#Thread: Bakers Dozen

[landwriter]

Are you doing the Spotify wrapped thing as well? If so, could I ask for the Nr. 4? If not, just ignore this, it's just that I have resigned myself to appear as the greedy being I apparently am and figured I'd just ask.

greedy beings unite <3

this is the incredible, perfect, flawless Hot Knife by Fiona Apple. i would write a meta/personal history on it

originally i was going to sort of throw up my hands and say it's just oaths - it is so incredibly oaths: two people who are very much a bit unhinged by one another, both hot knife and butter at once, hearts made cinemascopes etc.

BUT - butter, okay, hot knives, ok, perhaps - Hob is a scruffy professional baker who owns a little patisserie and Dream is a miserable IP lawyer at his family's law firm, which is incidentally located only two blocks away on the other side of a small city park.

Perhaps - one day a harried Matthew bursts in to Hob's bakery and says, since it's empty, and he has a flair of the dramatic, "I need all of your croissants for my lawyers." The caterer hadn't shown up and Matthew had actually been jogging down the street in his dress shoes and panicking when he saw Hob's storefront. The meeting starts in ten minutes.

"How many?" asks Hob.

"Lawyers, or croissants?"

And so Matthew leaves three minutes later with two dozen croissants, muffins, and a couple palmiers for good measure, as well as a sympathetic grin. When Dream, who is hanging on by, and I cannot stress this enough, an absolute thread, absent-mindedly shoves a blueberry muffin in his mouth, he pulls out his phone right in the prep meeting and texts Matthew at his desk: Who made these

Matthew writes a very hot dude who had flour on his face and then decides he likes his job, actually, and texts Dream the name and address of Hob's shop.

Dream means to go, but work comes first, and he keeps finishing long after they're closed. One day he finishes so late it's actually close to the bakery's opening hours, so, exhausted, he decides to show up.

Hob normally wouldn't answer the door except anyone who can knock loud enough to be heard over his music is probably the cops or the fire department - which is enough to get him out of the kitchen, and then when he sees Dream, he decides to open up anyways. He can tell this man isn't up early at 6 AM, he's up late, Hob knows the look - and also, well, he's beautiful, so he unlocks the door while Exodus' Toxic Waltz is blaring from the back, is halfway through apologizing for the mess and music (Why is apologizing? He's not even open yet.)

Dream blinks once, slowly, and when he opens his eyes again he understands he's fallen in love. He puts this knowledge aside for the moment, and stiffly offers his hand to shake (Oh, shit, sorry, yeah, let me just - oh god I've gotten flour on your suit) and introduces himself. "Do you have any more blueberry muffins?"

Hob, even though he has a thousand other things to do, for some reason hears himself saying, "For sure, yeah. I mean. Not right now. But I could. If you want to come in and sit?" and then mortifyingly continuing to say, "I have a coffee machine - I mean, I don't use it, but I have it, I'm pretty sure it works - do you want a coffee, are you going for the full 24 hours thing, or if not, I do also have a shitty couch in the office, you can nap?"

Then he realizes he needs to let go Dream's hand.

And so begins our love story, in the liminal hours between night and day, when Hob wakes up early to bake and Dream finishes work late. They make a routine of it, and although Hob is a little freaked out by Dream's apparently work-life balance and sleeping schedule, he doesn't mind the company, doesn't mind it either when Dream just shuffles to his back room and curls up on his sofa, because at least he's sleeping sometime.

They both try and impress the other - Dream by requesting increasingly obscure confectionery, Hob by nonchalantly making it perfectly. (He thinks he's found the culinary history book Dream is using and is staying one recipe ahead, in secret.) They both challenge each other and get under each other's skin, and think about the other person far, far, too much than appropriate. I think this one would be mostly sweet (ha) but with some proper actual We Can't Be Together Because of X or Y obstacles. I think this is the sort of story where they actually have a huge blowout argument in the second act about, like, the protestant work ethic, because they might be nursing massive crushes, but they also both are nursing massive proprietary feelings as a result, and have very different values surrounding work and hedonism and a life well-lived etc. Do they work it out! I think so! I don't think they can stay apart! And every chapter would be titled after a thematic baked good.

