#what a terrifyingly ominous way to say hello

[empathos]

@robinbckley asked: hey......

this is so ominous heLLO?

[skullhaver]

It's 2021, and I'm watching Buffy for the first time.

The Virgil on my Buffy journey is my long-distance girlfriend, who has loved the show for years. We just finished season 4, and I wanted to write about my favorite episodes so far. I suspect some of my faves are beloved by most fans, but others are weird, personal picks. Buffy fandom, please don't come for me.

I thought this post would be short but I was wrong.

Hono(u)rable Mentions: "Band Candy" S3E6 and "Halloween" S2E6

Both these episodes have fun premises where the Scoobies run around Sunnydale after it was upended by zany, chaotic dark forces. "Band Candy" is fun for devil-may-care teen Giles. "Halloween" is fun for 18th-century-ditz Buffy. These are both very good, and are the sorts of episode I can imagine happily rewatching in the future. I just have more to pontificate upon for the other episodes on this list.

10. "Ted" S2E11

I can’t say I enjoyed this episode, but it did take me for a wild ride. Probably nobody else has strong feelings about this weird story where Buffy's mom dates a stereotypical cheesy family man, who turns out to be a controlling abuser, who turns out to be a robot. I remember shouting at the screen, "Did Buffy just kill a human man?? Is it okay in the moral logic of this show for Buffy to kill a human if he's a direct physical threat to her??" I knew Buffy would have deeper stories than the monster of the week formula we'd seen so far, but this early in season 2, I had no idea when or how that would happen. This was the episode that finally taught me that Buffy is largely not interested in moral ambiguity, or in exploring what it means to be good or bad. Except for season-defining exceptions like Faith and Angel, evil characters are simplistically, essentially evil. But it was wild to believe for a moment that Buffy murdered her mom's abusive boyfriend and would have to live with the consequences.

9. "Helpless" S3E12

When Buffy tries to be genuinely scary, it succeeds with aplomb. The premise of this episode is dumb and contrived ("Giles has to remove Buffy's powers without her knowledge for a seeeecret test by the Watcher's Council") but the chase and fight in this episode are some of the most tense and spooky scenes of the whole series so far. Buffy's vulnerability makes the stakes feel real in a way few other episodes manage. And Buffy's victory is all the more satisfying because she can't punch her way out of this problem, she has to be smart and creative. The fridge horror, of course, is that Giles would endanger her like this in the first place, but that gets sorted out over the emotional arc of the next few episodes.

8. "I Only Have Eyes For You." S2E19

Another spooky episode, this one a classic ghost story of forbidden love ending in murder - but with the twist that the ghosts possess people's bodies to have them reenact their final moments. I love stories about breaking a doomed-to-repeat cycle. I love weird shit like the snakes manifesting in the cafeteria. And I really loved the choice to have Buffy and Angel come to understand their feelings about their own relationship by embodying these ghosts - especially how they embodied different genders than their own to better fit the "roles" of the haunting story, thus subverting the expected pattern. I found this episode clever, poignant, and effective.

7. "Who Are You?" S4E16

"Faith and Buffy switch bodies" is a wild premise, but the real joy of "Who Are You?" is watching Sarah Michelle Geller being an extremely talented actress for 45 minutes, portraying a totally different character. Watching Faith confronted by kindness and love from Buffy's mom, Riley, and her friends, then getting launched into an existential crisis over it is so great. Also, I just dig a good church fight.

6. "Hush" S4E10

As stated above, love an episode that reminds me that these people are talented actors! Featuring demons that render all of Sunnydale unable to talk, we get to watch great physical comedy right next to tense, silent fight scenes. The visual creepiness of the Gentleman and their straight-jacketed weird little helpers is hard to beat. "Hush" is such a clever episode that it ascends monster of the week status to become almost Twilight Zone-esque. Also, for the first time, Buffy sees Riley doing his Initiative thing, and Riley sees Buffy being the Slayer, but they can't talk about it?? That's good shit.

5. "The Wish" S3E9

Both "Something Blue" and "The Wish" feel like the writers decided to use fanfic premises on their own show... so obviously I like them a lot. But getting to watch a dark timeline AU with interesting world-building and attention to detail, a hilarious and horrifying Cordelia POV, AND a smirking kinky vampire Willow? Hello?? And the fact that the Wishverse comes up again in "Doppelgänger" (another truly fun episode) only improves my opinion. I imagine this is the kind of episode fans simply love coming back to.

4. "Restless" S4E22

This David Lynch-ass dream sequence was a weird choice for a season finale, but an extremely ambitious and cool episode. I should say up front that I love David Lynch-ass dream shit. There were creative and well-executed scene transitions as characters moved seamlessly from one dream room into another. Several memorably neat shots - Willow running between endless curtains as she tries to get onstage, Buffy alone in a vast desert with a weirdly high camera angle. And I got myself all excited thinking that the First Slayer would maybe become a different kind of antagonist - maybe not even fully revealed in this episode, or maybe an Id-like aspect of Buffy herself. But I forgot Whedon gonna Whedon, so the First Slayer had to be someone Buffy could punch in the end. And the First Slayer is sadly yet another primitive-themed, emotionally-stunted character of color for this show. Most of her lines in this episode are literally voiced by a white woman speaking for her, and of all the dumb quips to make, Buffy had a line about her hair being unprofessional? Also, I'm a lesbian, so the fact that the most explicit act of intimacy between Willow and Tara this show has allowed us to see occurs in Xander's horny dream sequence... it’s unforgivable, Joss. This episode was one of my favorites ever, deeply marred by some bad writing choices.

3. "Lovers Walk" S3E8

Spike, perhaps the best non-Willow character in this show, is back in Sunnydale, a hilariously heartbroken mess of a man, hell-bent on getting his former girlfriend Drusilla back. (Drusilla left him for a fungus demon.) So Spike breaks into a magic shop to get ingredients for a love spell, where he runs into Willow, who is getting ingredients for a de-lusting spell, because she is worried she and Xander will be too thirsty to behave appropriately in public with their actual partners, Oz and Cordelia. This is a hilarious moment just to exist. This is all the episode needed to do to satisfy me. But the fact that Spike then kidnaps Willow, and it ends with tragic stakes of everyone's relationships coming apart, not to mention me genuinely thinking Cordelia was dead for a minute there - wow. Chef’s kiss. The episode is balanced shockingly well between Spike being an ominous villain, and being the sort of lovable semi-evil (more gremlin-like) side character he'll become in season 4. What a wild ride.

2. "Graduation Day" S3E21-22

I'm counting this two part season finale as one because it's my list and I'll do what I want. "Graduation Day" feels like a quintessential Buffy episode executed to perfection. It has Buffy reaffirming her position as a moral heroine, sacrificing her own blood to save Angel's life even when she thought she had to kill Faith to save him. It has Buffy and Faith (or Buffy/Faith, as I prefer to think of them) getting to square off in a dramatic, tough fight. It has a lot of Mayor Wilkins, a character I truly adore for some reason. Nothing like a public administrator who plays mini golf in his office, wants you to chew with your mouth closed, and will kill a graduating class of high schoolers to gain immortality. The catharsis of the whole school getting to fight back against evil, instead of just Buffy against the world - a real joy. This episode misses the top spot for two reasons. "A special vampire poison and the only cure is the blood of a Slayer" is too contrived for me to let slide, and also I had to see Cordelia and Wesley kiss.

