purplehairedwonder]

Chapter 1083: By Any Means Necessary

Color me shocked, but we’re actually following up from last chapter to learn the truth about Reverie!

But first, that cover.

On the surface, it makes me laugh a bit. But, upon further reflection--and I’m going to look way too deep for a cover request--this makes me think of the way Doffy took in children. He’d find these heavily damaged children like Law and Baby 5, he’d wrap them in his coat (give them a place in the Family, make them feel wanted and needed, make promises about the future) while offering only the barest care for their actual trauma, like the bandage here. (In fact, he was actually making the trauma worse.) 

See? Way too deep for a cover request 😅

Anyway, on to the chapter:

So, the Revolutionaries had three main aims for infiltrating Mariejois:

I can only imagine that cutting off the Celestial Dragons’ food reserves is going to lead to some dark things. (I mean, even cannibalism hasn’t been off the table so far in One Piece, so...) While the Revolutionaries aimed to help as many slaves escape as they could, you know they didn’t get them all. And the ones left behind are really going to suffer from this.

Excuse me, why does this silhouette of God’s Knights look like Shanks?

It’s probably a misdirect (we all know how the silhouettes of Kaido and Big Mom looked before we met the actual characters, after all) but considering the background for Shanks that we got from the Film Red material and the fact that the Five Elders were willing to meet with him... it doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. (Or maybe one of Shanks’s family members?)

Side note: on a shallow note, I really like this panel of Sabo:

Anywho, Dragon acknowledges that Cobra was actually a kind and benevolent ruler, but that doesn’t matter for the cause of the Revolutionaries. For the greater good is the type of attitude that leads to those who rebel against the corrupt to become the very thing they were fighting against once they are victorious.

“Unfortunately, misinformation spreads faster than nuances like that” is such a true line.

And Sabo...

The boy is fine being seen as Cobra’s murderer because it’s potentially helpful to the cause. It’s nothing more than a cold calculation for him. It’s also such a contrast to Luffy, who focuses on the individual people he cares about and the things that matter to them rather than the bigger picture; for instance, liberating Dressrosa wasn’t about the importance of freeing the people who’d been living under Doflamingo; it was because Doflamingo hurt Law and Rebecca, people he cared about. Freeing Wano was for Momo and Tama and the others he’d come to care for (and because he wanted a good fight against Kaido, ha.)

It’s interesting; we think of Luffy as being so selfish that he’s practically selfless. He fights for selfish reasons but ends up doing selfless things like freeing countries as a result of his actions. 

On the other hand, Sabo is, arguably, so selfless that he’s selfish. He doesn’t care about the consequences for him in all of this because it redounds to the Revolutionaries’ benefit, but at the same time, he’s willing to let others--like murder victim Cobra, for instance--suffer for the purposes of the mission. It’s selfish.

 I can’t help but think of Makino’s reaction to seeing the newspaper:

And now we know what she was looking at:

To be fair, this is a pretty damning picture (though Sabo easily could have just come across Cobra’s body when this picture was taken). And Sabo being willing to be seen in this light shows just ties into his selfless selfishness. 

Moving on, we start a flashback to a month earlier in Mariejois. The Revolutionaries are attacking and causing enough chaos to bring down two admirals. 

On a random note, Karasu’s Devil Fruit is just perfect for his aesthetic, and I love that for him.

It’s also very funny to me that Ryokugyu, who we saw as being incredibly bullheaded when he attacked Wano, is holding back to avoid causing damage in Mariejois...

while Fujitora is pulling his best Ivan Drogo:

😂😂😂

I completely forgot Bonney snuck into Reverie. Whatever happened there is clearly tied into how she ends up in the water for the Straw Hats to find her.

And my girl, Vivi. Fiery Vivi is the best Vivi. I love her a lot. 

I’m interested in, between this flashback and Egghead, where Lucci’s character is going. It feels like he’s becoming disillusioned with the orders he’s been following; he’s a definite wild card.

It’s interesting that Cobra is going in to meet with the Elders without anyone with him--almost like he knows what’s likely to come of this meeting and doesn’t want to drag anyone into it.

I’m looking forward to seeing how we get from this to Vivi and Wapol, of all people, hiding out with Morgans.

With all these revelations, we really are in the final saga, aren’t we?

[atopvisenyashill]

If asoiaf characters were to take a drivers test who would pass? Who would fail? And who would end up in jail for breaking so many traffic laws and also maybe running over someone?

who passes?

arya but she has so many tickets

nedcat both get perfect scores

brienne drives renly, loras, jaime, and pod around everywhere

robert, but only barely. he is known for being an angry driver, he’s gotten several tickets, and he sticks to a personal driver at jon arryn’s suggestion

oberyn - he actually has a class a license not for a job but bc he was bored

davos - he’s a smuggler, he’s got all sorts of licenses and most of them are legit

olenna has to retake the test every year bc she’s so old and she bitches CONSTANTLY about this

stannis is the only baratheon with a still valid license. he will NOT drive those freeloaders anyway, even if they’re going to the same place, he makes them call a car bc he doesn’t understand how they keep failing or getting their license suspended.

who fails?

lysa fails the written portion by like one question three times but gets the driving test in one go

edmure fails so many times blackfish buys him a bus pass for his birthday as a joke. jokes on him tho bc edmure has a million friends willing to give him a ride

renly is incapable of passing the written portion no matter how hard he tries. no one points out it’s so weird to be a lawyer and not understand road law

theon gets his license revoked constantly for drunk driving no matter how many times robb offers to pick him up when he’s drunk. he has been through several programs, he thinks they’re all goofy and claims he does not have a drinking problem

who gets arrested for vehicular murder?

aemond

euron

criston clearly goes to trial but gets off lol

joffrey, obviously, and he doesn’t have a license either

daemon did get arrested but he was found not guilty on all charges even tho everyone knows he did that shit and it was on purpose

gregor clegane but only after four trials for four separate incidents where he was acquitted

obara, but it Was genuinely an accident she’s just a speed racer. doran will Not let her drive if they have to carpool for family functions, his family is Banned from letting her drive, however nymeria Will let her drive if they’re together

where is x?

daemon’s license was revoked bc he refuses to pay child support because he lives with his two baby mamas, they’re just not married. laena has tried to get him to hire a lawyer to get it straightened out but it’s the principle of the thing, he refuses

none of the lannisters have drivers licenses, they’re too rich, they have personal drivers. jaime didn’t care enough, cersei thinks the test is beneath her, tyrion thinks it’s funnier to be a nuisance to everyone around him hitching rides. well - myrcella DOES have a license actually but she hasn’t told anyone in her family except tyrion bc she doesn’t want to have to give rides. she does not consider tyrion a nuisance, she will drive him anywhere.

i just feel like dany has never had to drive a car in her life. she is [modern day version of her storyline. some sort of refugee? idk] so she didn’t have Access to a car, then all of a sudden had a personal driver, so it’s never even been a thought in her mind. she does Not care either, like by the time she has the freedom to learn, she’s busy!! she’s smart enough, she Would pass it, but she just doesn’t have the time to learn

[enigmaticfossil]

Something irking me in this fandom is the constant arguments over Link’s age. This series has been my special interest for a good 25 years so I guess I feel like rambling a little.

There are massive discrepancies in the logic of supposed “canon” references. And even Nintendo, for example, through interviews and written word has said that Link was 9, 10 or 12 in OOT (adult link still qualifies as a child in my eyes since his body was aged 7 years, not his mind).

(Small addition, though I’m aware LOZ is fictional and the world is fantasy, Japan has had a law stating the age of adulthood as 20 since 1896, only recently changed to 18 this year. It does beg to question the concept of “adulthood” in this fictional world and how the people of Hyrule see age. Especially with the longevity of many races.)

Or if you look at Wind Waker, where it states in game his character is the age of the legendary hero which, at the time of release, seemed to reference OOT, we assume he’s one of those ages. But both the amiibo & a statement from Nintendo said he was 12 years old.

Okay—so OOT Link is 12? Still fits, since he hasn’t reached his teens. BUT also, the WW timeline takes place after Link defeats Ganondorf in the 7 year time skip—which he appeared to do as an adult between 16-19, as that is what he is legendary for. And he “disappeared” because he went back to his own time so he wasn’t there to stop what happened.

And again, if their timeline is correct, The Adventure of Link takes place 6 years after OOT, chronologically. Nintendo claims he was 16 in that game.

Making the 9/10 year old OOT Link supposedly accurate, despite the WW claims. Especially if we consider Majora’s Mask Link is the same or, at most, year older than his OOT counterpart.

In ALttP Zelda is 16, and since Link is typically “close” to her in age (it has never said the same age) we can assume he’s anywhere between 16-18, even then 16-17 seems more likely. Which says that in the follow up games he’s around that age too, probably aging up a year or two.

And while we can use things like Toon Link’s model to guess he’s the same or similar age in all Toon Link games, making the 12 year old hero predating OOT in Minish Cap, the “on model” solution doesn’t work for the 5-6 year time skip of BOTW-TOTK. In BOTW we can GUESS that Link is close to Zelda’s age, but that can still range from 17–18 years old at least, depending on what Nintendo deems as “close”.

And according to yet ANOTHER source, Twilight Princess Zelda is 20, and based off of an interview, Link is 17…so what does the unwritten “Link and Zelda are always close in age” rule imply?

Interviews, guides, the games and even the Historia conflict over and over again. These are just a handful of examples that I remember and poked around to verify again.

I’m not saying there aren’t canon instances of Link being CLEARLY a child or CLEARLY an adult or adult-adjacent (what Nintendo deems as adult in these games is convoluted sometimes), and those are important factors. But he’s also meant to be an immersion from player to the game.

Nintendo retcons nearly everything they’ve said or done, and theorizing by following one answer or another is fun, and having Zelda gives us a range to often put an age that’s close to accurate for him. It’s even more interesting to dive into these discrepancies that are just going to exist, Nintendo wrote the stories as they went and that’s okay! It’s fun that they’re trying to tie them all together, inconsistencies or not it’s still an amazing story.

Link is a character many of us literally grew up with, saw or ourselves, as we opened whichever game sparked our interest to start our adventures into this crazy series of wonderful, and magical games!

[peninkwrites]

Lines Drawn in Sand & Concrete - Ch 3 of ?

Wilbur and Tommy go underground. Wilbur remains unemployed, Tommy is extra homeless.

[CW: violence, injuries]

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 2

Ch 4

Mafia AU

~ Wilbur & Tommy ~

Wilbur made plans when he returned to the city, and the past two months have yielded nothing.  He’d never intended on abusing Niki’s hospitality, but he hadn’t expected this to take so long.  Tommy has stuck around, to Wilbur’s surprise.  So he’s at least had company on his petty escapades to catch some negative attention.  They’ve continued tagging up the city, much to the bafflement of local law enforcement according to some friend of Tommy’s.

Tommy hasn’t turned up yet today.  Sometimes he’d be waiting outside the bakery, other times he’d just somehow track Wilbur down, but nothing yet.  Then again, Wilbur has strayed from their usual haunts, which was just creeping dangerously into Badlands territory at every opportunity.

Wilbur has a destination in mind.

He knows the path well.  This area is now, or formally had been, Schlatt’s territory, but Wilbur had known it as something different.  This patch of old townhouses had been the heart of the Artic Empire.  It doesn’t look like much of anything now.  Wilbur spares a glance at a wall of brick he knows used to be an entrance into the subway, and looks for something familiar.  The diner he got pancakes at as a child is gone, gone for a while by the looks of it, the corner store is still there, of course, but staffed by someone different to the sweet old lady he’d buy cigarettes from, even as she scolded him for it.  Wilbur feels a painful nostalgia that he doesn’t understand.  He’d tried to get away from all this for a reason.

That reason had largely been because of the Empire itself, because of his dad.

Wilbur stops in front of his old home and laughs.  The dark green victorian Wilbur had spent most of his childhood has definitely seen better days, and has seemingly been cut up into apartments, from the four rusty mailboxes now nailed beside the front door.

“Fucking typical, bet you would hate this, dad,” Wilbur mutters.  “You put a lot of work renovating this shithole, and they’ve gone and probably gutted the place.”  He scans the windows, but most of the shades are drawn, probably against weirdos like him staring in.  It looks like the new owners nailed shut the window into his bedroom, probably because they, like Wilbur, had realized it led right onto the porch roof and was a perfect spot to climb down the lattice.  Landlords probably saw it as a liability, just like his dad did when he finally figured it out, but by then it was too late to try to fix it.  Too late for a lot of things.

“It’s not… it’s not working,” Wilbur continues softly, he doesn’t know if he’s trying to talk to the old house, or if he knows there’s no audience that could understand.  “By now, I thought considering what a mess this place has gotten to be, I would’ve… I would’ve found the right sort of trouble.”