(p.s. alternative song mood for this fic: The National's Fake Empire) (p.p.s. i do imagine dream in this as one of those lawyers who makes buckets of money and drops a LOT of it on his version of therapy, which is gradual progress on like, an entire gorgeous tattoo bodypiece, some gorgeous hyper surreal cosmology thing, and i do think hob accidentally walks into a post one day when he glances into a tattoo shop where dream happens to be having his monthly session)

[godkilller]

out of character. Hey y'all, it's me, ya boi -- taking accountability for the fact that my sole draft hoarded and owed to @dokuhai was the reason for her 7-month hiatus. I apologize. Out of our baker's dozen of threads collecting dust in her draftbox I should have realized this draft on my end was the one holding the dam in place. It's my fault she hasn't been writing, she informed me of this after blinding me with her Starbucks app this morning in all of her graciousness and patience with my sorry slow ass. Really, how she's put up with me is beyond my little pea brain's comprehension. I'll do better </3

[cancrunchgoatsart]

More tokens and art. Leo recently got a Gimmie Guoul along with the Tatsugiri and a Rotom.

Leo does not have a Fidough but I admit to really wanting one and the many doodles was my method of losing control of my life at 3 am. Maybe in the future- people were joking about giving Leo a bakers dozen.

Aris the Noibat is going to stay a Noibat for the foreseeable future. Just kinda gave her a glow up for her token art and Rico the Dewott.

Diver Gimmighoul just chilling and another players Raboot that needed some new threads. Made up a team name they represent called “The Torchin’ Chics.”

Also was informed the Rotom Leo has could be shiny- and since there aren’t other shiny Rotom around the little jailbreak phone probably is going to be red like their trainer tends to go for.

[mywifeleftme]

92: Aquariana // Aquariana

Aquariana Aquariana 2013, Drag City (Website)

The Source Family were one of the more successful new religions (read: cults) operating in Southern California during the early 1970s. Founded by Father Yod (pronounced “Yoad”; né Jim Baker), a towering, bearded figure with a few alleged murders (via karate chop!) and bank robberies under his robes, the Source Family operated a popular health food restaurant in L.A. and cut dozens of brainstewing psych rock records that have become holy grails to men who physically resemble late period Jerry Garcia. Yod assigned one of his 13 wives (Isis Aquarian, née Charlene Peters) to document the cult’s journey over the years, resulting in an incredible trove of video recordings, some of which were used to assemble 2012’s The Source Family documentary. The footage, much of it eerie and gauzily beautiful, gives us a good idea of what day-to-day life in the Family was like, from its origins to Yod’s corporeal demise in Hawaii following a hang-gliding accident (!).

The Source Family were as close to a prototypical cult of the era as you can get: white robes, buffet approach to Eastern and Western spiritual concepts, illiberal attitudes toward “personal possessions,” semi-involuntary polygamy, institutionalized drug use, etc. If you’ve ever listened to recordings of the sermons of Jim Jones or David Berg, Baker’s hep gibberish will sound strikingly familiar, and indeed, the Source Family followed the standard trajectory—from monogamy to a form of free love that mostly allowed the leader to fuck all the hot girls; from soft notions about kindness and peace to dark mutterings about an imminent apocalypse; from vegetarianism to moral loopholes that sanctioned the killing of dangerous outsiders. The Source Family never went the way of the Peoples Temple because, when faced with a mounting crisis (the cult’s disastrous move to Hawaii), Baker decided to disclaim his godhood instead of doubling down on it. No one knows why he eventually told his followers he was only a man, but I have a hunch: he wasn’t a sawed-off little gnome, and he wasn’t crazy. Unlike his murderous peers, Baker didn’t have much to overcompensate for; he was a huge, built guy who didn’t need a cult to get laid, impose his will, or feel important (though he got off on all of the above). In the end, no one died, and so it feels a little less vulturine to nibble at this particular cult’s artistic output than it does, say, the Manson Family’s.

On that note, let’s turn to the music. Record nerds are always on the lookout for cult music because it often goes extremely hard, be it Manson’s acoustic freak folk, Scientology space jazz, or “Veteran of the Psychic Wars.” The albums the Source Family are known for (released under a variety of names like Ya Ho Wha 13 and Father Yod and the Spirit of ’76) are out-there freeform acid jams in which the cult’s more experienced musicians try to work around frontman Yod’s untrained drumming and bellowing—a member of the No-Neck Blues Band pops up on the 2012 documentary to gush about their records, and you can see why acts like NNCK and Jackie O Motherfucker would lose it for this stuff.