1. "Becoming" S2E21-22

Buffy’s season finales really do have good stories and satisfying payoff. First off, Buffy starts this episode by punching a cop and fleeing from the law. Later, Spike also punches a cop. A.k.a., Buffy said blue lives don't matter. Second - I haven't gotten a chance to comment on this yet, but all throughout season 2, evil Angel is such a joy to watch. As regular Angel, David Boreanaz makes exactly one face ("I am a kicked, angsty puppy") and bless his heart, it gets so tiresome. As evil Angel, he is so expressive, dynamic and terrifyingly creative in his badness. And I love his weird threesome energy with Spike and Drusilla. But also, it's so hard to watch Buffy suffer as she deals with her evil boyfriend doing evil things. Her ultimate choice in this episode, to kill Angel even as Willow's spell restores his soul, gave me some real big feels! Also, this episode marks the first moment of Willow doing big, plot-shifting magic on her own, solidifying her transformation from computer nerd to witch! 

Also, shout-out to the many good smaller moments in this episode: Spike making awkward small talk with Buffy's mom, Buffy constantly dunking on Principle Snyder, and Giles being tortured by visions of Miss Calendar (RIP Miss Calendar, I was your biggest fan.)

"Becoming" is an excellent season finale and the kind of Buffy episode I imagine I will want to re-watch in the future just for nostalgia's sake.

[youngster-monster]

bluebell/grateful

Corvo’s head aches, a clear sign that he overdid it with his powers, and he can’t wait to reach the Dreadful Whale and crash in his cot to get the few hours of sleep he desperately needs. It’s so close he can see it from his perch. He wishes he could drop to ground level and walk there, but the streets are swarming with guards and his building migraine won’t help any with stealth. The roofs will have to do.

There are a few risky jumps on the way. By his estimation, he has maybe one blink left in him. He’ll just have to be careful and make it count.

His first mistake is to think he won’t need it to cross the gap between the building he’s standing on and the next one. He takes a running leap. It’s only when he jumps off the edge that he realizes his error. He closes his hand and pulls, letting the energy of the Void wash over him. The pain in his head spikes, sharp enough he has no choice but to let go, and instead of landing safely on the other roof he slams into its edge and plummets to the street.

It’s a short fall, thankfully, but the impact with the ground knocks the wind out of him. Corvo lays there for a second, head ringing and body throbbing with dull pain. Footsteps echo close by, shouts from the guards. He groans and gets to his feet. The sound of him hitting the ground must have alerted them. Which, thinking about it, is a little shameful, but he’s done worse during the Plague. The lack of rats in his current situation already makes it more dignified than most of what he did then.

He goes to run and stumbles barely a few strides in, pain shooting up his right leg. Damn, must have fallen wrong on it.

The second it takes to push the discomfort aside is enough for the guards to reach him. There’s three of them — nothing he can’t handle but he doesn’t like his chances much in his current state. He turns on his heels and sees the other end of the alley shadowed by more guards rapidly closing on him. He swears and unsheathes his sword, parrying the first attack his way and sending the guard to the ground with a kick to the knees. A well-placed elbow makes the other guard stumble back and leaves him winded, enough for Corvo to turn around and take a swipe at the other guards coming behind him. Their swords collide in a shower of sparks. Another blade catches him in the side from behind and he rolls out of the way before he’s gored.

He brings his hand to his side briefly to assess the damage and hisses. This isn’t good. He doesn’t want to kill any of them, but it doesn’t matter: even if he did, there’s no way he can take all of them at once. To the roofs, then.

Corvo risks a glance up as he lifts his sword to parry another blow. There’s no obvious path to reach them, but he thinks if maybe he can catch this windowsill a few feet up he can make it out of there with all his limbs attached. That leaves the issue of actually getting to that window. The guards have him cornered, his back against the wall. The few feet of space he manages to clear around him between them won’t last for more than a few seconds. Maybe if he throws himself at them, push them out of the way— there’s no way it won’t hurt but he can make it work.

The guards raise their swords. Corvo breathes out and prepares for a gamble.

The blades never come down. They freeze in place at the apex of their arc as the men holding seem to turn into statues. Colors wash away and the sound of their yells fade, leaving behind a heavy not-silence like the bottom of a pool. Tendrils of shadows haloed by purplish light curl at the edge of Corvo’s sight.

“Hello, my dear Corvo.”

Corvo closes his eyes briefly, mind torn between aggravation and relief. There’s always a small, traitorous part of him that’s glad to see the Outsider, usually followed by the petty satisfaction of knowing that his god comes when he calls. Sometimes.

(Take that, Abbey.)

Still, he could do without the smugness.

“Outsider,” he greets, looking up.

The Outsider is sitting on the windowsill Corvo was eyeing as his escape route before, one leg crossed over the other as if he were perched on a plush chair rather than an inch thick piece of wood. He seems to be content watching him for a moment. Corvo, used to his strange attention, bears the scrutiny easily. Even if he can’t help questioning the Outsider’s motives for helping him, he can at least stand still and let him do… whatever he came here to do.

In a blink the Outsider is facing Corvo. His heels actually clack softly against the pavements as he stands on his two feet instead of hovering ominously as he usually does. He’s surprisingly short. Corvo always expects him to be larger than life, both literally and not, but he has a good few inches on the god. It doesn’t make him any less impressive to be around — his presence feels the way he imagines the bottom of the ocean to, heavy and dark in a way his brain can’t quite wrap around.

A pale hand rises to brush against his cheek, coming away stained with red. One of the guards must have grazed him and he didn’t notice. The Outsider hums pensively, rubbing his fingers together. The blood smears, shockingly bright against his skin. Corvo looks at it and feels a little weird for a reason he’s not sure he wants to think about.

Instead of the dispassionate, sarcastic comment he’s come to expect from the god, the Outsider says, “Perhaps you see caution as a secondary concern to your grand quest, but you might find that saving your empress is a much more complex task when one has lost an arm or a life to an enemy’s weapon.”

If it were anyone else saying this, Corvo would say it sounds like concern. The concept of the Outsider not only feeling but expressing concern for him though is ludicrous at best. Still he can’t help smiling slightly.

“It’s not like I chose to fall off a roof,” he huffs, more amused than annoyed. “But thank you for the word of advice.”

The Outsider blinks, not quite surprised, as if he hadn’t expected such a response but accepts it as his due.

Somewhere in the distance, whale song echoes. His eyes jump to the still frozen men behind Corvo. His expressionless mask slips the slightest bit, tensing in an almost imperceptible way. The moving shadows writhe at their feet. Then he looks back at Corvo.

“Time is running out,” he says as if time means anything to him or to the Void. “You better go. Fate is waiting for you.”

How terrifyingly ominous.

Corvo lingers for a moment more, unsure of how to proceed. Should he just run off? The Outsider doesn’t move from his spot, watching him silently.

He steps around him and stops again. They’re close enough he can feel the cold radiating off the god, the smell of brine hanging over him. Then, giving in to the reckless instinct that lets him jump over a sixty-foot drop, he rests his hand on the Outsider’s arm for an instant. He’s more solid than Corvo expected him to be.

“Thank you,” he repeats. He knows that he could have died there if not for the Outsider’s timely interruption, and even though he might never understand the god’s reasoning he can be grateful for it.

The Outsider doesn’t say a word. Corvo takes off running, but he can’t help feeling a little smug himself for shocking the god into silence.

[lonestorm]

The Adventures of Sindad - 1

Summary: Sinbad is lucky to be alive after his whole “Taking over the world” phase. But with the fact that he had completely fallen off the deep end, the generals decide it’s time that Sinbad is reined in from is obsession. There are, perhaps, seven people that will be up for the job. Seven tiny people.