There is no reply, and Wilbur realizes with an uneasy feeling in his gut that in that silence, he’d almost been hoping for an abrupt, annoying reply from Tommy.  He cannot get attached to that kid, and he has to hope Tommy won’t make the same mistake either.  He remains staring up at that house.  He wonders if the current tenants know how many people died in there, how many abandoned kids were brought there to be kept safe, what a strange way of growing up it had been for those two things to coexist, not beside one another, but certainly just in the next room over.

Wilbur doesn’t know what he’s looking for.  He rummages in his pocket for a cigarette.  He’s running out, he’s also running out of money.  He’d earned a bit of cash playing for tips at the Secret City, but certainly not enough to live on.  Wilbur heads toward the river, knowing Tommy likes to pickpocket there.  Wilbur has taken to stashing paint cans behind the dumpster in the alley behind the bakery, but he doesn’t have any on him.  Not that now would be a great time to start tagging up the place, it won’t be dark out for a few hours more, but it’s all he’s really been doing lately.  That, and smoking.

“I can’t believe you still don’t realize it.  You’re such a self absorbed prick,” Tommy appears beside him, holding his wallet.

“Hey!” Wilbur jumps, reaching out to snatch it back.  “It’s not self absorbed to not be on the lookout for a bloody pickpocket 24/7.”  Tommy ducks out of the way.

“You gotta be more aware, man, I mean look at you, you’re easy pickings.  Gotta develop some healthy paranoia, ‘cause people will be after ya!  Gonna smell weakness like blood in the water,” Tommy nods wisely, jogging backwards just out of reach.

“Look at me?” Wilbur blusters.  “What about you?  You’re a string bean with zero caution and it shows.”

“Yeah, true, but you’re not counting the fuckin’ look in my eyes, eh?” Tommy stares at him intently.  “They can all tell I’m fucking crazy, and I’ll wreck their shit like a rabid dog if they try to fuck with me!” Tommy puffs his chest out, strolling further away, waving his wallet.

“Oi!  Give that back,” Wilbur finally grabs it, largely because Tommy lets him.  “How did you even get– Why do I even fucking ask.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I fucking bother, you’re a poor ass bitch,” Tommy scoffs.  Wilbur now notices that the kid’s fingers are wrapped, poorly, in bloody bandages.

“What’d you do to your hands?”

“What?” Tommy is defensive in an instant.  “None of your business.  I can still snatch your wallet.”

“No, but really, how the fuck did you manage to… what, get papercuts on ever finger?” Wilbur grabs Tommy’s wrist lightly, turning it over so he can look at the injuries, worry furrowing his brow at the bloodied white cloth tied around the kid’s palm.  Tommy slaps him away.

“Oi!  If you have to know, these new battle wounds are from the lovely Blazeborne Hotel,” Tommy says bitterly, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “It’s all Jack Manifold’s fault.  He left and the guy they replaced him with is a right dickhead.”

“What–” Wilbur is baffled and horrified.  “He did that to you?!  That’s fucking insane, how did–”

“He didn’t hold me down and do it with a knife, dumbass!” Tommy snaps.  “He…” Tommy almost seems embarrassed.  “He’s got razors stuck under the windows now.  So I’d cut me hands goin’ in.  I didn’t notice.  Normally I notice everything, he– He just took me by surprise, is all.”

“Razors?” Wilbur is still indignant on his behalf.  “Because– Wait, so the staff know some homeless kid sneaks into the rooms and the guy’s solution was to cut your hands up?  That’s… that’s insane.”

“It’s war, dearest little Wilbur,” Tommy remains pompous.  “I’ve been fighting with the Blazeborne Hotel for ages now, they’re just amped up their arsenal now that Jack Manifold deserted.  Nothing I can’t handle,” he swaggers forward.

“You– You shouldn’t have to handle any of this shit.  You should take Niki’s couch!  You’ve got a right to it more than me.”

Tommy gives him a scathing look.  “Obviously, but I don’t want to take Niki’s couch.  I’ve figured out the razorblades, I can work around ‘em.  I’d rather have a bed of my own than exploit Niki’s hospitality like a schmuck like you.”

“Uncalled for,” Wilbur mutters.  “Still, that’s–”

Tommy cuts him off.  “I can handle myself.  Not as weak and feeble as you are.  And you’re gonna make yourself even feebler if you keep smoking those fucking things,” Tommy’s lip curls in disgust at the smell of the cigarette.

Wilbur, irritably, puts it out on the bottom of his shoe shoving it back in his pocket. Tommy keeps moving, striding down the street, shouldering past a man who Wilbur is pretty sure just lost his watch, and from the way Tommy has started walking faster, Wilbur is all the more sure.  Wilbur almost has to jog to catch up.

“Where are you going?” Wilbur asks.

“Um, I’m a man of the streets?  So, wherever I like?  What’re you wandering about for, Soot?  Lazy layabout that you are,” Tommy tuts him.

“I was just–” Wilbur laughs half under his breath, rolling his eyes.  He should be used to Tommy by now, but he still somehow finds the kid baffling as he is irritatingly endearing.  “Nothing.  Just… seeing the sights.”

“Have you not already done that?  We’ve seen all sorts of shit in our escapades,” Tommy says pointedly.

“Yeah, just…” Wilbur trails off.  He’s not going to get into this with Tommy, but he does have another step to take.  “D’you remember when you were talking about the old subway lines?”

Tommy stops, turning to look at him with a frown.  “Er, yeah?  Why?”

“Well, you said you knew a spot down there, an old grate or something, that wasn’t bricked up, right?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy nods.  “Yeah, but it’s fucking dark as shit down there.  Probably structurally un-sound,” he enunciates each syllable.  “You’d only be asking if you were planning on going down there, though, so, what’re you trying to do?” Tommy stares at him with narrowed eyes, suspicious.

Wilbur smiles.  “It’s like I said, see the sights.”

“Trust me, bub, back in your day that place was way different, it’s been sitting empty down there for years,” Tommy says again.

“Just show me the grate, alright?  I’m not asking you to go down there,” Wilbur scoffs.

Tommy looks offended.  “You think I’m gonna let a little lad like you go down there all by your lonesome?  The rats will eat your fuckin’ eyes, I tell you!”  He leans forward, as if to poke Wilbur in the eye, Wilbur swatting him away.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t go down there!  Aren’t you claustrophobic or something?” Wilbur huffs irritably.

“Yeah, but I’m a big man, not gonna let something as silly as fear stop me,” even as Tommy says this, he’s far from enthusiastic.  “But it’s– It’ll be crazy dark down there, alright?  Pitch-fucking-black.  You won’t be able to check anything out blind,” for a moment Tommy looks hopeful, like he thinks this settles the matter.

Wilbur rummages around in his many pockets, pulling out a torch.  “I’ve only got the one, though, so again, you don’t have to come.”

Tommy scowls.  “I’ll get myself a fucking torch,” he mutters, marching off down the street.

“Where?!” Wilbur follows.

“Shop.  This time you distract the clerk, alright?  I’ll do the thievery-ing.”

Tommy’s expedition yields mixed results, as he managed to get ahold of a flashlight, but discovers it doesn’t have batteries in it.

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Tommy grumbles, having half a mind to throw the thing away. 

“Yeah, pretty sure you have to buy– sorry, steal those separate,” Wilbur teases.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to steal shit when your fingers are shredded?!” Tommy whines.  “This is unjust!”

“What, do you want me to tell the shop to stock batteries with them because the little rat bastard with bandages on his hands deserves an easier time taking them?”

“Yes,” Tommy says sharply.  Wilbur just laughs at him.  “Fine, we’ll go with just yours, then,” Tommy shoves it into his pocket.  “I don’t even know if the grate goes into the subway tunnels, alright?  Could be… could be some other tunnel system running underneath the city which you might have no desire to go into, eh?”

“Right, sure,” Wilbur gives him a look.  “Lead the way, then, Tommy, to this mysterious tunnel system under the city,” he says sarcastically.

Tommy gives him a resentful look before heading off at a quick walk.  He knows this city too well.  Wilbur watches the street signs, trying to track if he can tell which station they might be going to, but it’s been too long.  Wilbur remembers where a few stations were.  He sort of wants to find some of particular significance to him, but getting down there at all is the first task.

“And you’re sure it’s not a storm drain?” Wilbur asks.

“I know what a fucking storm drain looks––and smells like,” Tommy snaps.

He’s scanning the wall of bricks now.  Tommy stops, crouching down beside a locked grate down the street from a bricked up entrance.  It’s half a foot above street level, so it’s definitely not a drainage grate.  Tommy squints down into the dark.

“This might help,” Wilbur shines his torch down into the dark.  He frowns.  “It’s just… metal.  It’s a vent.”

“Yeah, it’s for ventilating shit,” Tommy says.  “Did you think it would be a staircase laid out with a fuckin’ red carpet?”

“Well, how do I know if I’ll even fit?  Or where it lets out at?” Wilbur is starting to get nervous.

Tommy looks smug.  “Well, only way to find out is to get down in there, bitch boy.”

“Fuck,” Wilbur mutters.  This isn’t exactly how he wants to die, but he wants to see it.  “This is the stupidest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

Tommy hums in agreement.  “There’s little metal rungs though, that’s something.  You’re less likely to die down there.”

“Hey,” Wilbur bumps his shoulder.  “We’re less likely to die down there.”

“Dickhead.”

Wilbur sets down the torch, grabbing the edges of the rusted metal.  It crumbles far too easily in his hands, he’s flung backwards onto the sidewalk, Tommy cackles.

Wilbur gets to his feet, unsteady and annoyed.  “Stop laughing or you’re going down first.”

“No way in hell!” Tommy snaps.  “I gotta wait and count how long it takes for you to hit the bottom.”

Wilbur sighs, grimacing.  He’d hoped his self destructive patterns would’ve been a bit more convenient.  Wilbur ducks down, there’s a ladder, so it’s meant for people to fit in it, but Wilbur is incredibly tall.  He manages to not hit his head, the rungs of the ladder are slimy and coated in rust.  He stops, staring down into the dark.  He begins to descend, before stopping again.

“Oi!  Tommy!”

“Ye– Yeah?!” Tommy pokes his head in, merely a shadowed outline from the light outside.

“If… if the ladder breaks and I get stuck down here, go find Niki.”

“...she’ll kill you.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be a lot quicker than dying down here!”

“Touché.”

Wilbur keeps climbing down into the dark, he hears the echo of water dripping somewhere, one of the rungs makes a horrible creaking sound, but nothing breaks.  He nears the end when his next step is met by the hollow clang! of metal.  He gives it a sharp kick, and the next grate breaks and hits the concrete loudly.  Soon after, Wilbur’s boot crunches down into the narrow passage along the side of the tunnel.

“I’m still alive!” Wilbur calls up to Tommy and winces as his voice echoes down the tunnel.  He turns on the torch, it’s a poor attempt to beat back the dark.  It smells like mildew and metal down here, stale air left to putrify for years.  “Smells rank, though.”

“So do you!” Tommy says, voice much closer now as he climbs down as well, muttering ow all the while as the ladder rungs are unforgiving on his hands.  Finally, he hits the bottom, hopping beside Wilbur and shaking out his injured hands.  “Oh, this isn't so bad.  The tunnels are fuckin’ massive!”

“Really?  That was your biggest problem with coming down here?”

“Told you I was claustrophobic!”

“Right,” Wilbur rolls his eyes, peering ahead.  He tries to orient himself based on the streets above, he’s pretty sure the next station should be just ahead.  He starts walking, Tommy sticking close beside him.

“Bet there are rats down here.”

“Yeah, probably?”

“Bet there are rats the size of dogs.  Eat your fuckin’ face off.”

“The size of–?  Right, sure.  Dog rats.”

“You can doubt me, but I won’t save you from the rat king.”

Wilbur laughs at him.  “Shut up, you’re ridiculous.”

“How dare you tell me to shut up!” Tommy is about to make a fuss when he stops, Wilbur’s torch outlining the subway platform.  “Whoa, cool.”  He runs ahead, clambering up onto the platform.  “Oi!  Keep the light over here!”

“Well, don’t run ahead!”  Wilbur follows after him, scanning the area.  “This one used to let up onto 11th.”

“Did any of ‘em go under the river?”

“What?  No, there were rails that went over it, like the bridges.  I think they might’ve gotten torn down when they bricked things off, though,” Wilbur scans the row of outdated advertisements peeling off the walls, finding a map showing the different tracks of the metro.  The station he’d been looking for is a ways off, and Wilbur doesn’t exactly feel like their first expedition should risk wandering so far into the dark.