The album we’re looking at today, by contrast, is a solo piano recording from the mid-‘70s by Aquariana, another of Yod’s wives, that went unissued till 2013. Aquariana had a Queen Guinevere-type look, and the liners note that she would frequently spin her own long golden hair into thread to sew and embroider with. A capable pianist with a multi-octave voice, Aquariana’s music could broadly be called folky, but it feels a little more theatrical than that, influenced by show tunes and AM soft rock. Her songs are mostly about love (-ing Father Yod), bearing children (of Father Yod), and the magnificence of Father Yod. It’s midway between devotional music and the type of stuff a medieval bard would be retained to write in praise of an egotistical baron. You can practically see Baker being fed grapes in the producer’s chair while she plays. Though it’s not as overtly weird as Ya Ho Wha 13, there’s still a lot of stuff on Aquariana that no sane producer would’ve allowed, like the way she tunelessly holds and holds and holds her notes on “Oh My Love” and “One Love” until you start to think your record is skipping. That strangeness is why it exerts the particular appeal it does, and it does have a particular downbeat intensity that holds my interest, despite its rudimentary songcraft.

Chicago’s Drag City label was behind the documentary and mid-2010s series of Source Family music reissues. Unlike reissues of, say, Manson-adjacent music, the label was able to work with surviving Family members like Isis Aquarian. This meant of course that they couldn’t dress up the reissues too salaciously (see LIE: The Love & Terror Cult), but Baker’s group already had such a strongly creepy aesthetic that there wasn’t much need to. A designer would be hard-pressed to come up with a more uncanny cover than Aquariana got: the singer at the piano in her ruffled gown with an unreadable expression, the head and shoulders of her husband-father visible behind the instrument, the portrait framed in ornate white fabric. It feels like the work of an outsider trying to underline the cult’s depravity in red pen—yet the composition and cover design were by Yod himself. Make of that what you will.

92/365

[ladyhoneydee]

hello tumblr!

this is not the first line tag game, which i should really be getting around to. this is also not one of the many wips i've mentioned and should be working on.

this is a thing i wrote this morning for an hourish instead of getting up for the day, and upon reaching the end, realized that i dislike it! but i don't want to waste the effort i put into it, and so.

UPDATE 2023/4/3: I no longer hate this! Stay tuned for me to fix it up and post it officially at some point.

the premise is a post i saw on instagram that was reposting something from either twitter or tumblr (i do not recall which, and i cannot find the post to give credit, which distresses me greatly). the overall gist of the post was that when you are awake feeling lonely or scared or terrible at 2 to 4am, to know that bakers are awake too, and they are making delicious treats and there are good things in the world. apparently, i decided to make that be ambiguously platonic zelink.

bon appetit

The bell jingles familiarly above her as Zelda yanks the door open. One hand on the basic, rectangular metal handle, the other braced against the metal doorframe against the wind. She avoids the glass by rote, a habit built after realizing just how many handprints the pane must collect and how annoying that must be to clean day after day. She brings with her a gust of late-winter wind speckled with snow and dashed with the urban bouquet of cigarette smoke and exhaust, and the squeaks of her damp sneakers against the vinyl tile floor. 

It’s 4:23 in the morning. The corner donut shop won’t even be open for another hour and a half. But he keeps the door unlocked for her. 

The desperate knot of loneliness and fear winding through her chest and threading her organs loosens when she closes the door behind her and takes a deep breath through her nose. The fragrance of warm dough, the must of yeast. Chocolate, sugar, cinnamon. At least five different fruits boiling down into thick jam fillings. The scent would be delectable and heavenly on its own for any customer, but for her, it carries a different, deeper comfort. Classical conditioning.

Link pokes his head out of the doorway to the kitchen. He clutches a stainless steel baking sheet clamoring with eclairs in oven-mitted hands. “I heard the bell,” he says. It’s unnecessary; they both know he heard the bell. But she appreciates it anyway. “Take a seat, Zel, I’ll be out once I’ve set these on the rack.”

Link’s little donut shop has a bar, five chairs in a row along a laminate counter. They join up to the left of the massive display case, which glimmers half-full with apple fritters, glazed donuts, a small mountain of cinnamon-sugar donut holes, and a dozen other varieties of the best way to eat fried dough. The bar thing certainly isn’t common for a donut shop, but Link makes it work. Sometimes she imagines that he used to be a bartender before he opened this place, and missed the longer talks with customers so much that he added in a place where they could linger. She plops herself down on the rightmost chair, the one closest to the kitchen door. 