Basically a Sinbad post-Magi redemption story of him trying to raise seven children. 

Chapters: Prologue | Night 1

Also on AO3 and ff.net

For the first time in a long time, Sinbad was actually enjoying himself.

Alibaba and Morgiana’s wedding had been cute with a lovely venue (After all, he’d paid for it himself, what with Alibaba’s puppy eyes when saying Sinbad was like a father to him. And Sinbad was no damn cheapskate.), and the celebration in the streets of Balbadd for their former prince was uproarious. Food and high class drink to go around to every citizen that attended the reception, gifts large to small piled near the newlyweds’ table while dancing, music, and torchlight strung above them lit the early evening sky.

Sinbad sat in a comfortable chair off to the side by a shop closed for the night, observing. Alibaba and Morgiana were dancing as dorkily as usual. Sharrkan was stammering out an invitation to Yamuraiha to join in. Aladdin was making bubbles erupt from his staff for a laughing group of children to catch.

Leaning back with a sigh, he relaxed his arms onto the armrests. Sinbad didn’t know the lovely lady giving him a back rub or the one sitting dangerously close to his left hand, but he didn’t see a reason to protest.

His friends had been acting more distant and cold than ever before since the incident. They were relieved that he was safe--at first. When that had worn off, the tears from Pisti, frustration of Yamuraiha, dissproving glare of Masrur, disappointment from Sharrkan and Spartos, confusion and self-blame from Drakon and Hinahoho, and worst of all, the eyes filled with the hurt from Ja’far had taken their toll. The people he loved most in the world had been betrayed by him, and he was at a loss at what he could do to reclaim their precious trust.

However they seemed to be trying to rekindle their friendship a centimeter at a time--he was grateful for that, at least. But he was in desperate need of some (gallons of) wine and women to take his mind off things, and no better place than a wedding to drown your overwhelming loneliness in frivolous coping mechanisms that never last.

Unfortunately, Ja’far walked up to his side, making the women uncomfortable with his (rather judgemental) stare. When they walked away, promising many returns in his ear, Sinbad groaned at his friend. “Was that necessary?”

For once, Ja’far didn’t spit back a retort--in fact, he seemed rather distracted, biting his cheek and gazing into the distance. All he said was, “Remember that time you were freed from slavery and claimed responsibility for the children that were freed through your rebellion?”

Sinbad blinked several times. “Kind of morbid to bring up at a celebration, don’t you think, killjoy?”

“Sin.”

“As if I could forget.” Sinbad watched Aladdin lean down to accept a flower crown that Kougyoku had made him. “Why?”

“Just wanted to remind you. You know. About taking responsibility for things.”

Clenching his teeth, Sinbad grated, “I’m doing all I can to make things right after what I did, Ja’far, and what I tried to change ended up needing a change! Even if it wasn’t the way I started out doing so... everyone seemed to approve of Alibaba’s solution. What else would you have me do?”

“I don’t mean about that,” Ja’far corrected quickly. “I know you’re doing what you can. I mean responsibility for… other things. You’ll take responsibility for what’s yours, right?”

Sinbad gave him a suspicious look. “What are you talking about, Ja’far? You’re sounding terrifyingly ominous, there.”

A hesitation. “Nothing in particular,” Ja’far said, and began to walk away. “Just thinking. That’s all.”

Sinbad frowned after his friend, mulling over what he could’ve meant. Ja’far seemed nervous…

He was pulled from his train of thought by a tugging on the bottom of his robe. Snapping out of his reverie, he turned his eyes town to his feet. To his surprise, a tiny girl in a white dress stood there, lilac colored hair floating about her shoulders and topped with what looked like one of Kougyoku’s flower crowns. Big, shining golden eyes stared up at him. She could not have been any older than three.

Smiling in spite of himself, Sinbad leaned down in his seat and said. “Hello there, miss. Do you need something? Have you lost your parents?”

Her gaze was curious. “Are you Sindad?”

He paused, and then let out a bark of laughter. “Sinbad,” he corrected. “Yes, that’s me.”

At this information, her whole face lit up, and she lifted her hands.

Sinbad recognized the gesture--she wanted to be picked up. He glanced around, hoping to find a mother or father searching for her--surely they’d feel uncomfortable with a stranger holding their daughter? But no one seemed to be looking, so he stood, bent down, and lifted her to his side.

“Shall we find your parents?” he suggested, taking a step forward. “What do your parents look like, miss?”

But she only grasped his shirt and smiled at him. “Sindad.”

He didn’t have the heart to correct her again, so just let it go. “Alright, it’s okay--we’ll find them.”

“Samia? Sami, where did you--Oh!”

Another child, this one with paler skin, sporting a flower crown atop her black hair stopped up short at the sight of Sinbad holding the toddler. She stared at him, agape.

Sinbad, who was plenty used to awe-filled looks, smiled at her and said, “Is this your sister? She must’ve gotten lost; we were about to go look for her parents.”

The young girl seemed speechless, but swallowed and nodded quickly. Before Sinbad could put the child--Samia, was it?--down, another kid ran up to the black-haired girl. His skin clearly showed a Heliohapt ethnicity, but his bright, purple hair threw off the image. The boy was panting, white robe slipping off his shoulder as he bent down with his hands on his knees. “I-I can’t find her over there--I swear, we only took our eyes off her for a second!”

When the boy saw Sinbad, however, he let out a strangled gasp, taking a step back. “Y-you’re Sinbad!”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sinbad mused. “Were you looking for this one, too?”

The boy didn’t answer, but Sinbad was almost afraid of the devious grin the boy grew once Sinbad’s identity was confirmed. Instead, he shouted over his shoulder, “Zara! We found him!”

Him?

The bewilderment only increased as a moment later, a tall, slightly older child walked out from the crowd, head held high. She was followed by two more boys and another girl. And… it was like looking at the spitting image of himself in younger, female form.

Feeling rather disturbed, Sinbad took a step back. The children were viewing him with excited faces... except for that older girl, who was practically snarling at him.

“Uh…” Sinbad said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with a free hand. “Can I help you kids?”

From behind him, he heard a familiar murmur of, “Shit!” and Ja’far’s hurried footsteps coming to the rescue.

Before Ja’far could ask what was going on, however, the oldest girl--perhaps about twelve?--spoke up in a harsh tone, “Your karma has arrived, jackass!”

“Zara!” a boy, ruffled hair so black it almost had a green tinge, whispered through gritted teeth up to the girl, “You shouldn’t say that word in front of the kids!”

She grimaced. “Okay, okay.”

Sinbad was gaping at them. “Um… excuse me? Have we met?”

Ja’far interjected, looking at the oldest girl sternly, “I remember explicitly telling you that I would introduce you tomorrow. This isn’t the time or place!”

“You said he wasn’t embarrassed of us,” she snapped back. “He should prove it! I’ve been waiting to give ‘im a piece of my mind for twelve years!”

Now that she mentioned it, there were those in the crowd of merrymakers that were turning to view the disruption. With one look from Ja’far, they turned away quickly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sinbad moaned, “Ja’far, explanation any day now.”

“W-wait,” the brown-haired girl to the oldest’s right said. “He d-didn’t know w-we were coming, Mis-mister Ja’far?”

Everyone was looking at Ja’far now, who was just looking panicked. “I-he… um… well…” A sigh and a wince. He put a hand over his eyes. “Sinbad didn’t actually… know you existed.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the kids, and Sinbad was only more lost. “And who are they?”