“Oh, yeah.  There’s like, concrete posts left.  I’ve tried hopping across ‘em when the water is low.  Got a big scrape on my leg from it.”  Tommy scuffs his feet, kicking a chunk of loose concrete across the platform, the rock skidding loudly.  “We should’ve brought breadcrumbs or whatever the fuck.”

Wilbur laughs, “right, we’ve traveled ten yards, are you really gonna get lost?”

“I dunno,” Tommy shrugs.  “It would help if I could see.”

“I bet it would.”  Wilbur knows there’s nothing of note here, for the hell of it he wanders up the steps, only to be met by a wall of bricks.  He turns back, hopping back down onto the tracks.  “Come on.”

“In a rush?  Worried you’re gonna miss your train?” Tommy teases him.

“Nah, I just don’t see a point in staring at nothing.”

“It’s just gonna be more of this, bub.  Dunno what you think you’re gonna find down here.”

“Fine, you can just stay here, then.”

“No, no wait for me!” Tommy hurries to catch up.  He clears his throat and pretends he’s not jumpy.  “You’ll get lost without me, and that’s when the rats’ll get ya.”

“How kind of you to protect me.”

“Yeah, that’s right.  I’m Tommy Innit, protector of stupid bitches with torches.”

“You’re really still caught up on the torch thing, are you–?” Wilbur cuts himself off with a scream, jumping as a large, gray rat runs between his legs, not dog-sized by any means, but fucking huge.

“What?!” Tommy jumps, grabbing onto Wilbur’s sleeve.

“N-Nothing,” Wilbur tries to pull himself together.  “It was– Just a rat, just startled me, is all.”

Tommy cackles.  “What’re you screamin’ about?  We came into his house!”

Wilbur glares a him, even if Tommy can’t see it as he’s behind the torchlight.  Tommy bounces back on his heels, antsy now.

“Can I hold the torch?”

“No!”

“Come on, man, please!” Tommy whines.

“Should’ve brought your own!”

“I tried to–”

“Don’t try and grab it–”

From somewhere in the tunnels, back the way they had come, they hear metal sharply clanging together, they freeze, neither of them daring to breathe.  Wilbur looks straight ahead, the torch shining up between them, met with Tommy’s wide, scared eyes staring back.  There’s another clang! as if someone were banging against the metal pipes running along the walls, the echo dies and there is once more silence save for the sound of Tommy’s shaky breathing.

All it takes is one more consistent thud and Wilbur and Tommy are sprinting the other direction, Tommy holding tightly onto Wilbur’s coat, the torch light swinging erratically from Wilbur’s hand as he runs, but their exit is thirty yards the opposite way.

“Stop stop!” Tommy yanks Wilbur back as in the flash of the swinging torch he sees a door.  “Look!”

“There’s no fucking way it’ll open, Tommy–”

Tommy runs up to it anyway, giving it a desperate tug.  “Ha!” Tommy says breathlessly as the door swings open easily, revealing a stairwell.

“Wait up!” Wilbur hurries after him, not wanting to be left alone.  Tommy scrambles up the steps, Wilbur struggling to keep up, before barreling through another door at the top of the stairs, and the two of them find themselves out of breath in some alleyway, the door swinging shut behind them, a sign painted on it which reads DANGER: MAINTENANCE ONLY over a rusted through lock, which at first glance appears secure.

“Oh, we are the luckiest bastards alive,” Tommy collapses against the wall, a hand over his racing heart.  Wilbur thinks he might puke.  He hasn’t run that fast in a long time.  “What the fuck d’you suppose that was?”

Back in the light, reason returns to him, Wilbur takes a few more deep breaths.  “P-Probably old metal settling, or something from up on the street, maybe.  Who knows.  Old shit like that… m-makes noises.”

Tommy gives him a scathing look.  “You’re full of shit.”

“What do you think it was?” Wilbur says dryly.  “A monster?”

“Prick,” Tommy gives him a halfhearted shove, but he too feels less afraid now that he’s back in the sun.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”  He heads for the main street.

“You done adventuring for the night?” Wilbur follows more slowly.

“Not necessarily, but I’m fucking done being underground for the night,” Tommy says.  “Wanna steal some food and tag up some Badlands shit?”

Wilbur gives him an exasperated and weary look.  “Sure, why not.”

Wilbur isn’t sure what his goal had been in going down there, but it certainly wasn’t accomplished.  The rest of the evening is spent far more typically for them until it’s late, approaching midnight at least, but they’re still spraypainting the front windows of some diner near the docks.  Wilbur has gotten more elaborate, not merely writing the words crime boys but making the letters sharp and jagged or block-y and 3D.  Tommy tends to paint symbols or threats, but today he’s more just chatting, kicking garbage around the alley.  It hurts his hands to hold down the nozzle to spray the paint.

“Shit,” Tommy mutters, ducking back into a side street, motioning for Wilbur to follow.

Wilbur turns around, spotting a group of men coming down the adjacent street.  The only party traveling the streets this late and that boldly had to be Badlanders.  Wilbur drops his spraypaint, the can clattering loudly onto the pavement, and takes a few steps forward, intending on crossing over onto the street where the patrol is soon going to turn.

“Wilbur?!” Tommy whispers sharply, close behind.  “What’re you–”

“No, you stay back there, Tommy,” Wilbur says offhandedly.

He can hear their voices from here, he doesn’t know if they’ll turn down this street, but they’re certainly going to cross the intersection soon.  He gets one foot out into the road, and then Tommy is clawing at him, hissing and dragging him back into the alley.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Tommy is tugging on his arm with all his bodyweight.  Wilbur could keep resisting, but he doesn’t want to drag the kid into the line of fire.  Tommy punches his arm hard.  “Are you trying to get yourself fucking shredded to ribbons?!”

“What?” Wilbur looks over at him, as if coming out of a daze.

“Shush!” Tommy clamps a grubby hand over Wilbur’s mouth as the voices get closer.  Wilbur almost protests, but he tastes blood the moment he tries to speak and immediately decides to keep his mouth shut.  Tommy has torn his hands back open scrabbling with Wilbur, but he still holds on tight.  The men do not turn, they keep walking.  Tommy stays quiet and refuses to let Wilbur move until their voices fade, once relatively sure the men are gone, he feels free to let go to berate and hit Wilbur incessantly.  “You’re a fucking moron!” He says, punching Wilbur in the arm, shoving him back before shaking his hand out and hissing at the burn, blood still seeping through his sorry excuse for a bandage.  “You wanna get yourself turned to swiss cheese, do it when I’m not around, alright?  You piece of shit!” Tommy snarls, but he’s breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with ill buried horror.

“They… they wouldn’t have just open fired.  Badlands are more cautious than that,” Wilbur doesn’t know why he feels like he’s just lost something, like an opportunity has passed him by, he leans back out into the street, but it’s deserted.

“Yeah, maybe they used to be!  But lately they’ve been fuckin’ willy-nilly all over the place, killing all sorts!” Tommy huffs.  “You’re– If you want to get yourself killed so bad, find a tall building!  Alone.  I’m not dragging your body to a hospital!”

Wilbur doesn’t reply.  He doesn’t know how literal Tommy is being.  “I think we’ve done enough tagging for the night.  We should… We should go.”

“Yeah!  Yeah, obviously we should fucking go, dickhead!” Tommy gives him one last shove, using his elbow instead of his injured hands, grabbing the paint cans, throwing one at Wilbur’s head, shoving the other in his pocket.  Wilbur catches it just before it hits his face, oddly bemused by Tommy’s anger.

“You could’ve stayed back in the alley,” Wilbur says teasingly.

“I could’ve–” Tommy stops storming off and turns on him again, pulling himself up to his full height, standing up straight for once to stare him down.  “You’re goddamn right I could’ve!  I could’ve let you– Fucking hell, man, you’re just– You’re not funny!  Alright?!” Tommy settles on that last jab, letting out an irritated growl and resuming his walk.  “Good fucking night, Wilbur Soot!  Go be Niki and Ranboo’s problem!”

“Hold on!  Wait, Tommy, your hands– Come with me to Niki’s!  I can… I can wrap them or something–” Wilbur tries to call after him, but Tommy is good at disappearing and in a moment Wilbur is alone.

Wilbur turns around, wondering what direction the Badlands patrol had disappeared to.  It’s not worth it, not tonight.  He glances back in the direction Tommy had ran off.  Not yet.  He’s actually surprised by how pissed off it made Tommy, was the kid that convinced he would get into trouble as well?  It doesn’t cross Wilbur’s mind that maybe the kid was just scared for him.

Tommy wasn’t entirely wrong in him being Ranboo and Niki’s problem for the rest of the night.  He returns to their flat late, and as such, he unlocks the front door, makes it two feet inside, and Niki’s bedroom door swings open and in one hand she’s attempting to raise a shotgun.

“Oh my god, Wil, you–” Niki lowers it in sleepy irritation.  “You can’t keep doing that!”

Wilbur lowers his raised hands.  “What?  Come in?  I assumed you gave me a key so you wouldn’t have to keep waking up like this.”

“Well, maybe if you were quieter,” Niki says grumpily.  She glances at Ranboo’s closed door, her brother seemingly undisturbed.  “Maybe I’m just…”

“Hypervigilant?”

She glares at him.  “A light sleeper.”  She gives him a once over, lips pursing disapprovingly at his paint-stained fingers.  “You know I love you, Wilbur, and I like having you around, but you can’t live on my couch forever.”

Wilbur’s shoulders hunch inward.  “I– I know.  I truly am sorry, Niki, I wasn’t supposed to burden you this long.”

“I mean, burden is a bit strong, but yeah, the point stands.  And, well, have you been looking for jobs?  Or apartments?”

Wilbur wishes he could make himself smaller.  “No, I haven’t, really, I meant more like–” he hesitates.  “More like… I thought I’d be done being… here.  Um, in the city, by now.”

Niki is tired and puzzled.  “Right.  I’m going back to bed.  We can talk tomorrow.  You should… you should play at the Secret City more, for a start to make money.”

Wilbur smiles weakly as she shuffles back into her room.  “I’d like that.”

“And get a job!”

“I’d like that less.”

~

Tommy is still shaken and pissed off when he stares up at the bottom ladder of the fire escape into the Blazeborne hotel.  He stares ruefully at his hands, the strips of sheets he’d torn up from the hotel room are now utterly soaked red, and he still has to climb the ladder.  On his right hand, it’s mostly a cut across his palm, it’s his left that has a cut across all four fingers.  He cannot figure out a way to climb the ladder without putting pressure on them.  He winces, and clambers up the ladder, muttering vicious swears as the cold metal makes the cuts sting even further.  His other irritation for the night still lingers in the back of his mind.  He knew Wilbur was stupid, but my god that was excessive.  He doesn’t understand that man.  Tommy cannot comprehend why he would’ve been standing out there in the open like he was waiting for the Badlanders to spot him.  He’s a fucking idiot.  Tommy has seen enough people get shot dead in front of him, thank you very much.  He’d prefer it not happen again with someone he actually knows and likes.  Tommy glances in at the first window off the fire escape, pleasantly surprised to see the room unoccupied.  It makes his trip easier.  He’s figured out these locks as well, it takes a bit more fiddling with his knife, but then voila! he can get in just as easily.

Once that is done, Tommy is much more cautious, lifting the window using pressure on the glass, his sleeves covering his cut up hands. Tommy delicately steps into the room, scanning the floor half expecting to see glass.  He sees a note taped to the window sill reading:

Guests: Please do not open the window, the latch is currently broken.  We are sorry for any inconvenience.

“Broken my ass…” Tommy mutters bitterly.  He’s paranoid now, and he’s probably right to be.  He flicks on a lamp, lifting the sheets, leaning forward and taking a deep breath, looking for the scent of some harmful irritant put on the sheets or something similar.  Other than the razorblades, thus far this conflict has been joined by mouse traps on the floor or under the bedding, broken glass on the ground in front of the window, the bleaching powder they use to clean the bathrooms being stuck between the sheets, and a few ominous notes warning him that soon they would stop messing around.  Tommy didn’t care much about that.  Whatever obstacles they try, he’ll work around them.  If Jack Manifold couldn’t annoy him out of this hotel, Tommy will be damned if he’s stopped by a little pain.  All of their attempts had to be easily manageable for when a guest actually needed a room, so as long as Tommy tread carefully, it’s not like they could gas him out.

Tommy bolts the door, the only lock the hotel can’t simply open from the other side is a little chain, but it’s all he has.  Next he cautiously approaches the bathroom, flicking on the light, but no threats make themselves known.  He steals a white pillowcase off of one of the pillows, assessing it carefully for sabotage or chemical warfare.  Once satisfied, he returns to the bathroom, hands somewhat shaky as he peels off the bloodied bandages.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck–” Tommy mutters furiously under his breath, running over the new blood with cool water before dabbing it with a white washcloth until the bleeding slows.  If these bastards were going to cut him open, he’s going to leave all their white fucking linen bloodstained.  His hands are still shaky as he holds the pillowcase and rips away strips of it with his teeth.  His eyes are watering, which only pisses him off more.  Whatever scabbing had begun to form in the past 24 hours has been destroyed by his activities of the day, some of that being hanging out with Wilbur, more of it being stealing shit to live.  Tommy does his best to tightly tie the cloth around his injuries.  He doesn’t know how these cuts are going to heal if he has to work with his hands every day.  If they get infected he’s fucked.