It takes five minutes, but Link pops out of the kitchen. This time, the wooden tray he holds is populated with sausage kolaches. He uses a flour-dusted hip to push the sliding glass out of the way, and slots in the tray next to the fruit-filled kolache variants. 

“It’s good to see you, Zel.” He throws her a smile through the glass as he kneels down to rearrange some chocolate cake donuts that have fallen just slightly out of alignment. 

Seven visits ago, he would have led with a sympathetic Rough night?, to which she would glumly nod. Twelve visits ago, it was a Hey, sorry, we’re not open ye—oh, honey, take a seat at the counter. No, go ahead, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m just getting set up. I’ll be right back out. Stay as long as you want. Now, he just knows: the night is rough, and she is here, and in half an hour or so, she’ll be okay. 

His hands never aren’t full, and he’s hardly ever out of the kitchen for longer than two minutes at a time. Their conversation comes in stops and starts and stutters. But every time he’s behind the counter, they talk. He follows up on how her grad school applications are coming (poorly). She asks him what seasonal flavors he’s planning for when spring finally comes (kiwi). 

On his fifth pass, he hands her a cinnamon sugar cake donut, still piping hot from the oven—her favorite. They both laugh as she juggles it between her fingertips and gets sugar everywhere. 

By 5:47am, her traitorous, poison-spewing brain has moved on to happier pursuits. The deep-seated fear that she will live a very long life and she will spend it alone and unloved, and the few people that have ever cared for her will forget her and make better connections than she could ever offer them, has settled. As she puts her hoodie back on, Link tells her to take care  and that he looks forward to seeing her next time, and she knows from the look in his eyes—warmer than his ovens and deep-fryers combined—that he truly means it.

She exits the shop as the first impatient customer enters, and the bell chimes her a hopeful goodbye.

[humanransome-note]

Today at work

let us set the scene

Michael's arts and crafts, early afternoon.

The main cashier (me) looks like he took a few laps through the lukewarm florida rain, but that is in fact not the case, the AC is on the fritz and has been so for months. And this cashier (hi, me again) has been standing in this exact spot for at least 3 hours, having barely moved since opening the register.

enter, customer. White woman, mid to late sixties possibly early seventies, looks like she has not known anything close to real joy since the moment before her torrid love affair with a married man ended and he told her he would be staying with his wife. She purchases a baker's dozen set of bright yellow party bags, and some paint. And throws onto the table, a crumpled "20% off all regular priced items" coupon. The one that comes attached to the bottom of every Michael's receipt.

her total is $13 and some change.

she gives me a $100 and three $1 s.

Now I have not just had a day... I have had a week. (my first week of work in fact!) From sunday to today (friday) I have spent no less then 4.5 hours on my feet every day,

sunday was passable because the cashier on the other register was actually helpful

monday I was alone and almost began crying at the register

tuesday i found a very painful blister that has yet to pop and an ingrown toenail that had to be removed by me with a pair of nail clippers and cheap thread snips.

wednesday my barely there afternoon plans were shot

thursday was filled with glitter and wrapping glass christmas ornaments even though halloween hasn't happened yet

and by today, I was just hoping to get through it.

all of this, mind you, was done in the exact same shirt, which I have been forced to wear for six days straight. (yes I washed it, but I feel like it adds some flavor to this story so I'm telling you anyway.)

the woman, whose total is again, $13 and like 24 cents, gave me a 100 dollar bill and some ones. (with exact change)

Now, this is a Friday afternoon at an art's and crafts store, in october. Have I mentioned that all halloween items are 60% off as well? (because of christmas. yes i know. you, me, an eight yr old girl and her little brother are all fucking mortified by the absolute ignoring of the sacred candy holiday)

so, middle of october, halloween items are 60% off, and most normal people are just getting their decorations now, meaning this art's and craft store is brimming with people trying to get what scraps of halloween decor they can, interspersed with the christmas fanatics getting a head start on that decorative shopping.

there is a line.

so I process this woman's purchase, put in that she handed me cash, check the bill for fraud on the little beeper thing that only works if you have the bill facing the correct side, and put in that she gave me $103.24. for a just barely over 13 dollar purchase

her change is $90 even

I've got her minuscule purchases in a bag, I'm asking if she wants a receipt, and she stops me.

"did you scan the coupon?"

now dear reader, I did not scan the coupon, and that was entirely on me, I will fully own up to that. and in fact I did so once I realized what I had missed.

the face this woman pulled, you would have thought I keyed her car and pissed in the gas tank.