“Okay, just promise me you won’t… freak out,” Ja’far said carefully, raising his hands as if to fend off a snarling wolf. “They’re… yours.”

“My what?”

“Your kids. Your children. Your offspring.”

Sinbad stared. His expression didn’t change. “This is the weirdest joke you guys have ever pulled. The other seven generals are in on this too, right?”

“I’m serious!” Ja’far hissed.

He let out a laugh, feeling his heart speed up. He hiked Samia higher up on his hip--he’d forgotten that he had meant to put her down. “Oh, ha ha. Ja’far, I think I’d know if I had a child, much less seven. C’mon, whaddya take me for?”

Ja’far still wouldn’t meet his eyes. It was hard to make out his low voice in all the jubilation around them. “You wouldn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I… found letters from their mothers over the years and kept tabs on the women from your… escapades. And, um, I sent them money from that orphan fund I helped you make… and wrote back to them in your place…?”

His speeding heart stopped. “You’re joking. You have to be joking.”

“He’s not!” the one called Zara proclaimed, pointing to herself. “Mister Ja’far had us all take magical genetics testing to make sure!”

“What?!” Sinbad repeated, spinning to glower at Ja’far. He felt all the blood drain from his face. “What?! I insist on seeing all of the official reports.”

“Hey, you’re welcome!” Ja’far shouted back, getting defensive. “You’re welcome for saving your reputation and saving you from getting stabbed in the back by angry, unsuspecting mothers! Honestly, with your drinking and womanizing habits, I don’t know why you didn’t expect something like this to happen!” And he seemed to have anticipated Sinbad’s request, so he pulled some folded documents from his robes. “Look--Yamuraiha’s official seal. She did the tests.”

He snatched the forms and quickly skimmed them. A page with his own profile and genetic code details were one page; the rest held images of the children, their medical information, and the horrifying words stamped in red: MATCH--PATERNAL. “How do I know she didn’t do this as a joke?” Sinbad tried weakly, but he already knew the answer.

“You think she’d risk the reputation of Magnostadt to play an elaborate prank?” Ja’far scoffed. “These forms aren’t classified; you can release them to the public eventually, and she’ll stand by the results.”

Frowning, Sinbad demanded, “Wait, how did you get my genetics to test this?”

Ja’far shrugged. “Got some of your hair when you fell asleep at your desk.”

“I should charge you for assault.”

“Stop being such a drama queen.”

Sinbad scowled. Hand shaking slightly, he hid the packet within his pocket. “Who else knows about this?!”

“Just their mothers, the former generals, well, I just told them a few weeks ago, and me! But the mothers… thought you knew.”

Sinbad took a few, staggering steps back and lowered himself into his chair. Samia was frowning at his numb expression, but seemed quite contented to sit in his lap. “Ja’far, what the hell have you done?” Sinbad choked.

“How can you be saying that to me? These are your children! All from different mothers!”

“You make it sound like I forced those mothers to… Have relations with me! Which, by the way, I have never done, thanks!”

The children seemed more shy now, shifting in their white, formal clothes (other than Zara, proud and pissed as she’d been the whole time), and were apprehensively standing in a clustered line. The fact that they were his wasn’t quite connecting in Sinbad’s mind.

In his foggy stage of denial, he said dizzily to Ja’far, “Why… why are they all here now?”

Ja’far shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I told them to wait until tomorrow, and if they did, they could come to the celebration. However, they used the Sinbad patented technique: saying ‘Okay Ja’far, you’re right’, and then doing whatever the hell you were going to do anyway.”

He offered a quick glare for the comment before saying more sternly, “No, I mean why are they all here? In one place? Now instead of before? Why did you not tell me before?!”

“I gathered them here because I thought it time that you meet them,” Ja’far murmured. “I offered them a full ride scholarship to the Rurumu Academy in Parthevia that you founded--the most advanced education in the world--housing, child care, food, and time to know their father. Their guardians jumped at the chance. I didn’t tell you because… It would have been a distraction from your goals…”

Ja’far was looking down now, pressing his lips together in a face of heavy guilt.

Sinbad, rendered speechless, dropped his face into his hands. “I… what? Not even a freaking warning, Ja’far… Is this what you were talking about with your ‘taking responsibility’ ramble?”

“I was going to talk to you about it first,” Ja’far mumbled, but said no more.

Sinbad could only sit in silence for a few moments, calming his breathing. Then, he sat up straight--after all, keeping his composure in insane situation was a skill he had acquired over his years as a businessman. This situation was, however, much more insane than the usual “stopping a war with one blow” or “becoming a god.” Still, it was a simple matter of “shove your emotions in a bottle, shove the bottle in a closet, and empty the bottle later before refilling it with alcohol,” and then “slap on a smile and act like you’re totally in control of this situation.”

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, and offering a strained smile. “I’m sure you’re all just as confused and lost as I am. Um… Let’s start with… Introductions, I suppose? Your names, where you’re from, and your age? Oldest to youngest?”

Ja’far seemed to relax slightly, and the oldest strutted forward. Sinbad was again disoriented at how impossibly similar she looked to himself. Her violet hair reached the small of her back. “I’m Zara, I’m from Balbadd, and I’m twelve!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “What’s your problem, anyway? Who said you could just go around getting a bunch of women pregnant? Can’t you just choose one damn woman?”

Sinbad gawked at her. “Uh… Sorry?”

The black-haired boy elbowed her in the side when she swore and stepped closer. There was a red headband holding his long, wild hair back from his forehead and out of his golden eyes. “Don’t mind Zara, Father. She’s a little tired. I’m Leo, and I’m eight. I’m from Reim.”

Before he could say more, the Heliohapt boy bounded forward with a grin. “I’m eight too! I’m Seti, from Heliohapt. Did you really conquer seven dungeons? Can I see the metal vessels?”

This reaction, Sinbad was more used to, which was almost calming. “I sure did! Uh, sorry, the metal vessels are gone...”

“Are you really fawning over the guy that fathered children from seven different mothers?” Zara scoffed, crossing her arms.

Seti glared at her with sharp, amber eyes. “What do I care about that? I found out that my dad is the almighty Sinbad, and I get to live with him! You’re just being a butt.”

“I am not a butt-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, live with me?” Sinbad tried to cut in.

But the next girl seemed anxious, and walked up next before his question was answered. Her brown, reddish hair was at her side in a braid, and a black hat much like Yamuraiha’s was perched atop her head. Her face paint indicated her Torran heritage. Like all of these children, she seemed to have his eyes… and Sinbad was taken aback by how much she resembled his own mother.

“I am Kendria,” she said, twisting her hands around her smooth, wooden staff. From her stumbling and accent, he could tell she was having trouble speaking their language. “I am f-from the Torran village, and I was just t-training a little in Magnostadt.” Kendria tugged on her braid. “A-and I am… seven.”

The next girl nearly burst when it was her turn. “I’m Rei, from the Kou Empire!” She gave a low bow, black pigtails brushing the ground. “I’m six and I’m happy to meet you, Father!”

“Happy to meet you too,” he managed, trying not to flinch at the unfamiliar word ‘father’.

The youngest boy came up closer than the rest of them, grabbing at the bottom of his robes with wide eyes. Sinbad noted to himself that the boy’s hair was as dark as Badr’s...“My name is Kaito. I’m…” He removed a hand to count on his chubby fingers. “I’m four!” He showed four fingers proudly. “And I am from… across the sea! It’s very big.”

At this, Sinbad couldn’t help but smile. “It sure is, isn’t it? Did you travel on a boat to get here?”