Tommy is always careful.  He leaves the window open, sleeps as close to it as he can, with all of his things on his person, so he can make a hasty exit.  He rarely showers here, if he does wedging the door shut with a chair, but these are unique circumstances.  He’s been forced to camp out in the bathroom, the door open to the rest of the room, the light on, and the front door latched but unbarred.

As such, when someone tries to open the door to get in, he’s a bit thrown off.

Tommy flinches at the thud of the chain pulled taut, but he’s always ready to run, so he abandons his make-shift first aid and bolts for the window.  He makes it into the main room in time for the chain to shatter from the man throwing his weight against it.  Tommy doesn’t make it to the window, the man grabbing the collar of his jacket and choking him back.

Tommy’s panic swiftly turns to outrage.  He is not abandoning his coat, so instead of doing the easy thing and slipping out of his sleeves, he shoves himself backwards until the man hits the wall, startled enough to let go, but before Tommy can bolt for the window again, the man wraps his arm around his neck.  Panic returns.

“You’re not getting away from me!” He snarls.  “You’re fucking lucky I’m calling the cops–” He’s cut off with a yelp as Tommy bites down on his arm as hard as he can.

Tommy jumps back, hopping up onto the bed when there’s a flash of metal swung down in front of him.  “You’ve got a fucking golf club?!  I’m like twelve!”

The man is shorter than him, but way bigger, cheeks flushed and livid, and yes, he does have a golf club.  “You definitely fucking aren’t!” He snaps.

They’re for a moment frozen, Tommy crouched on top of the bed, unsure if it’s better to bolt for the open door or for the window, the man is directly across from him, clearly waiting for him to try something.  Tommy takes one step toward the right side of the bed, balanced tenuously on the mattress, the man follows, golf club at the ready, but Tommy doesn’t jump down, he picks up the lamp from the bedside table.

“You wouldn’t dare.  I have legal grounds, you are breaking and entering!”

“Oi! I think you’ve done the only breaking so far!” Tommy nods to the broken chain on the door.

“Be glad it wasn’t your fucking head!”

“Come on, man!  I’m just a kid!” Tommy gives him the most pathetic look he can manage.  “You’re really gonna hit a kid?”

Tommy throws the lamp a second too late.  He’s only lucky in that the man did not swing at him with a golf club, instead his fist nails Tommy in the jaw, sending him toppling off the bed, the lamp shattering against the wall behind the fuming hotel porter.  Tommy’s jaw aches, he feels dizzy, but he’s jolted back into focus by the man dragging him back by his ankle.  Tommy snarls, twisting around so he can kick the man in the gut.

Instead, he kicks the man a bit lower.  He lets go.

Tommy scrambles for the nearest exit, the door, only to be once more dragged back, hitting his head against the wall as the man presses his forearm to his throat, pinning him back.

“Stop struggling!  I’m not gonna kill you!”

“As if,” Tommy snaps.  “You’re gonna turn me over to the pigs, you fucking rat-faced bootlicker–”  Tommy is silenced by the man’s fist nailing him in the face.  “Ow!” Tommy whines, already knowing he’s going to end up with a black eye.  His heart is racing as he tries to yank the man’s arm away from his throat, but his struggling is no longer yielding results.  He looks around frantically, as if hoping for another lamp, none appears.  “Right,” Tommy rapidly searches his pockets.  He comes up with two things.  His multitool, which he knows has a knife that’s not exactly intimidating, and a canister.  “Hate to do this, well, not really, but–” The man screams and drops him as he gets a faceful of black spraypaint, staggering back and blocking Tommy’s exit out the door.

Tommy runs for the window, clambering through and swearing again as a razorblade knicks his ear, but by the time the man has stumbled blindly over to the window, Tommy is fumbling down the ladder, his injured hands slipping so halfway down he falls the eight feet back to the street, ankles twinging painfully, but he has no time to evaluate his injuries, he can hear police sirens.  Tommy runs until he can’t breathe, until he can no longer hear sirens, until he realizes that he has nowhere to run to.  At least winter has faded, the chill dulling enough that nights outside are tolerable, but definitely not comfortable.  Tommy tries to get his bearings.  He’s in Schlatt’s– Tubbo’s territory.  He can find somewhere to hunker down here, first he needs to catch his breath.  Tommy ducks behind a dumpster, leaning heavily against the bricks.  Everything fucking hurts, his face hurts, his legs hurt, his hands hurt, and Tommy is furiously forced to accept that the Blazeborne Hotel is not an option for him anymore.

“What do you know, Tommyinnit?  You’re… You’re more homeless than you were before…” He laughs hoarsely, sliding to the ground.  His hands are bleeding again.  “Fuck…”

[tomatoluvr69]

hi im new and please if you so wish elaborate on the dumpster diving I’m intrigued

Mostly I just go to grocery store dumpsters and skim food off the top, I stopped doing it in March of 2020 for obvious reasons but today I was out in a distant exurb driving behind a strip mall for other reasons (lol) and saw a whole bunch of produce in a dumpster and took just a couple things bc it was broad daylight and there was a skeptic in my passenger seat haha. But I used to do it a lot more and would regularly eat meat and dairy, and give away stuff to my friends. Some tricks: go at night, be subtle, stay away from fenced in dumpsters, bring a cooler, be prepared to spend an hour after you get back sorting bad produce out/chopping up useable produce for your freezer, don’t fucking spread the word about specific locations undiscerningly pretty much ever bc that’s how you get good dumpsters locked up. And put everything back!!! Don’t make life harder for the min wage employees by forcing them to clean up after you. Oh, and scoping out places ahead of time helps a lot. And you must be prepared to see something gross, most of the time you won’t, but like…it’s a dumpster.

It’s considered a faux pas to feed dumpster food to unsuspecting friends/family/guests etc and I only do it with ppl I know are similarly idk alternatively minded? Most of my friends are totally about it once I give them the spiel, bc I tend to befriend ppl with similar sensibilities lmao. As I mentioned I go for meat and dairy stuff whenever I want (you think I’m purchasing ground lamb?? In this economy???) but produce and packaged food are way easier to tell if they’re still good. The freezer will be your bff (chopping produce around the ‘bad’ spots and getting it ready for easy access, and preserving things maybe on the brink of being yucky). Also it’s a good idea to keep an eye on current recalls. When in doubt safety wise you can always just throw it out. But so often expired food is completely safe to eat, and a lot of perfectly good food is thrown out for reasons like a) another package in the flat burst and ruined the other units’ packaging b) a customer grabbed something from a cooler, changed their mind and stashed it on a random shelf & the employees don’t know how long it’d been sitting out c) one onion or whatever in a bag of onions is starting to rot but the rest are still good if u remove the bad one d) new stock with a later best by date arrived e) the whims and fancies of corporate that only god knows. I have never once gotten sick from dumpster food but your mileage may vary.

Another thing to keep in mind is that to a cop I read as a middle class, sober, “respectable” white woman and in my encounters with security/law enforcement (which have been extremely infrequent and only when I got lazy about my rules) this has resulted in outcomes that wouldn’t necessarily be afforded to ppl of color, ppl in working class garb, men even? Idk. But it’s not illegal, the furthest it’s ever gotten is they’ve run my ID through their system and told me to gtfo lol. When in doubt, bring a buddy.

Don’t reblog this please. My worst nightmare is that it starts taking off on like tiktok or something and ruins it for everyone. It’s definitely doable but it has to be done right and I don’t trust the masses because the masses are young and privileged lol. Save the real world shit for us real world ancoms

I haven’t talked about it much on this blog bc I stopped due to the pandemic & I made this blog due to the pandemic so there hasn’t really been an overlap on those 2 eras of my life. But I’m moving in January and I’m planning to make it my primary source of groceries again once I’m back in [redacted city] & I’m gonna start foraging, fermenting and preserving en masse as well :-) very excited. Very excited also to be back in a city with a lot of friends that I can redistribute my biggest finds to and throw dumpster potlucks :-)

Any of my followers feel free to DM me if you want more specific info, I’d be soooo happy to help 1 on 1 but as I said i really want to keep it on the dl (you are so ok sending this ask btw I’m just never gonna like type up a guide or anything) because a lot of ppl rely on this as a food source or as a lifestyle that mitigates food waste (like me) and if shit hits the fan and people fuck shit up because they’re not being careful, (like what happened to Z Lib) more and more grocery stores are gonna start doing inaccessible compactors like the biggest grocery chains and the waste is just gonna keep piling up

[tanabaa]

RELATIONSHIPS  — TALK ABOUT THE MUSE.

NAME: Ishizu Ishtar ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Demiromantic Graysexual PREFERRED PET NAMES: None RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single FAVOURITE CANON SHIP: No canon ships. FAVOURITE NON-CANON SHIP: Trustshipping ( Kaiba/Ishizu ) is really the only one I’ve considered, to be honest.

OPINION ON TRUE LOVE: True love is... a complicated matter for Ishizu, to say the least. Her only example of love has come from family and it hasn’t always been good. Her mother died when she was just four years old, during Malik’s birth, and as such has few — if any — concrete memories of her other than what Rishid used to tell her. Her father was a very, very strict and abusive figure ( verbally and physically ) in her life who prided his family’s duty as Tomb Keepers above all else and did not take deviation from this duty lightly. If he loved their mother at all, Ishizu was not certain about it, for he was an incredibly cold and obstinate man of single-minded, almost fanatical focus. This left very little warmth or comfort in Ishizu’s day to day life growing up and shaped much of how she approaches relationships with others. About the closest thing to love she’s ever felt is the love and devotion she feels for Malik and Rishid, possessing a particularly strong connection to Malik due to her need and desire to protect him from their father. OPINION ON LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT: Doesn’t believe in it. Ishizu finds it difficult to understand how anyone can claim to love someone at first sight — someone they know nothing about. HOW ROMANTIC ARE THEY?: Not very. Ishizu has very limited experience ( read: none ) with romantic relationships. Her life has been so consumed by her duty and protecting her family that she has seldom allowed herself room for anything else. It is only after her duty as a Tomb Keeper is finished that she finally allows herself to live life and explore both the world and herself. This isn’t to say that Ishizu isn’t capable of being romantic, but simply that her lack of experience coupled with her traumatic upbringing makes it very difficult for her to express emotions of love outside a platonic or familial context.

IDEAL PHYSICAL TRAITS: Again, with little experience and being on the ace spectrum, Ishizu does not have much preference when it comes to who she might be attracted to. What is important to her is a deep, emotional connection. Not a physical one. Perhaps the only true preference she has is someone who is well-put together and takes care of themselves.  IDEAL PERSONALITY TRAITS: Ishizu is attracted to like-minded individuals — those who are more reserved and even studious. She finds those who can uphold their promises and take their occupation, whatever that may be, seriously and passionately equally attractive. Individuals who don’t mind taking things slow and can understand ( or at least try to ) that she needs time and patience to fully develop an emotional connection with someone before a physical connection can even be brought to the table is also very important. Loyalty and devotion to family are also important aspects to her. UNATTRACTIVE PHYSICAL TRAITS: The standard things like poor hygiene and slovenliness generally can turn Ishizu off from attraction. UNATTRACTIVE PERSONALITY TRAITS: Those who try to assert power over her. Growing up, she was raised to believe that the wife and children were meant to be subservient to the patriarch of the household. That his word was law and meant to be abided by to the letter. Now that she is out from under the thumb of her abusive father, Ishizu greatly appreciates her freedom. If she is going to pursue a relationship with someone, she expects them to be on equal ground with one another.

IDEAL DATE: Having never been on a real date, Ishizu can only speculate. She would likely enjoy a more reserved setting that allows for conversation where she can get to know the person on a deeper level.  DO THEY HAVE A TYPE?: Like mentioned above, she is drawn to those who share her ideals and wants. AVERAGE RELATIONSHIP LENGTH: None. PREFERRED NON-SEXUAL INTIMACY: Sitting in silent company. Ishizu likes the idea of being able to sit with someone without either feeling the need to fill the silence with senseless chatter. COMMITMENT LEVEL: Despite her lack of experience, Ishizu is a devoted and loyal individual who, given the chance, would wholly commit themselves to someone she feels a deep connection with. The matter is simply trying to get past those walls and understand that she comes with a considerable amount of emotional trauma that needs to be worked through. OPINION OF PUBLIC AFFECTION: Averse. She would much prefer that displays of affection be kept private. 

PAST RELATIONSHIPS?: None. 

tagged by: stole from one of my own blogs tagging: steal it from me!

[rivalishq]

TRIDENT

Full name: Vincente “Vince” Espinoza 

Age: 34

Gender: Demi man

Pronouns: he/they

Alignment: Chaotic good

Mutant class: Anatomical

FC: David Castaneda

BACKGROUND.

Trident discovered their powers at a horrible and inopportune time and there was no way that after that they could deny that they were a mutant. They were revealed in front of their entire school and were shunned by the people who they used to consider friends. So their parents thought it was best to send them to the academy where they could be among kids like them. They tried to put up a fight, insisting they could change their peers minds but their parents insisted out of fear for their child’s well-being. 

STATS.

INTELLIGENCE:  ▮▯▯▯▯▯▯ STRENGTH:  ▮▮▮▮▯▯▯ SPEED:  ▮▮▮▯▯▯▯ DURABILITY:  ▮▮▮▯▯▯▯ ENERGY PROJECTION:  ▮▯▯▯▯▯▯ FIGHTING SKILLS:  ▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

POWERS.

Trident’s mutant abilities are simple but effective: they have retractable spikes in their forearms. From the top of each wrist, a seven inch long, obsidian black natural blade protrudes. It is virtually unbreakable, and extremely sharp. It does not hurt Trident to release or retract, but it is more comfortable to have the blades out, since they limited the turn of ulna and the radius when they are inside. Trident is trained in combat, and is especially deadly with their natural blades. Recently, they’ve discovered that they also have poison immunity, and when in fight or flight mode, they can channel a natural venom through the spike. Which means that their mutation is actually two large retractable teeth in their arms 

PERSONALITY.

Trident has a good heart and is always looking for a way to protect innocent people and the ones that they love. They are guided by righteousness and duty, but sometimes they take it too far. They believe that they are the law, and that their judgement is absolute. They often only listen to one side of a story before making a call on who is right. They can be reckless, aggressive, stubborn, and bull-headed. They rush into a fight first, and think about the consequences later. But they do it all in the name of the greater good. 

CONNECTIONS.

CHARMER - Trident was absolutely enamored with Charmer when they were a teen. And they know they weren’t the only one, since there were many people in their peer group who remarked on how good-looking Charmer was. those comments only served to build charmer up in Trident’s mind. And Trident just felt privileged to be able to talk to and fight alongside Charmer. Now that they’ve grown up and time has passed, they feel a little embarrassed about their crush and even more embarrassed that it hasn’t fully gone away. 

SEW - Trident has always been jealous of Sew. Not just how they are so well-liked by most of the team or how they seem to keep their cool even in the most dire of situations, but because they always go the attention from Charmer. Trident knew that their envy was petty and stupid, but they couldn’t help the feeling. Now that they’ve grown up, things are a lot different and they see how silly they were. They want to take the chance to get to know Sew in a way they never allowed themselves to when they were younger. They want to give the friendship the chance it deserves. 

BLADEBENDER - All Trident ever wanted was for Bladebender to see and respect them. Bladebender was their hero and inspiration, although Trident never said this out loud. They wanted Bladebender to think they were strong and had good ideas, so they always tried to voice their opinion even if it was in agreement with Bladebender. This resulted in them arguing a lot, but Trident though that Bladebender even being willing to take them time to debate was a sign of respect. They never detected that Bladebender might find them genuinely annoying. 

THIS CHARACTER IS CURRENTLY TAKEN. THEY ARE WRITTEN BY MILAN.

[jacensolodjo]

The fact that the rabbis of old had terms outside of the halakhic binary and you still have people surprised at the fact that the Jewish faith is, in some cases, inherently accepting of trans people is amazing. They knew people are not binary.

“But Jacen what are these terms?”

Tumtum, androgynos, saris hammah, aylonit. 

Tumtum in general can be considered someone who is androgynous, same as, obviously the term ‘androgynos’. The former is separated by the fact that the definition is that the gender identity of the person is obscured from the viewer based on their clothing and it would not be considered proper to ask. 

Saris (hammah) may refer to someone with organs that don’t quite work (sterile) or have testicles that didn’t descend. So not quite a gender identity, but some halakhic rules rely on sexual organs. 

Aylonit could be considered a term for ‘intersex’ or someone with Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome.

Now a teshuvah is more for those of the Conservative/Hasidic Judaism movement(s) but is important for many reasons: 

There are a number of teshuvot on how transmen, exactly, can take part in circumcision (or even if he can or should), and what to do about transwomen and whether circumcision is required. There have also been decisions that top surgery or bottom surgery is permissive and doesn’t violate the prohibition of self-mutilation (חבורת בעצמו hovel b’atzmo) even if, outside of a religious opinion, it is considered cosmetic. More than that, it is considered a life-saving operation and thus perfectly embodies pikuach nefesh, (פקוח נפש), saving a life (or at least, bettering the quality of said life). This is also why it’s permissible to get hysterectomies and the like even if there is no extenuating medical need. 

The rulings on the halakhic law for circumcision for transmen, in case anyone is curious, is that the brit in fact refers exclusively to whether or not one has a penis regardless of their gender identity. HOWEVER: It has been ruled that if a transman desires, he can undergo a hatafat dam brit חטפת דאם ברית (HDB), or a ritual drop of blood drawn from the clitoris if he hasn’t had bottom surgery as it is the closest thing to a penis one has, especially when they are on testosterone. This is not very common nor is it required. It really depends on the man who has decided (likely with his rabbi) on this. If he has had said bottom surgery, generally he will be considered nolad mahul  נוֹלַד מָהוּל (born circumsized), and circumcision is not a possibility and instead HDB is considered.

But a transwoman who hasn’t had bottom surgery but who has been circumsized has nothing further to do except she may decide for an HDB as well, as again it is considered by some that the brit refers to a penis rather than strictly being male. 

In both cases of HDB or circumcision, the transwoman can decide to do it herself in private just as a cis man converting might when an adult.

Not every rabbi rules the same way and it has been made clear in a couple teshuvot (and you know just in general) that it should be discussed with your rabbi before considering circumcision and how it applies to you and that it really depends on the person, not the rabbi. As, again, halakhic law is rather binary even if it does have other terms it uses. But it isn’t rigid. There are rabbis trying to figure out how to do Life Events with trans and nb Jews. And it is always wrong to assume Judaism doesn’t adjust. It’s survived by adjusting. 

Otherwise, immersion in a mikveh for those converting to (Conservative/Hasidic) Judaism or other life events is the requirement for all gender identities. And the only issue that really comes up is the issue of modesty. While it might feel weird to talk about, it is absolutely important you decide which is best for you, whether you wish to do it in a group, in private, who you want to witness, etc., A transwoman undergoing immersion will, of course, have women overseeing her. Same with transmen having men overseeing them. It is not required to feel humiliated for any reason. The ritual is not based on that, it is based on purifying. You do not need humiliation to be purified. If a transman is still undergoing menstruation, it has been ruled that immersion after menstruating can apply but is not required, because again if it embarrasses or otherwise makes you uncomfortable you shouldn’t engage in it. 

None of that is to say mikveh doesn’t happen in Reform. In fact, it’s kinda becoming a little more common as Reform Jews decide what it means to them and their beliefs just as they have with keeping kosher, working on Shabbat, wearing kippah/tallit, etc.,. Full disclosure I’m Reform and accidentally inspired some folks to wear tallit again cause I found one I really liked lol I volunteer/work on shabbat and I’m shit at keeping kosher. 

In essence, ritual should make you feel closer to God, to your faith. It should not embarrass you or make you feel lesser. Ritual should be a comfort. Not something you dread. 

[kmsmithoverwatchedition]

Moira Headcanons

If you wanna request headcannons send an ask :3

-Drinks a fuck ton of milk. Like a baffling love of dairy is apparently an Irish thing (fascinating history actually, even have a word for “white foods” from ancient times iirc) and Moira is not unique. Mmmm stronk bones. 

-She is the tallest member in her family by several inches.

-Knows about as much about anime as she does about genetics, like it is genuinely borderline unhealthy. 

-One of those people that learned Japanese because of anime but tells everyone she just thought it’d be fun to learn (it was)

-All the takeaway places in her radius know her number on sight. That said, she doesn’t order anywhere or anything super unhealthy, she actually prefers “real food” and can’t stand too much junk. 

-Verified mezzo-soprano. Likes to sing when she’s alone but hates it in front of other people. Other people does not include her dogs, who love it when she sings. 

-Is very dedicated and close to her family, parents, siblings, in-laws, whole lot of them. They’re the only people that ever really accepted her for whatever she decided to be. 

-Also a very dedicated romantic partner. She will work a lot, but she will always put effort in, whether that’s putting most all her attention on her partner the moment she has time, extravagant dates, periodic phone calls or simply working from home when possible. Works best with another workaholic, though. 

-Her mother was a bit old fashioned and taught her how to be a “lady”, and she personally sought to refine herself further (which is why she speaks so clearly and tamps down her accent, alongside how she moves etc) because she didn’t want anyone to be able to figure out that she came from a relatively poor background.

-That said, she’s feels more shame that she’s ashamed of her background than she is actually ashamed of said background. Her parents busted their asses, damn it, and she blames herself for being unappreciative at times.

-Will get lost in silly romantic fantasies, particularly when she’s single. 

-Is genuinely very hard to offend and very hard to make angry. Annoying her is easy, though. 

-She is terrifying when she yells; it’s like a deep, angry bellow, and coming from someone six and a half feet tall it gains an added fear factor as anyone that’s pissed her off realizes Moira might be a lanky bitch, but she’s still big. 

-Whiskey snob.

-Is one of those people that owns way too many candles and keeps buying them

-Has always had a savvy fashion sense but only chose to employ it once she got into university. This is where she taught herself how to tie her tie in a Windsor knot for bragging purposes. 

-Sleeps like the fucking dead. This has made her late for things more than once.

-Has a special fondness for receiving forehead kisses because they’re so incredibly rare for a woman her height. They make her feel that dumb ooey-gooey kind of loved inside.

-Halloween is her favorite holiday because she can go fucking wild with the dress up. 

-Also always wanted to dress up for a con but hasn’t ever gotten the balls to. She can excuse a masquerade or Mardi Gras or Carnival, but she’s always been paranoid someone from work would catch her cosplaying and her reputation would never recover (but somehow it would totally recover is someone saw her paying 50 dollars for Naurto fanart or a Sailor Moon figurine).

-The most wonderful gift the universe could give her is recognition for her hard work. Not even adaption of it, which she considers too lofty a request even for the universe, just recognition that the science is right, and she damn well did it.

[the-witty-pen-name]

Deadbeat Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x F!Reader

18+ ONLY 

Warnings: age gap (reader is 21), smut, cursing, abandonment, infatuation, cheating/divorce, angst, mild housewife kink, mentions of prostitution, mentions of alcohol, corrupt official 

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: You work at the bar at the edge of town, the Sheriff is going through a divorce and needs to rent a room.

A/N: I’m terrible at writing summaries and I’m so sorry about that! I don’t think I would consider this a dark!fic, but it does cover a lot of themes, and topics that are darker than I usually write about- but I think that comes with the territory of writing about Lee Bodecker. I’ll make sure to update the warnings for each chapter and do not read if you are underage. I also ignored canon for this one.

This is unedited, and I missed anything I should include as a warning let me know! This chapter introduces some new plots and conflicts, so it jumps around a little more than the previous ones. 

I hope you all enjoy!

I also am having some writer’s block with my Obi-Wan Kenobi miniseries I was working on, so expect Part 3 sometime Sunday hopefully! So sorry for the delay on the final chapter. 

Tags and Requests are OPEN 

Part One // Part Two 

Henry Curtis was one of the most infuriating people Lee had ever met. Curtis was a writer for the Columbus newspaper and constantly pestering the Sheriff. Curtis seemed to have a sixth sense for whenever the Sheriff did anything. He was desperately trying to catch the Sheriff doing anything but so far had remained unsuccessful. Curtis was the biggest obstacle Lee faced in winning re-election. The man would show up out of nowhere, pen and pad in hand ready to find anything that would be enough to keep the Sheriff out of office.

Maybe Curtis was just doing his job, but Lee always felt like it was much more personal. It was probably just his own resentment of the man who was just doing his job. But the man didn’t have to be so goddamn invasive. When the Sheriff had devised his plan on offering to rent a room from you, he was so tied up in his own mess of divorce and his somewhat confusing feelings towards you he had completely forgotten about the press. They would have a field day with the divorce alone, but now on top of everything else, Lee knew he should be more careful.