The boy nodded, beaming.

Sinbad shot a questioning look to Ja’far, who cleared his throat. “Oh. Um, yes, I offered to transport him on the next airship, but Kaito wanted to go on a boat, so he went with some trusted merchants instead. He’s from Sindria.”

His glare only deepened. “I had a son in my own country, and you didn’t tell me?”

“...yes?”

Dragging a hand through his hair and breathing out, Sinbad last looked down to the girl in his lap who had been quietly playing with the bow on her dress. She met his eyes, and he said, “Your name is Samia, right?”

“Yes,” she answered cheerfully, scooting to his knee so that she could swing her feet out.

When she said no more, Ja’far filled in, “She’s three. From Parthavia.”

“Great!” Sinbad tried, threading his fingers together. “Well, um, I assume you all start the school tomorrow? I know you’ll have a wonderful experience there.”

“I-I’m excited to study in a different country,” Leo offered politely. Sinbad appreciated his attempt to keep the conversation not so hopelessly awkward. “I can’t really read much.”

“That’s alright,” Sinbad assured him. “There are lots of kids your age that are learning too.”

“Are there sword fighting classes?” Seti bounced up and down. “What style do they teach? I think my country’s style is awesome, but I can’t learn it since I’m not royalty. Parthavian should be cool too, though!”

“No swordplay classes at the academy,” answered Sinbad. “But I know someone who could teach you, if you want.”

“Do we really get to live with you?” Rei asked next, gripping her Kou styled robes enthusiastically.

“I-I…” He looked to Ja’far. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided who lives in my own house, Ja’far.”

“Their rooms are already set up with belongings delivered.”

“Ja’far!”

“It’s not like you don’t have plenty of space! They’re your kids.” Eyes practically glowing, Ja’far growled in that assassin voice that still made Sinbad shiver, “You take responsibility for your actions, right?”

“W-well of course I do, but honestly, one day I find out that I have seven children and then they move in with me the same night?!”

Ja’far shrugged. From the smirk he was obviously trying to hide, Sinbad got the annoyed notion that, after getting over the initial guilt and irritation, Ja’far was enjoying this. “You created your own country, Sin, and watched over its people. You helped raise Sharrkan, Yamuraiha, Masrur, Hinahoho’s children, those former slaves, and myself. I don’t think seven kids will be the death of you. You were depressed that you can’t see a further destiny--here’s a new one. You’re welcome.”

Sinbad narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You’re getting back at me for something.”

“Oh, for many things. This specific one is for, hmm, never listening to me, which led to almost destroying the world and having seven illegitimate children.” Ja’far gave a wave as he hurried off. “I’ll explain the situation to Aladdin and get him to set up transportation magic for you all in an hour. They have a bedtime and it’s a school night, after all. Have fun!”

And looking around at his sudden seven children that were staring up at him expectantly, Sinbad had never felt more screwed in his life.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

What if Claire made Jamie's first time amazing?

[Happy to oblige, anon, but lbr, is there any universe in which Claire *doesn’t* make Jamie’s first time amazing?  ; ) -Mod Bonnie]

Hail Mary, Part X 

[Quite NSFW]

Premise: What if Jamie and Claire had 1) been more openly affectionate in those early days, and 2) not *had* to get married?

Part I  Part II  Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

When I awoke, I was startled to find that I wasn’t on Jamie’s horse, but tucked up snugly in a blanket under a rowan tree. 

Alone. 

“Jamie??” I bolted into a sitting position, scanning the darkened clearing, feeling my senses reeling as they struggled to place me in space and time. The air when we’d handfasted had been moist and deliciously cool, not this warm, dry stillness that was making the silence of the wood resonate so ominously; and I could have sworn the elevation had changed—that I was up very much higher indeed than any other time on our journey from Leoch. And most terrifyingly of all, the horses were tethered nearby, but there was no sign of Jamie or our baggage anywhere. 

“JAMIE?” I called again, panic starting to gather as I staggered to my feet. “JAMIE??” 

I whirled as hasty footsteps came crashing through the underbrush behind me, but thank God, it WAS Jamie. “Och, so she’s awake, at last!” he said, grinning. His face fell as he saw my expression, and he caught me up tight against him as I threw myself into his arms. “Oh, lass, ye didna think I’d ever leave ye?”

“No, you brute, but you could have been captured—” I gasped out against his neck as I kissed it, not crying, but my heart thundering even as I tried to hide my lingering panic, “I thought Dougal had caught up with you.” 

“No’ a chance, a nighean,” he promised warmly, holding me close. “All safe and sound.” 

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “How long was I asleep, then?”

“Nearly a full day,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “Ye fell asleep on the horse wi’ me last night and havena woken once, ‘til now. Had to wake and check on ye every few hours to make sure ye hadna up and died!”

“You smell good,“ I blurted.

He laughed and stepped away, doing a little turn to show off. “Had a wee bath in the burn. Cold enough to freeze my bollocks off, but glad to hear it was well worth it.” 

He showed me the way to the stream, just through the trees to the south. Cold or not, I was dying to get the Eau de Two Days of Horse and Panic-Sweat off me.

“When ye get finished,” he said, sounding tentative, “ye might…come join me up at the top of the hill?” 

“What’s at the top of the hill?” 

He shrugged, far too casually. “I’ve…made a sort of place for us, for….ken?”

I’d like to get started wi’ worshiping your body. 

For one wild moment, I wanted to forget the bath and have him right there, right then. But I really did smell atrocious, and there is nothing less romantic than being the filthy one when being intimate with a squeaky-clean partner. 

“I’ll be there soon,” I promised, my voice trembling just a touch; but he heard it, and I could have sworn he quivered.  Jesus H. Roosevelt CHRIST.

Finding the small stream, I washed quickly. I would have loved to wash my hair, but waiting for it to dry would have been a two-hour ordeal for which I wasn’t willing to make Jamie wait—or myself, to be honest. Despite that, the ice-cold water, and even the fact that I hadn’t any soap, it was heavenly to scrub off the worst of the filth and stink, and I came out shivering, but distinctly refreshed. I bent for my discarded clothes, then thought better of it, walking naked back to the horses and wrapping myself instead in the same blanket I’d slept in. No use putting clothes back on, dirty or otherwise, given— 

I wolfed down some cheese and bannocks that Jamie had left for me, then—with a deep, bracing breath—began my barefoot walk over the soft grass up the hill. I didn’t have to guess the direction, just followed the smell of the woodsmoke that floated on the warm air. It was a bit of a steep climb, and when the grade finally evened out I could see despite the darkness of the terrain beneath that we were very high up indeed; but it was the sight straight ahead that took my breath away completely.

It must have been a mountaintop chapel, once, though there was no longer a roof of any sort atop the three half-standing stone walls. It would have had a vaulted ceiling, high for its tiny size, with tall, graceful windows. The pale stone—overgrown in places by creeping, floral vines— must have had some sort of quartz in the grain, for the firelight and moonlight together seemed to illuminate the sanctuary all-round like phosphorous, casting the place in a warm, twinkling glow. 

Jamie was there, smoothing out the pallet of blankets he’d made overtop a makeshift mattress of heather and soft grasses in the far corner. Bless him, he’d even gathered flowers to grace the sill of the glassless window above the bed. I should have laughed. I should have teased him, but…but it was too breathtaking to say anything but an awed, “Jamie…” 

He whirled, his expression a little wild and startled, until it softened into a warm smile. “Hello, Sassenach.”

“Jamie,” I said again, gawping in wonder at the haven he’d appointed for us as I came around the fire toward him, “this is… absolutely beautiful.”

He nodded shyly, taking in the surroundings himself. “Murtagh said it was where my parents came, ken, for the first few days after they were marrit. He thought it would be verra peaceful. Private.”

As well it was. It was almost a shame—if Jamie had desired to be married in a church, this would have been an exquisite substitute. True, it would have taken Murtagh too far from the route to follow the post rider, which was too important to risk. What we would do here, though…yes, it would be an exquisite setting for that, too. And hopefully not a sacrilege. 

“But are ye cold, Sassenach?” my husband asked suddenly, seeing how tightly the blanket was wound around me from chin to toes. “I can add more wood to the—”

“No,” I promised, laughing a bit, though feeling as though all air had been sucked from the mountaintop.  “I’m not wearing it for the cold.” I let the blanket drop, just slightly, just enough to let him see my bare shoulders underneath. 

His face slackened, his nostrils flaring as he dropped his head and breathed carefully. “Aye…well…”

Somehow, I sensed he wouldn’t make a move before I did; so I gripped my blanket tight with one hand and came forward to lay the other on on his chest, my fingertips just grazing the warm hollow of his throat. I could feel it bobbing under my hand, hot, alive. “I think you’d better get out of these clothes,” I said, my voice husky. 

His eyes went wide, but he obeyed. He turned his back to me, pulling off his shirt and making a to-do over folding it into a pillow for the pallet. I came a few steps closer, wanting to see him. The scars shone in the moonlight, full of the memory of his pain, but taking away none of the beauty of him or his body. 

He was moving slowly; very slowly, in fact. Was I only imagining that he seemed loath to begin? 

As he rose back to his feet, I stepped even closer and pressed my cheek against his back. He tensed instantly, and I laid a kiss on the deepest scar. “Is everything alright, love?” I said, running a hand around to his stomach, the other still clutching the blanket.

“Aye– well…Claire, I need to tell ye something.”

What could possibly be relevant to tell me RIGHT NOW? He’d murdered someone? He was…impotent? No, I’d had plenty of evidence that Jamie Fraser was capable of an erection. “Tell me,” I said with no little trepidation. 

He turned to me, and he looked positively wretched as he admitted, “I’ve never—done this, before.”

He’d expected her to laugh; to grin and tease and ask how on earth he’d managed THAT, and was there something about his anatomy that had frightened the lassies away for so long??? He’d not have minded, to be honest—perhaps humor would have eased the tension he felt stringing his back as tight as a bow. 

But what she did do—what his wife did, erasing his fear at the root—was make a small, tender sound deep in her throat, run her hand up to rest on his cheek, and say, “Then this will be all the more beautiful.” She rose on her toes and kissed him, deeply, and he melted into her, bringing his hands to rest on her blanketed hips.

“How do you want it to be?” she asked, breathing heavily, all of the sudden. 

”…How?”  How many ways *were* there? 

“Your first time,” she said, carefully. “Shall I be gentle with you?”

His wame dropped. 

His mouth went dry. 

And he felt the growl of need tearing from him as he reached for her: “No.”

And she growled back just before her mouth crashed into his: “Thankgod” 

They were going to devour each other. She was against him and her blanket was gone. She was grappling with his belt and he felt the plaid fall to his ankles. He gasped and groaned in the same breath as he felt the length of her naked body pressed full against the naked length of his. “Wait,” he whispered raggedly, “wait….wait…” 

She was reaching raggedly but she stilled without question and waited, holding him close.

He held her, too, savoring her despite the roaring in his blood, the aching in his cock as he whispered. “I want to see you, mo nighean donn, before….”

She smiled and nodded, kissing his chest right next to his heart. “I love you, Jamie,” she whispered, happily, sweetly, softly as breaking dawn.  

“And I, you, mo chridhe.” 

 She tilted her chin up so that her golden eyes shone up at him. “Together?”

Always. “Together.” 

They each stepped back; and Jamie felt as though he’d been shot through with a javelin. 

There was a statue in one of the Sorbonne gardens, he remembered: white marble, and lovely, a likeness of a mythical goddess that stood radiant and beautiful; a work of true art. But Claire was the original; Artemis, shining in the moonlight, perfect in every seamless, curving inch of her; every dark curl; every quivering muscle, poised for the hunt. Her hips were wide, her breasts fuller and rounder than he’d ever dared imagine. Her lips—those soft, flushed lips were parting. “Dear God,” she was whispering, seemingly awestruck, herself, “Jamie, you’re beautiful.”

ME? A Dhia, look at YOU, he meant to say but couldn’t manage even a syllable. 

She shivered and gave a little smile at his muteness. “Have you ever seen a naked woman before, love?”

“Not up close,” he admitted, feeling foolish.

“Is it…?” she started, then shook her head and broke off, smiling in embarrassment. 

“It IS,” he vowed, and meant it with all his being. “You are.” And it seemed she couldn’t help but glow a bit brighter.

He had seen glimpses of women before, of course, but nothing like this; nothing like the glory of his wife. It seemed so idiotic, to be so undone by superficial beauty; but he deemed it a blessed surfeit of unmerited riches, that his sorcha, the light of him, was also the most beautiful person he’d ever beheld.

Before he could voice that he didn’t know how to begin—should he just… turn her around and bend her over? Would the windowsill be of help to keep her from toppling forward?—Claire was stepping past him to the bed…lying down on her back…spreading her legs…  

“Jesus,” he moaned, dropping to his knees harder than he’d intended. It felt fitting, though, to prostrate himself before her. He crawled closer and ran a hand down her thigh from the knee, so cool and so soft. 

She shivered at his touch. “Come here,” she whispered, firelight in her eyes as she reached for him, beckoning him to come kiss her. Face to face? Aye, he could see how that would get things properly aligned, but he couldn’t tear himself away, yet. “May I touch you?” he begged.

From the way she blinked, she hadn’t expected him to say that, but she nodded, and as he reached for her, she rolled her hips slightly to meet him. His fingertips met the soft, hot flesh of her, the moisture there, and the choked, “Oh—GOD,” echoed in his chest and around the walls of stone. To his shock, though, it had come from Claire. 

He looked up at her in utter astonishment and delight, grinning like a fool. “It feels good, lass?” 

She moaned in what must have been assent, for she moved closer to him, seeking more. He moved his fingers again, gently tracing the delicate folds of her, and could have died to hear her groan his name like that. 

He felt drunk—he was drunk on the euphoria of feeling her arousal coursing through his blood. She liked to be touched…and even HE could give her pleasure, it seemed, in whatever small way. He’d heard most women didn’t enjoy the deed itself, overmuch, but —Claire liked his touch, between her legs—Maybe she would like—

Heart thudding, he moved to the proper spot—dear God in Heaven, he *hoped* it was the proper spot—and slid a finger inside her.

He’d been gentle about it, he thought, but she arched immediately and cried out as she sat halfway up and looked at him in wide-eyed shock. “Oh, Christ, lass, I’m—” He snatched his hand back, mortified, “Forgive me, that wasna–”

But she grabbed his wrist, hard—and she met his gaze with what he swore was lust as she pressed him back inside her, until his palm was cupping her. He moaned to feel her tighten around him, feeling the silky-wet heat of her, all rough and smooth and alive against his skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as she began rolling her hips forth and back against him. He understood and he took up the motion himself, moving slowly in and out of her. She fell onto her back again, making the most exquisite sounds Jamie had ever heard.