Lee always had to be careful, especially if he was meeting Leroy Brown. Lee would make sure he drove way out of town, and always insisted they met at a different location every time. This would infuriate Brown but Lee was the only lawman he had working for him. Sometimes Lee would drive several hours out of the way, always at some deserted ghost town or some sad excuse for a diner or a bar. Always somewhere no one would recognize him.

Lee lied to you and told you he and a few of the deputies would need to drive out of town for a stakeout when he needed to meet with Brown. It was one of those nights, sitting in the cruiser with the headlights off, as he parked in an abandoned parking lot almost two hours out of town.

He had been able to put this off for a couple weeks, lying about other legitimate jobs getting in the way. Honestly, it was because he wanted to one, avoid anything that would cause suspicion from Henry Curtis hearing he was back in town and two, he was selfishly allowing himself to just spend his nights at his new home, spending all the time he could manage with you. It was like being in that little white house was a place where he could let himself be delusional, and time spent with you was what his life actually was, not this mess he was currently dealing with. He wanted out.

Lee knew he wasn’t a good man. He knew that his laundry list of offenses had tarnished his badge a long time ago. He knew what he was doing, and before he never cared. Now, he’s thinking about how his actions could affect you. You were innocent, unaware of everything he was stuck in. He knew you weren’t stupid, and he was sure the town knows some about his corruption. But now, he couldn’t rationalize away his actions for any reason when it came to you. Janie? She didn’t care and would encourage it. She’d be in on it too. She’d have no problem lying to ladies at Church or starting other rumors to keep the town talking about anyone but Lee. She was as power hungry as he was sometimes, which could be a testament as to how their loveless marriage held together for so long.

***

“Hi, I’m looking for a Ms. (Y/L/N)?” the man asked when he approached you, talking a seat at one of the barstools.

“Who’s asking for her?” you asked raising an eyebrow.

“I’m Henry Curtis, I work for the Columbus Dispatch.”

“The newspaper?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why are you looking for her?”

“I’m doing a story on her mother’s marriage to Harvey Tucker.”

“She’s not here tonight. But I can let her know you were here. Do you got a card?”

The man pulled out a business card from his wallet and slide it across the bar. You picked it up and read all the information before putting it in the pocket of your apron.

“Seems weird for the Columbus paper to want to do a story on that a month and a half after it happened,” you said skeptically.

“We did cover the story when it happened,” Curtis informed you. “Doing a follow up since the story broke about his wife missing.”

“Missing?” you ask. “Do they know what happened?”

“Robbed the bastard blind and then ran apparently,” Curtis said casually looking past you at the chalkboard on the wall. “Scotch, neat.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, grabbing the bottle from the shelf. “Has anything else been found out yet?”

“Not yet, that’s why I’m here. Checking in to see if she’d come back here because I heard Ms. (Y/L/N) still lives around these parts.” He then pulled a newspaper out of the inside pocket of his coat and started flipping through the pages.

“She has another kid too, right?” you asked, playing dumb. “A boy, I think. Do you know where he is?”

“Couldn’t say,” he sounded very indifferent, “Most likely went with her but who knows? I went to the Sheriff’s office to see if they knew anything but the Sheriff wasn’t there.”

“That’s too bad,” you say. “I’m sure Sheriff Bodecker would help you help if he can.”

Your statement made Mr. Curtis chuckle, but you didn’t follow up on it. You were just focusing on getting as much information about your mother and brother as you could.

“Speaking of Mr. Bodecker,” he began, “I recently saw his wife is getting remarried. Saw the announcement of the engagement in the paper.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you respond, skeptically. You didn’t know why but you didn’t trust this man. It was something in the tone of his voice, or maybe it was just how he held himself. Very polished, a suit and a nice dress jacket. He looked very out of place in this town, and this little bar.

“You familiar with the Sheriff at all, miss?”

“Not too well,” you shrug, “Haven’t had any run-ins with the law myself.”

“Not even a speeding ticket?” He asks, only a little condescendingly.

“Can’t get a speeding ticket if you don’t have a car,” you point out.

“Touché,” he chuckles before taking a sip of his drink.

He doesn’t ask you anymore questions, and when he leaves, he gives you a five-dollar tip.

***

Lee receives his cut from Brown. There was nothing new to report on that front and his meeting went by smoothly. All Lee had to do was to turn a blind eye, and make sure the rest of the department stays unaware of the brothel’s existence. Brown always insisted on meeting with him, wanting to know what the Sheriff’s department was investigating and making sure his businesses stayed under the radar. He felt sick, and is preoccupied with the fact he has an envelope of dirty money in the cruiser’s glovebox.

It’s around midnight when he pulls up to the house. He expects that you’re already asleep, but he notices the lamp is on in the living room. He takes the money out of his glovebox and tucks it away into the inner pocket of his jacket. Coming inside, he finds you on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the business card Mr. Curtis had given you. You face is stained with dried up tears, and you still haven’t even changed out of your work clothes.

“What’s that?” he asks, the sight of you breaking his heart. He winces because he comes off a lot harsher than he meant.

“Some reporter came while I was at work wanting to talk to me,” you explain softly, you sound exhausted. “Wanted to talk to me cause he’s doing a story on my mother. Apparently, she’s on the run from the Columbus police.”

You extend your hand to give Lee the card. He feels his jaw clench when he reads the information. “What happened?” he asks, taking a deep breath and sitting down next to you.

“I pretended I wasn’t me,” you say, another tear rolling down your cheek. “He came in asking for me so I said I’d pass his card on. I didn’t want to tell him who I was because he didn’t explain why he was looking for me at first. I don’t know- just scared me. I’m more upset about the news itself than him.”

“You did the right thing,” Lee said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly. He was angry, but he didn’t show it. It worried him, fucking Curtis snooping around this close to you. It made him feel protective, wanting to shield you from the whole ordeal. He had been on the receiving end of unsolicited attention from the press and he knew how ruthless they were. He knew this wouldn’t be the only time Curtis would try to get in touch with you. He’d find out where you lived, he’d continue to show up while you were working- the whole nine yards. He didn’t want you going through that.

Curtis talking to you also made him incredibly paranoid. It was his two worlds that he desperately wanted to keep apart were colliding. He knew it was impossible, but he so wanted to keep you separated from the other part of his life. It wasn’t who he wanted you to see. Hell, he hasn’t even been here for a month. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep you in the dark, at least that wasn’t entirely intentional. Actually, he wasn’t sure, maybe it was intentional. However, it wasn’t just you he wanted to hide aspects of his life from. He wanted his involvement with Brown and others hidden from every goddamn registered voter. You were no different, he tried to rationalize. But that wasn’t true. These feelings he harbored for you, were getting worse. He needed to unwrap himself from this situation, and for the sake of you finding out he was a shill, keep you away from that asshole. He didn’t want to let himself think about how the way you look at him would change.

And here he was, making the situation all about him. It was in his nature.

“He’s just going to show up again if I don’t call him,” you say, wiping your eyes. “Maybe I should just call him in the morning. Just be honest and say I don’t know anything. He can keep coming around but nothing is going to change.”

“I can take care of it,” he says. He couldn’t risk you talking to Curtis again. For all he knows, Curtis would tell you all about the story on the Sheriff he’d been trying to confirm for years. Lee knew he couldn’t let that happen. He fully intends on telling you, but how the hell do you bring that up? ‘Hey doll, I’m also on the payroll of every pimp and bootlegger in a ten-mile radius, just letting you know.’ It wasn’t going to come up, unless Curtis tells you about it. He’d be hoping to pull himself out if it, show you how you made him want to be better.

For now, he settles for comforting you, and just being there to take care of you. Make you feel better. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and lets you cry into his chest. He sighs, kissing the top of your head in a friendly way and you curl up against him. Under different circumstances, you probably wouldn’t have let yourself do this- show your vulnerability or allow anyone to comfort you like this. But it was all the events of the past month, your mother leaving, everything, just all hitting you at once, and you were happy you weren’t alone.

In the morning, you wake up on the couch with a blanket over you. You see Lee asleep in the chair, and you realize he stayed with you all night. It makes your heart flutter. You pull the blanket up over your chin and close your eyes again. You felt surprisingly well rested. The stress and worry were pushed to the back of your mind long enough to let you get some sleep. It still lingered in the back of your mind, but you reminded yourself that for now, there was nothing you could do. You had the day off, and you let yourself have a little longer time to sleep in.

You woke up to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of sizzling on the stove. When you opened your eyes, Lee was no longer in the chair. You sat up and looked toward the kitchen, where you saw Lee with his back to you while he worked with the pans on top of the stove. The portable radio was positioned on the counter, and it was playing at a low volume, so it wouldn’t wake you up.

“Hey,” you say softly, still waking up as you walk into the kitchen.

“Morning, doll,” he says, glancing back at you for a moment. “How’re you feeling?”

“A little better,” you admit, grabbing a mug for yourself out of the cabinet. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, savoring the smell before making it how you usually take it. “Thank you for sitting with me,” you say honestly, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says with a small grin. “I just wanted to help.”

“I really appreciate it, Lee,” you reiterate your thanks, hopping up to take a seat on the counter, watching him cook breakfast. “Didn’t know you knew how to cook,” you joke, making him chuckle.

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart,” he smirks, making you feel flushed. You take another drawn out sip of your coffee to try to distract yourself. You watch his arms, and his hands as they maneuver and flex when he cooks. You imagine how they must feel, your eyes focused on the veins. You bit your lip and it reminds you of the dream you had a little while back when he first moved in. You imagine him stepping in between your legs as your propped up on the counter, his hands gently gripping your thighs and-

“I’ll get it,” you announce hurriedly as you hear someone knock on the front door. You hop off the counter careful to not spill your coffee, and head to answer the door. Lee watches you bounce out of the room, fixing your hair as you go and you don’t catch his smile.

“Arvin,” you say surprised, stepping out onto the porch. “What are you doing here?” you ask, with a small grin. You’re confused but nonetheless happy to see him.

“You look like you’ve been crying,” he observes, concern written all over his face.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say dismissively, “Just last night I was thinking about my ma and everything. Just had trouble sleeping is all.”

“The Sheriff didn’t do anything?” Arvin asked in a hushed tone, looking over your shoulder to see if Lee could hear you two.

“No, nothing, he’s been perfectly fine,” you say coming to the Sheriff’s defense. “I know you and Ms. Russell are worried, I know how it must look- but Arvin I swear he’s just my tenant. He’s been nothing but a gentleman.”

“Just making sure,” he says, letting it go for now. “Lenora asked me to bring these by for you.” He hands you the glass baking dish that you can see is filled with homemade cinnamon rolls. “She’s been practicing making all kinds of baked goods for when the Church does that bake sale and has me running all over town giving it away cause me and Uncle Earskell can’t keep up with it all.”

“Tell her thank you for me,” you say with a smile, “And I’ll bring the dish with me to Church tomorrow- give it back to her.”

“She misses you I think,” Arvin says sheepishly, pushing his hands into his front pockets. “I mean- I do- I think my whole family does- we all do. I’m sorry my grandmother hasn’t asked you over in a while…”

“I understand,” you nod. “Reputation is an important thing.”

“I just didn’t want you to think it was because of us,” he says looking down at the porch, his eyes fixed on a loose board. “You know how she is- everything no matter the context is somehow a sin. Scared to death of her own shadow…”

“I know you’re not that resentful, Arvin Russell,” you chuckle and he relaxes. “And I don’t hold any hard feelings towards anyone in your family- you all have always been good to me.”

“Well, um,” he says awkwardly, looking like he was holding back from saying more. “I got to hit a couple more houses before I head to work, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at Church?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Oh- I wanted to let you know,” he says, turning around as he’s already heading down the front steps, “The principal down at the high school is looking for secretaries- Lenora heard and thought you might be interested. It pays like $35 a week, I think. You should call Linda Carson; I think Lenora said- that’s the woman who’s in charge of hiring people, I think.”

“I’ll call the school first thing Monday morning,” you say, grin stretching from ear to ear. Arvin nods and says goodbye again. You walk back into the house like you’re on top of the world. You couldn’t contain your excitement. That job if you could get it would be a dream. You’d be making so much more than you’re already making. You were so excited.

“You’re in a much better mood than when I last saw you,” Lee jokes. He’s sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper while he eats his breakfast. You notice that he made you a table setting- brought your coffee over and everything. You place the baking dish in the middle of the table and sit down.

“That was Arvin,” you say happily, and Lee feels his heart sink into his stomach.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, trying to not let on how his heart feels like it’s crushed. He knew it was only a matter of time before a boy would come around- whether it be Arvin or someone else your own age.

“Well, first he was just dropping off baked goods Lenora made,” you say gesturing to the dish on the table. “He’s going around to everybody, I guess. He mentioned the high school is looking for office secretaries- Lenora wanted me to know. Thirty-five dollars a week! I’m going to talk to Linda Carson about it Monday morning. Can you imagine? I could get a secretary job.”

Lee feels just a crash of relief wash over him. He’s so happy that you are looking at a new job. You deserve better than that bar. He knew you deserved the job just as much as any of the other candidates. You work harder than anyone he knows.

“That’s fantastic, sugar,” he replies. “You deserve it.”

“Do you think I have a chance?” you ask, feeling a little self-conscious- you knew you weren’t as experienced as other candidates would be for sure.

“Of course, I do,” he says, putting down the paper to give you his full attention. “I feel like you getting this job is a definite. There’s no doubt about it.”

“You’re just buttering me up,” you scoff, finishing up your food, making him chuckle. You may have also seen his cheeks redden, but you couldn’t say for sure. You finish off your coffee, and then bring you dishes back to the kitchen, leaving them in the sink. Lee turns his attention back to his newspaper and you head upstairs to get ready for your day.

When you head upstairs, Lee notices that you took the radio with you- and he could hear you were listening to music from upstairs. He decides before it’s too late to ring Mark Cunningham. The line rings a couple of times before Mark answers.

“Cunningham.”

“Morning, Mark. It’s Sheriff Bodecker,” he smirks.

“What can I do for you Sheriff?” he asks, the sound of shuffling paper comes through as well. Most likely flipping through the paper.

“I wanna call in that favor you owe me,” he says, casually pacing the living room, holding the receiver up to his ear and the base of the rotary phone in the other.

“Of course, Sheriff,” he says. A while back, Bodecker busted the principal making moonshine in his old barn that was at the end of his property. Lee looked the other way and was waiting for the right thing to call in a favor for.

“I want you to hire (Y/N) (Y/L/N) for the secretary job,” he says, looking to the stairs, making sure you aren’t coming. The music is still playing loudly from upstairs so he determines he’s still got time.

“That’s all?” Mark asked surprised.

“That’s all I want from you,” Lee replies. “I expect you can make that happen?”

“Without a doubt. When can she start?”

“Still have her come in for an interview. I don’t anyone else knowing I called you about this- including her.”

“Done.”

With that, Lee hangs up the phone, feeling really good about this decision. He knew how much that job meant to you- he could see it in your eyes and how excitedly you talked about it. He can’t wait to see you when you find out you get the position. He knows it’s going to make you so happy. He knows you’d be a fantastic candidate, but this just eliminates any doubt. He reasons that there isn’t much difference, since you were very likely to get it anyways. He just had to make sure.

He can picture you know, coming home from the interview- excited to tell him that you got the job. You’d be so excited you’d jump up and hug him tightly, just so overjoyed that you let your feelings take over. You’d wrap your legs and around his waist and he’d hold you up by holding the back of your thighs. You’d wrap your arms tightly around him and bury your head in the crook of his neck. You’d lift your head up to look at him, embarrassed at your actions and then he’d press his lips to yours. You’d gasp softly, but your lips would melt against his own and your arms would wrap tightly around his neck. He’d walk forward, pressing you up against the wall and he’d kiss your neck mumbling praises of congratulations against your skin as his name falls from your lips at how good he’d make you feel. It’s almost unbearable how bad he wants you.

He heads to him room to get ready for his day, but his mind is still clouded with thoughts of you. He thinks about how much he wants nothing more that to just pin you on his mattress. He wonders if you know how crazy you make him. Sometimes there’s something in your eye that makes him think you want him too, but he’s not sure. His better judgement holds him back from everything he wants to do. He thinks about how it must feel to have his head right in-between your thighs. Back in the kitchen together, he wanted to just get on his knees and worship you. The feeling of them pressing against him as he sucks on your clit and runs his tongue across your folds.

Serval hours later, he can’t shake the thoughts, even sitting in his office at the sheriff’s station- working on a Saturday yet again. He’s cooped up in his office, unable to get through any of the paperwork that has piled up on his desk. He’s thinking about you, again, but in this daydream, you’re bent over his desk- because you came by to see him on your break from work at the school. His office door locked and his blinds pulled so he can bend you over and take you right there- rough and fast, sending you back to work with a feeling of him still there between your legs well after you’re back at your own desk, still sore from the encounter.

“You got a visitor, Lee,” the intercom on his desk lights up.

“Send ‘em in,” he responds back, shaking his head to snap out of it. He needed to get a grip.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” you say, walking into his office. His eyes widen and he wonders if he’s still day dreaming. He discreetly pinches himself. You’re actually here, standing in his office, while he looks at you dumbfounded. Part of him would think he manifested it if he was a man of any faith. “You forgot this,” you say, putting his wallet on the desk. “You must have taken it out of your back pocket before falling asleep in the chair last night. It was laying on the coffee table. I figured I’d stop by with it while I was coming up this way anyways.”  

“You’re a doll,” he grins, putting his wallet in his back pocket. “What are you doing?”

“I took the bus to the library to return some books, and now I’m going shopping for something to wear when I go in for an interview since I have the day off to go,” you explain. “I’m also probably going to get lunch after that before heading back home. I just didn’t want to be home in case that reporter stopped by. I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”

“I can take care of it,” he says, “He’ll make his way over here soon enough. I can talk to him.”

“You would do that for me?” you ask, the relief evident across your whole face.

“Yeah, I can talk to him, let him know you gave a statement here,” he says. You nod. “You know as much as he does, so it doesn’t matter if I tell him you don’t know shit or if you tell him.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you sigh, so relieved thinking that you won’t have to hear from Henry Curtis again. “If he tells you anything about them… will you let me know?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you say, hurriedly walking over behind him and quickly hugging his shoulders. You then are back by the door again before he can register the gesture. “Are you going to be home tonight?” you ask, your hand on the doorknob.

“Not until late,” he says reluctantly, and he can see the disappointment on your face- unless his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Okay,” you say finally, “Um, I’ll see you later then.”

“Bye, doll,” he says when you walk out of his office.

Are you going to be home tonight? Your voice lingers in his head. It was such a harmless phrase that could’ve just been one of curiosity. Maybe you were just asking because you were thinking about what you were doing for dinner. It most likely just meant nothing. But, the look on your face when he said no makes him think otherwise. Did it mean you cared? That you wanted to spend time with him? You wanted to see him and be with him as desperately as he needed you perhaps? Just the phrasing itself makes his brain feel like putty. It’s like you’re waiting up for him. It’s like you share the house in a way that’s much more than just him renting a room from you. It’s like you’re his and he’s yours. It’s like saying our house… our home. The question was so intimate and implied so much more about how you saw him and what he was to you. He knew seeing him as how he saw you was next to impossible, but you saw him as more than the Sheriff and more than just the jerk living in your house.

Part Four

 Taglist:

@scar-is-bi @jiminlife2k18 @asylummaniac01​ @rosalynshields​ @charmed-asylum @jamesbuchananbuckybarnes1917 @alexandrathegreat3

[purplehairedwonder]

Chapter 1053: The New Era Rises

The last chapter before the month-long break :(

I find it hilarious the Gorosei want to remove the D. from Luffy’s wanted poster like he hasn’t had wanted posters with than initial for the last two years. Removing it is only going to raise suspicions.

One of these days, they’re also going to find out that Law is a D., and their heads are going to implode.

Speaking of, the bounties!

Interesting that all three captains have equal bounties. I know there is going to be a lot of debate about whether this is fair or whatever, but it makes sense to me. After all, Kaido’s and Big Mom’s bounties combined were worth 8.9 billion, so this is basically splitting the difference three ways among the three biggest names in the alliance that took them down.

I love the pictures on all the wanted posters. I’m basically Bepo in this delightful panel:

On the subject of delightful: Morgans.

I love him. A lot.

Also, Big Mom’s ship is finally mentioned, though no mention of the former Emperors themselves. I’d typically assume falling into a magma pool and then possibly being erupted would be enough to kill even those two, but this is One Piece. Then again, I have a hard time seeing a purpose for having them be alive, considering we’re moving into the final saga, and we have other villains to face off against.

Aaaaand, let the festivities begin!

I feel bad for this guy:

At least Jinbei is there to appreciate the effort. Sweet, sweet Jinbei.

Everyone else is off having fun

(Side note: We still haven’t gotten Luffy’s reply as to whether Yamato is going to join, which is interesting.)

Except Robin. On a shallow note, I’m obsessed with her hair in this scene.

She was indeed off doing Poneglyph things, as we see:

But then we get the reveal that Oden’s father is actually still alive; he was imprisoned, and by the time he escaped, Oden was already dead and Wano was fully in the hands of Orochi and Kaido.

He also has no interest in sharing his identity with Momo, which I’m sure is going to change. After all, Momo never learned how to read the Poneglyphs; I bet Sukiyaki is still alive to pass that skill on to the next generation of Kozuki.

As for the reveal of Pluton being located in Wano

Sengoku wondered why so many big name pirates end up in Wano, and Big Mom, during her fall, thought some of the secrets of One Piece were in Wano. Is this why?

Meanwhile, we have the new admiral Ryokugyu/Aramaki, and, well, yikes.

This power is terrifying. It easily takes down Kaido’s top two commanders -- no small feat, even if they were still recovering from their fights.

Also, Queen is going to get too popular now that he’s thin ;-)

His powers are looking very Elder Toguro here.

It’s also worrisome that he seems to admire Akainu so much. He’s obviously gunning for Luffy, but what does he, even with some backup, think he’s going to accomplish against the sheer strength of the fighting force assembled in the Flower Capital?

I am intrigued by the potential benefits of his powers on the landscape of Wano, however.

Grass and flowers are growing in his wake, which is exactly what Wano needs.

Also, that reference to whatever happened at Reverie... ugh, I need to know!

Speaking of Reverie, what’s with the Sabo poster in one of the early panels? That seems ominous.

Meanwhile, at the festival...

This is just... *chef’s kiss* 

Kid is furious; he, Law, and Luffy all have the same bounty, but Luffy’s the only one named Emperor, and that infuriates him. He goes to fight Luffy, only for Luffy to pull him into a hug. I can’t stop laughing. Kid is finally getting to experience what Law has been dealing with.

As for the third captain, Law doesn’t seem to present anywhere. We see the Hearts celebrating, but much like during the party on Zou, Law is nowhere to be seen.  

Also, Kin’emon reunited with his wife. *wipes away a tear*

And then, the twist reveal of the new Emperors:

Obviously, I wanted Law to be in on this, but Oda’s troll job is just too masterful for me to even be mad. Buggy continues to fail upward. 

I’m going to laugh forever if the “certain pirate” Shanks wanted to talk to the Gorosei about was Buggy and not Luffy after all.

See y’all in a month.

[snifflesthemouse]

This morning, I read an article titled “I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts" posted to Refinery 29. The title gives the impression of a journalist disguising one’s self as a “Meghan Markle hater” for the sake of getting to the bottom of something. However, the content of the article is nothing like its title.

Before I go further, let me stress the importance of perspective. My post isn’t an attack on the article’s author. I’ve never even heard of the author before now, and I’ve no right or reason to attack a perfect stranger because I vehemently disagree with the content of their work. Making assumptions about someone solely on what they write is lazy and sloppy in my opinion. I may be lazy and sloppy, but a hypocrite I try not to be. Therefore, go forward remembering my issues are with content, not creator.

The article starts out explaining the origins of the term “Megxit”. It continues with other hashtags, conspiracy theories, and so on. The article even mentions various media platforms “attacking" the Duchess, as well as crude posts witnessed by the author.

Then the name dropping begins. First with Murky Meg, then Sue Blackhurst, then According2Taz, then Skippyv20 on Tumblr, then Yankee Wally. Eventually, names of Royal Rota journalists are dropped. Then people like Angela Levin and Omid Scobie get mentioned, with interviews from the latter. Instead of an undercover sting, we get a “Who’s Who" of Megxit, a few anonymous Sussex Squad quotations, and Omid trying his best to be fair.

What this article accomplishes is very little when it comes to objectivity. The title is a misconception, and the content essentially paints targets on the backs of the people the author carelessly considers “Meghan Markle Haters". The article reduces anyone who disagrees with Meghan’s behavior as racist, misogynist, conspiracy theorist nutters. So, not only is the content of the article sloppy and lazy, it also lacks originality. We’ve all heard this sad song-and-dance number a million times.

I guess at face value, it becomes very easy, effortless really, for outsiders looking in to reduce an entire group of people with similar views to the basic stereotypes as old as time. It takes very little thought, consideration, or critical analysis, to assume things because they seem to correlate. But correlation is not causation. Just because some people opposing of Meghan Markle’s behavior happen to be racist doesn’t mean every single opposing person is also racist. Again, lazy and sloppy.