Well, this *certainly* makes me feel more at ease about my own chances, soon to come. If just one finger can—

The next time he withdrew from her, he replaced two fingers. She cried out, throwing back her head and arching her back, her hand darting between her legs. He thought she meant to push him away, but she was only stroking herself at a spot just a bit higher up from his own hand that seemed to heighten her sensation. He could feel the difference of it around his fingers. He’d have to ask her about that spot later, whether or not it was something that he might help her handle in some fashion, the next time; but he wouldn’t interrupt her pleasure for the world, and he drank in the gift of it. 

He trailed kisses down her leg and up to her hipbone, watching her with fascination, not knowing what to expect or when to stop—Christ, he would go on with this bliss forever, if she wished it.  “Faster,” she moaned, as if hearing his thoughts. The sounds of her grew and swelled as he obeyed instantly and moved faster, hard enough that he thought surely he would break her in some way; and just as that thought crossed his mind, suddenly she was breaking, clenching tight around him, fast as a flutter of wings around his fingers, but hard and strong as a vice as she cried out so loudly it made the walls of the church resonate…with the sound of her. 

JESUS

He lay there, draped between her legs and over her heaving belly, shuddering under his own aching desire and with delight at what hers had just shown him. It was what he had felt that cold night on the road, when she’d woken and moved against him in sleep, that iron-hot blaze of her need reaching out for him—but no Hail Marys, this night; only desperate cries of thanks and joy—and pleas for more, more, praise be to God, MORE.  

Her breaths gradually slowed and she opened her eyes. “Oh, lass,” he groaned to see her so, glistening and panting, so ready and— “Mo chridhe—” 

His fingers within her were shaking and she pushed them free of her. “I need you, now.” Her hands were strong and urgent as she reached for him. “Now—now—now—”

“Take me, Claire.” He barely heard his own desperate words, completely in the thrall of her, the cry of his body moaning, “—Show me.” 

With unbelievable strength for someone of her size, she flipped him onto his back and the sight of her moving to straddle him, the feel of her thighs on either side of his hips as she poised herself above him, was—

He moaned her name, begging her—

—and it was her name, again — curse and prayer together  —that sent countless wings skyward from the treetops as she took the whole of him inside her with one sure movement. 

He gasped for air over and over before he could form more words. “You feel—”

“You too,” she breathed, her face exquisite with sensation and something like relief. “God, you too.” 

“—Sassenach—” He moved in her, and it was all the leave she needed. 

Jamie thought the entire world would come apart from the way she made every inch and every fiber of him sigh and scream from pleasure in the same instant. He grabbed her hips in both his hands to feel the power of her, the power of her over him. And the sight of her—the goddamned sight of her—her head thrown back and her eyes closed but her face alight with triumph and furor as she leaned backward and writhed along his length was—

“Claire—I canna–” he gasped out, his fingertips surely bruising her as he gripped her harder. “I willna last—verra much longer—”

She fell forward and somehow his body knew what hers wordlessly commanded. They rolled together until she was under him. 

“Wait,” she groaned, and she was slipping her hand down between them to touch that place again, and the sight of it, the feel of her touching herself practically against him was so arousing that—

“Jamie, *now*—” she gasped with an intensity that nearly undid him in and of itself as she grabbed both his shoulders, “—now—now—Hard.” He thrust in to the hilt, over and over, hard and fast, every stroke absolute, blazing joy; and when he heard her cry out and felt that iron tremor beginning around his cock, he let her take him, body and soul, let her drag him into an explosion of pleasure and color and sound that enveloped them both and vanished the world in flame and breath. 

He had fallen forward, at some point; had her head cupped in his hand; was still sheathed in her.  Every few seconds, a wave of sensation jolted through him and he shivered and moaned from it. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice a broken shell. “….I want…to die like this.”

“Please don’t,” she laughed weakly. She was slick with sweat underneath him, heaving, running her hands along his back, his face.

“I want….to do this wi’ you…” he amended, smiling with every once of strength left to him, “….every possible moment… for the rest of my life.”

She glowed as she kissed him and whispered, “It’s a bargain, Jamie.” 

[one more chapter to come]

[republicstandard]

Equality is a Lie: Men, Women, and Everything In Between

“I am a modern day Nero / So hand me a fiddle and bow / ’Cause dancing on ashes and graves / Is the only joy I know.”-This Is Hell, “Procession Commence”

“And we danced like a wave on the ocean, romanced / We were liars in love and we danced.”-Hooters, “And We Danced”

It doesn’t get any more tiresome than the same re-hashed social justice causes that are essentially no longer causes. Physics Today bemoaned the fact that there’s still a gender pay gap between men and women (5.7% after factoring in age and experience), which the magazine then goes on to unintentionally explain away as women being less aggressive in salary negotiations and in asking for raises. It’s a small gap to begin with, and we now have the solution right there in front of us. Case closed. Right? Wrong.

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Maria Klawe, president of Harvey Mudd College, states that in negotiations, men are more likely than women to request higher salaries: “Women say ‘Thank you very much.’ I’ve done that myself, several times—it’s embarrassing.” I thought women could do anything a man can, so simply speaking up shouldn’t be an issue, now that the root cause has been identified, right? Again, wrong. Nancy Hopkins of MIT believes that women should be on hiring committees proportional to their numbers in the field of physics, but I don’t see how that solves the issue of gender disparity or the pay gap in the field. Claude Canizares, also of MIT, states that;

“Men need to be more proactive about equity for women and underrepresented minorities”

Equity, as you should know by now is a clear SJW red flag; but quite beyond the fact that the bizarre comparison between men and minorities (are there not male minorities?) has been made at all is that this is an empty platitude uttered exclusively for virtue-signaling brownie points. Most of the physicists interviewed attributed the stubborn pay gap to the ever-elusive “unconscious bias.” Mind you, we’re talking about a very small percentage which, as I mentioned, the article already attributes to a pair of correctable factors. Nancy Hopkins observes, “It seems like women have been talking about gender discrimination forever.” Yes, yes it does.

Education Researcher recently released an article that revealed the “disturbing” fact that there is a gender gap in PhD article submissions and publications. On average, men submitted an average of 5.9 manuscripts for publication and women submitted 3.7 publications; the number of submissions published were 4.9 for men and 2.9 for women. So men submitted more often and were accepted more often…but women, statistically speaking, were more likely to be published. The article goes on to explain that more women teach and more men serve as research assistants, so logically, would the fact that men are involved in more research and hence more potential papers not explain the disparity in submissions? Also, could these causes get any more niche?

Once again, I see no one’s talking about the gender gaps in mining, logging, and garbage collection. I wonder why? Less lucrative? Less visible? More physically demanding? More likely to be killed on the job? If we want true equity, we had better goddamn well start seeing equal numbers of men and women slinging trash. For your consideration, a few of the most dangerous occupations in the United States, accompanied by the male percentage of the profession and their fatality rate per 100,000 workers (courtesy of the Bureau of Labor Statistics):

Logging: 97.2% / 132.7 Fishing: 99.9% / 54.8 Garbage Collection: 89.6% / 38.8 Truck Drivers: 94.9% / 25.2 Construction: 97.3% / 15.6 Police Officer: 86.4% / 11.7 Mining: 99.9% / 11.8

It can’t have anything to do with wanting to have your cake and eat it too, can it? Can it?

Consider the following news item from last June, where the “accidental gay parents” Biff Chaplow and Trystan Reese announced their “trans pregnancy”; Reese is a biological woman who “identifies as a gay man” and Chaplow is a gay man who identifies as the “mom.” Reese told NBC that, “We know a lot of transgender men who have babies. We have several in our close friend circle.” (S)he explained to CNN, “I’m OK with my body being a trans body. I’m OK being a man who has a uterus and has the capacity and capability of carrying a baby. I don’t feel like it makes me any less of a man. I just happen to be a man who is able to carry a baby.” As Stuart often repeats in Hello Ladies, “I don’t know what the rules are!” We are through the looking glass, people.

Gender and sexuality are, as we “know,” fluid, n’est-ce pas? I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t “taught” who and how to fuck, nor cajoled into rendering myself sterile when I was a child because I was a child, and thankfully my parents aren’t evil, like lesbian couple Pauline Moreno and Debra Lobel who have their eleven-year-old on hormone blockers (direct quote from The Daily Mail: “The mothers say that one of the first things Thomas told them when he learned sign language aged three - because of a speech impediment - was, ‘I am a girl’”) nor did they send me to a “transgender day camp” like the one in San Francisco that caters to children as young as four, though according to UC San Francisco professor Diane Ehrensaft, children understand their gender by age two. What could possibly go wrong?

Brad/Ria Cooper, who had his first sex change at fifteen, has decided he will now undergo his third sex change to make himself more like a woman again, as at age eighteen Cooper “transitioned” back to his biological sex to live life as a “gay man.” Cooper originally took hormone blockers to stop puberty and, per The Sun, “had female hormone injections to help [him] form breasts and cut down [his] body hair, but [he] didn’t have full gender reassignment surgery.”

Let me say this, and I’m appalled I even have to: children are off limits. We do not have sex with them, we do not sexualize them, and we do not project our feelings, desires, or inadequacies on to them or make executive decisions on irreversible hormonal treatments while they’re still developing, but the Social Justice Warriors do this all the time. As for the rationale, well, it is the current year, so simply because we mark this year on the Gregorian Calendar as 2018, training yourself to be bi-sexual or something should be a given with no further explanation. Try this one on for size: “I mean, why isn’t there a white ethno-state? It’s 2018!” What do you make of that? Or as Ricky Slade says in Made, “Can I color me that?”

Color indeed: the demography of the future is downright harrowing. Fear of a black planet? Not exactly, but there are very serious consequences coming our way regarding the shifting demographics of the post-modern era. While Westerners are busy dressing their one adopted nine-year-old in drag or out “dogging” in the woods (or is that no longer a thing “because current year”?), the demographic time-bomb between the Tropics is set to explode. In the past, due to high infant mortality rates, diseases, and other causes, it was often necessary to have a good number of children, but today, with our modern advancements in medical care and vaccines, in order to sustain the population, reproductive levels do not need to be what they were in previous eras.

What concerns me, however, is that in Africa particularly and to a lesser extent most of the rest of the Third World, these people are not adjusting accordingly, which bodes very ominously for the future, especially when you consider Westerners have simply given up on reproducing altogether, unless they are mixed-species gender-queer vegans. The people of the Third World are not showing a willingness or, more terrifyingly, ability to adapt to their changing circumstances. I know many people get into a tizzy when I mention biological realities, but this really does have a lot to do with differing levels of time preference or the ability to plan and manage resources. It’s not at all unreasonable to use race as a civilizational proxy. The Japanese build Japan, the Swedish build Sweden, and the Somalis build Somalia. The issue is when you import Somalia and expect to get Sweden. Just ask Maine or Minnesota.

The real questions, to my mind, are, however, how many of the people in charge, and/or to what degree, do they actually expect identical outcomes? How much of this is egalitarian window-dressing masquerading as “tolerance,” “equality,” and “diversity”? For some, perhaps many, the fiction is too tantalizing to resist, or maybe they simply don’t know any better, but for others, there can be no question that the large-scale importation of the Third World is designed explicitly to at minimum atomize whites and in their isolation make them easier to control, but more likely in the face of mounting evidence, the Final Solution is not to move them all to Madagascar, but to erase their very existence.

The literature strongly suggests that the host (white) population in Western countries is being adversely affected by the sustained commitment to the diversity agenda, and it’s directly responsible for the squandering of what Robert Putnam terms our “social capital.” In his 2006 study, Harvard professor Robert Putnam found that, based on analysis of the responses of almost 30,000 Americans, the greater the diversity in a community, the less people trusted each other, the less they donated to charity or worked on community projects, and the less they voted and were civically-engaged. In the communities “enriched” by diversity, neighbors trusted one another half as much as they did in homogeneously white communities. From the very beginning, there was a concerted effort to ensure that the citizens of the West would have no say in the mass importation of alien peoples who, it has clearly become evident, do not share our values and don’t particularly care for our delicate, liberty-oriented political systems that’ve evolved in fits and starts since classical antiquity. Though immigration started after World War II in certain parts of Europe in the form of “temporary workers,” it wasn’t until the mid-1960s in the United States and a while later for most of the other non-Eastern Bloc Western countries that the numbers started to trickle in, but by the turn of the century, that trickle became a (relative) flood—though that flood is going to get Biblical when the population in Africa hits four-and-a-half billion! And there’s only a relatively small strip of water separating Africa from a Europe that’s largely proven unwilling to defend itself.

As Jared Taylor says, “The purpose of immigration is not to set a moral test for natives.” Ah, but it appears that it is. Louis Farrakhan recently used his bully pulpit to call for an end to the White Man, “because his nature is not in harmony with the nature of God.” He continued:

The white man was only given 6,000 years (6 days) to rule. You cannot deny he has ruled but on what principle did he rule? Righteousness? Truth? Justice? Fairness? I don’t think so.

How interesting that the most open and tolerant societies the world has ever known have somehow become the bad guy. In this inversion of reality where not only Farrakhan but a majority of the world now lives, the people who abolished slavery, the people who established the doctrines of self-government, who enshrined women’s rights, and civil rights, and gay and transgender rights, the people who built the modern world, these are the wicked and the cursed, these are the ones denied a heritage, these are the ones told to debase themselves. As Jim Goad catalogued:

The more that white people apologize, the more they get mocked. The more they concede, the more that is demanded of them. The more frequently they make gestures of goodwill, the more they get emotionally sandblasted with malicious rhetoric about how “whiteness” is a poison that needs to be uprooted and eradicated…Whites are publicly reprimanded if they dare to notice anything in white history beyond slavery, colonialism, and the Holocaust. Look with disgust upon these squirming white worms with their endlessly tacky public displays of self-flagellation, exulting in the idea of their own wickedness, trying to drown their historical sins in a cleansing wave of softly genocidal immigration. Afflicted with a perverse sort of racial body dysmorphia, they would crawl out of their white skin if they could only find a way. This is the sort of thing that happens in the late stages of a crumbling empire, when the fat, lazy, and pampered have grown so soft they’ve blinded themselves to the wolf pack waiting at the door that’s eager to tear them to pieces. Believe this—if white people actually held such iron-fisted power and were remotely as ruthless as they are portrayed, there would be no such mocking.

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And so the wicked shall fall. Between Goad’s “cleansing wave of softly genocidal immigration,” and whites’ self-abnegation, learned helplessness, and their genderless, barren-wombed, de-fanged Eloi-like existence, Farrakhan won’t have long to wait before we’re nothing but a memory. Then the world will know true peace, harmony, and prosperity. In the meantime, it’s much better to focus on niche issues like “dead-naming” and “transphobia” than the fact that the entire fabric of Western civilization is coming unraveled.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

That blood-dimmed tide sounds an awful lot like Enoch Powell-by-way-of-Virgil’s “River Tiber foaming with much blood.”

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