Just like assuming every single Meghan Markle fan is also vegan, anti-monarchy, feminist, woke warriors is downright sloppy and lazy. This author has personally interacted with and found common ground with Sussex Squad people many times. Some even became social media friends. They believe what they do, and I believe what I do. We do not agree with most things regarding Harry and Meghan, but we do agree to disagree and be civil.

So, contrary to the article, not all people “hate" Meghan Markle just because they detest her behavior. It’s important to remember extremes exist for all spectrums. Every topic, especially those politicized or made popular by media platforms, have extremes. There is no denying the fact that there are people who hate Meghan Markle because of her ethnicity. Those extremists who hate Meghan for her ethnicity ironically do not discriminate, though. If they hate her for her ethnicity, they hate ALL people of that same ethnicity.

On the flip side of this coin, is the other extreme. The face is the same on each side because the face represents extremism. There is no denying the fact that there are extremists who see anyone opposing Meghan as racists. Extremists who, by default, view every issue in the world through the lens of racism. While racism is a serious problem that deserves no place in society, assuming racism is the root cause of every conflict is also lazy and sloppy. And the same could be said that these extremists do not discriminate, either. If they see race as the only issue for why people “hate" Meghan Markle, they see race as the only issue for most everything.

The problem with both extremes is when everything and everyone is reduced to racial identity, racism only continues to exist. A racist using skin color as a disqualifier perpetuates racism. Assuming racism is the only reason behind disdain for someone only perpetuates racism. Focusing on race or racism allows no room for content of character.

Especially when people defend Meghan Markle being the victim of racism with a racist rule. When opposing critics say “I didn’t even know she was Black" or suggest her physical features, her Hollywood CV, or past involvement with Black causes were nonexistent before she became a duchess or stepped down from being a working royal, the extremists on the other side often resort to the One Drop Rule.

Which means their defense for calling Meghan Markle “haters" racists, even though they might have never knew she was mixed race, is a form of racism. The One Drop Rule was borne from the Reconstruction Era post-Civil War. The “rule" essentially said anyone who appeared to have Black features were considered Black.

The One Drop Rule was the precursor and eventual backbone to Jim Crow Laws of the South. It was used to oppress and segregate Americans based on physical appearance. Considering most people who never heard of Meghan before Harry came along were ignorant to her mixed heritage, it seems grossly negligent to assume race is the real issue. How can one be racist toward Meghan when they didn’t know she was mixed race? This author wasn’t aware of Meghan’s ethnicity prior to it being pointed out (by her and Harry. Repeatedly.), mainly because this author didn’t care.

Like so many, when I first saw Meghan and Harry together for the engagement interview, I was more excited about a fellow American joining the Royal Family. After learning she was biracial, well it was even better. It represented change and progress. Does that mean I saw the Royal Family as racists beforehand? No. It means I saw them as exactly the opposite. Had they been racist, she’d not be a duchess. Her being American and divorced was more a shock to me than being mixed.

The point of all this is there are extremists on every spectrum. For a journalist to say they went undercover, when in fact they did not, to expose the true motives behind Meghan Markle “haters", only to find they did very little to really understand the other side was disappointing. Not surprising, just disappointing. This could’ve been an excellent opportunity for someone to take the reigns and make bridges between two very passionate factions. Instead it became nothing more than a hit piece.

The article fails to acknowledge the possibility – no, the probability – that most people who object to Meghan Markle do so because of how she behaves. The article only considers one possibility behind this “hate". And by calling the objections “hate", the article in turn defines all criticisms as hate speech. Again, unoriginal, sloppy, and lazy.

So here we have it, yet another article grouping and stereotyping anyone who disapproves of Meghan and Harry as racist haters. Yet again, another article name dropping people “deemed racist haters", essentially painting even bigger targets on the backs of those people. Like they didn’t already have enough hate mail. Yet again, another sloppy, lazy, article that never digs below the surface to understand why instead of assuming it.

This isn’t new, it’s just another slop drop from the sensationalism machine that has replaced fair, legitimate journalism. It would be different if there weren’t so many questions surrounding the births. It would be different if Meghan Markle actually lived by the example she so vehemently preaches. It would be different if Meghan Markle would make amends with her own family before telling the world how they should treat people. It would be different if Meghan Markle were a strong woman instead of claiming to be one.

But it’s not different. She hasn’t spoken to her father since two days before her wedding three years ago. She denies the family connections that existed before her fame. She ghosts people once they are no longer of benefit. She preaches equality and universal service while using her title every chance given. She and her husband criticize the “family she never had" while naming their second child after that family’s Matriarch. All of those are behaviors that incite strong emotional responses. Behaviors. And behavior has no racial identity.

A final note… hypocrisy is the main reason people have issues with anything. When one group of people tells another group to stop attacking a public figure, while using assumptions as their crusade call, it’s hypocrisy. One cannot say “if you can’t take the heat, then shut up!” to another without being a hypocrite. When that happens, don’t be surprised when the same exact thing is said back. If Meghan or her fans can’t take the criticism, they shouldn’t participate in it. We all have the right to choose. Just like if I couldn’t handle the criticism, I’d not be writing this.

Life is not fair. The world is a dark, cruel place. When we expect the world to bend to the will of a few, we are setting ourselves above the majority. A strong woman would know this. A strong woman fighting for others would also know that the only person responsible for how one feels is one’s self. External feedback isn’t responsible for internal turmoil. Internal feedback is. That is all.

REFERENCE:

Amoako, A. (2021 June 11). I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts. Refinery29. Retrieved from: https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/2021/06/10518195/megxit-meghan-markle-anti-fandom

[itwoodbeprefect]

Inge! sorry I'm a little late to the party, but do you still take prompts? if yes, I'd like to request a friendship piece for either Rodney&Teyla or Rodney&Ronon (w/ or w/out a dash of McShep is good for me) pretty please? thanks! <3

Not that late at all, and what a lovely warm prompt! Thank you. :D

I went with Rodney & Ronon, but also kind of Rodney & Teyla and maybe Ronon & Teyla, and also John is around, and it’s almost teamfic? Also, Jeannie.

---

The door to John’s quarters slides open exactly like his own would, which he expects, but he stops cold after two hasty steps into the room anyway. He turns back to the door to check, and in the process has to look past the Johnny Cash poster above the bed and the surfboard leaning against the wall and the giant brick of a Tolstoy book on the nightstand, so yeah, he decides in the end, without stepping out to doublecheck - these are John’s quarters. There’s not a single thing out of place, except, well, the obvious.

“McKay,” Ronon grumbles. It sounds like a greeting. Like Ronon, sitting fully clothed on the edge of John’s made bed, is saying hi.

“What are you doing here?” Rodney asks, by way of saying hi back.

“Meeting Sheppard.” Ronon grins, in a way that looks a little dangerous. That’s a good sign with Ronon, who has no problem looking a lot dangerous, if he wants. “Unless you want to spar with me.”

Rodney does not. Rodney thinks that’s a little too predictable for him to say out loud; quite honestly, he thinks John is crazy for endangering his life that way voluntarily every week.

Rodney looks back at the door again, which has slid closed, and in front of which the person he’s been looking for has not suddenly materialized in the last ten seconds. “Where is John?”

“Not here.”

Rodney’s nerves make him skip the snappy comeback. “Any idea where he might be?”

“Why?” Ronon asks.

Which is more than enough to make Rodney spill his guts. He was barely holding it in, anyway. “I think Jeannie’s mad at me, and I’m not sure why.” He frowns and starts to pace back and forth and rub his hands together. He’s a multitasker. “I don’t think I did or said anything rude lately, but her emails are shorter than usual, and she didn’t even sign the last one. It’s really not like me to overthink these kinds of things, because I don’t care what people think of me anyway-” That’s a lie, he’s come to realize in recent years, but it’s a comforting one to repeat out loud, sometimes. “But, you know, I think I was the bad guy for not contacting Jeannie all those years and we’ve only just started being brother and sister again, so I’ve been trying to put in the effort, and now I think she’s mad at me.” He stops marching and gives the too long, didn’t read version. “So I need someone to tell me what I did wrong, so I can fix it.”

Ronon levels a look at him. “And you need John for this.”

The look says more than the words, and it has a point, of course. John’s not known for his exceptional social grace and skill. Rodney wags his head a little, considering how to justify his choice. John is his best friend, but he’d feel a little pathetic saying that to Ronon, who he’s pretty sure is also John’s best friend. “He had some surprisingly clever insights about my relationship with Jeannie last time she was here,” is what Rodney lands on, reluctantly. He spots John’s golf stuff in the corner, and wistfully thinks back to being able to just ramble at John without Ronon sitting there, judging him.

Ronon leans back, planting his hands behind him on the mattress. “I could help,” he offers, out of the blue.

Some deep, deep blue. Blue enough to make Rodney stare, hands stilling mid-wring. “You?” Rodney’s not trying to be offensively puzzled, but he thinks he’s allowed a little surprise. If John is dubious in his social grace, Ronon is a tripping hazard. “You could help?”

Ronon stares back like a challenge. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Rodney says. He waits and looks at Ronon expectantly, but nothing happens. Ronon just looks back at him mutely. “Please?”

“What would Teyla do?”

“Huh?” She’s not here, either - if Ronon’s help is just sending him to chase someone else around the city, that’s not very helpful at all.

“Ask yourself,” Ronon says. “What would Teyla do? And then do that thing.”

Rodney is right back to baffled. He’s not sure he ever left - he’s talking to Ronon Dex about feelings. “Is that how you handle a problem?”

“No.” Ronon leaves a pause there. Rodney finds himself unexpectedly distracted by the question if Ronon talks so little because he really just doesn’t have much to say, or because finding words takes effort. “I glare at it until it goes away.”

Rodney huffs a laugh out of pure surprise, because that almost sounds like a joke. It may not have been, but either way Ronon doesn’t glare at him, which Rodney takes as a sign that he hasn’t just become a problem.

“And if that doesn’t work-” Ronon continues, which Rodney feels is surprisingly talkative of him, until he lets that sentence hang unfinished.

But Rodney can do that, now. Finish Ronon’s sentence. “What would Teyla do?”

Ronon nods. He looks a little smug, like there’s a dead Wraith around here somewhere. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Rodney says, both because he would have guessed that Ronon’s backup plan would involve a lot more knives (though it could, potentially, still involve knives sometimes - Teyla’s very good with those) and because that’s actually good advice. If there’s one person who would know how to get someone to tell them what’s wrong, it’s Teyla.

And if Teyla thought somebody she loved might be mad at her, but she wasn’t sure why, she would... ask. She wouldn’t go into a tailspin and try to guess at the answer while assuming it had to be her fault, she would ask why and listen and then talk it out.

“Oh my God,” Rodney says, feeling like a whole new world just opened up to him. “Words.”

Ronon pulls a face. It looks a little like a sympathy wince.

Rodney flings a hand out at him. “Thank you!”

“Thank Teyla,” Ronon says, which Rodney thinks is a little weirdly modest for the galaxy’s greatest Runner who just counseled him through a family emergency, but they can work on Ronon’s ability to accept gratitude later, over lunch or something.

For now, Rodney sweeps out of the room, because he needs his computer so he can type so he can get Jeannie to tell him what’s bothering her so he can be a good brother, and apologize only once he knows what he’s apologizing for. God, Teyla’s smart.

As luck would have it, John is just stepping out of the transporter when Rodney storms towards it. “Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop when Rodney doesn’t. “What are you doing here?”

“Asking you for help.” Rodney brushes right past him with a pat to his arm; no time.

“You’re going the wrong way,” John calls after him.

“I’m fine! Ronon helped me by making Teyla help me help myself with Jeannie.”

“What?”

The last thing Rodney sees before he steps into the transporter is John’s bewildered face. It’s clear John is left with some questions, but Rodney doesn’t need to hang around for that. Ronon can take over; that’s what Teyla would do.

Or, Rodney thinks, what a friend would do.

(Turns out, in the end, that Jeannie was never even mad at him to begin with - her next email is much longer, and details all the mundane little circumstances that piled up and left her very stressed last month but that she didn’t think Rodney had wanted to hear about (it involves a flu and lice and a car that wouldn’t start and visiting in-laws and school play preparations and a lost teddy bear and half a dozen other little things Rodney is glad he doesn’t have to deal with in Pegasus), and then she calls him very attentive for picking up on her mood and sweet for thinking to ask if everything is okay.

The next day Rodney bribes one of the botanists to cut a bouquet for him and gives it to Teyla, and he hoards one of the last pieces of pie at dinner until Ronon shows up. “What’s happening?” John asks, suspicious. Maybe Ronon’s explanation wasn’t all that comprehensive after all.

“Emotional intelligence,” Ronon says around a full mouth, spewing little pieces of pie across the table, and Rodney nods solemnly.

That’s not what Teyla would do, because she’s smiling at them both, but close enough.)