"could you add it now?"

"Ma'am to do that I would need to void the transaction, and I do not have the authority to do that."

she somehow pulled an even worse face before grumbling and taking her bag and receipt.

if I had added the coupon?

a bit over 2.50 would've been taken off.

look, I get it, you like your savings you really do and so do i and the guy behind you.

but ma'am

there are things in this world that you can be much angrier about than the 2.50. and the fact of the matter is you handed me a crispy fresh 100, like im talking it still had that bank fresh crunch to it. and I'm being paid $11 an hour to stand in shit AC on hard tiled floors, mainlining arthritis strength tylenol because of my flat feet and it takes about $13 dollars to Uber here during the week so while it isn't a net loss, per say, the fact is a 10 minute drive from my house to work is a bit over an hour's worth of my time and the fact I am here to process your transaction in the first place is frankly a service to you.

you are not the only old white lady who shops here, you, in fact are not the first old white lady I have seen today, let alone this week, so I'm sorry you didn't save the 2.50.

choke on it.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Delicacies of Time

Chapter 17: Playing Dress Up

The command to go and take Regina's heart from Robin was tight as could be. The command to return was not, and that's what had him feeling guilty. He could have very easily snuck away and given a message to someone, anyone. Hell, he didn't give a fuck that he had no message to give away, he could have just as easily gone back to his basement and done some of his own research for an hour or checked on Belle. He didn't even need to say anything from her, he could have just stood across the street in the Pawn Shop and watched her in the library for a while, making sure the protection spell he'd last placed over her library was still in place, he could have made it stronger, anything!

But he was playing a long game. He didn't care if the last time he'd seen Mary Margaret she looked like she was ready to deliver at any moment, until he had reason to believe that the world was ending tomorrow, he was going to play it as though this was a long game. If Zelena found out that he'd used his first excursion out alone to stretch the rules, she'd make more specific commands. He'd only just learned the harm those kinds of commands could do. It wasn't smart to risk revealing his ace now. It was too early in the game.

So as guilty as it left him feeling, as awful as it was to do, instead of exercising some of his precious little free will, he returned to Zelena. His magic tracked her down in, of all places, the kitchen of the little farmhouse on the property. It was the first time he'd been in the house since he'd been here. It was still run down, just as it had been when he'd last been here with the Charmings, however, now it was…almost cozy. A fact he was loathed to admit. It looked old but in a rustic sort of way that Mr. Gold knew would have sold in an instant.

He hated it.

"Do you have a present for me?" Zelena asked eagerly, putting aside the dough she was kneading like a fucking baker and wiping her hands on an apron. Kneading dough and wearing black…and not a drop of flour on her. Karma was a fucking lie.

He chose not to respond to her comment about a gift and instead handed his obligation over to her in the pouch that Robin Hood had given to him. Zelena's smile widened, and she practically squealed in excitement. Odd that she'd called it a present because it nearly reminded him of the way that a child got excited for a birthday gift.

"Thank you, pet. You can go back to where you belong now."

Where he belonged…

The Shop, his house, Belle, wherever the fuck Baelfire had ended up. He could think of a dozen different loopholes to that particular request, but once more, he reminded himself that he was playing the long game, left the house, and went back into his cellar cage. He didn't even bother to shut the door behind him because why the fuck should he bother? Locking himself in here, in this way, was designed to add insult to injury. But it couldn't injure if he didn't let it. And so, he decided that he wouldn't let it.

He could have spun. His fingers itched to sit at a wheel and make it go, but while there was plenty of straw on the floor to turn to gold, what he really wanted was wool to make yarn. Or thread. Hell, there was a part of him that knew, not believed, just knew, that if he requested it, Zelena was likely to bring him some. But he wouldn't be indebted to that bitch. Wouldn't give her any excuse to show an ounce of kindness.

So instead, he sat there on his seat, and in his head, he spun. Not his thoughts. Not his memories. He just let his mind work through a basketful of fresh wool from Mr. Oak's, just as he would have if he were a child. In his head, he checked over his machine, the old Saxony wheel he'd first learned on. He went over every single part with a fine-tooth comb. He cleaned it. Prepared it. Then watched his fingers fly as his aunts stood over him, marveling at his ability. Without Belle to help him sleep, it was about as close to a dream as his mind could get.

And it was over far too soon. Though he had the consciousness to know that time had passed, he wasn't sure if he'd sat there for minutes or hours when Zelena finally came down into his cellar. He quickly released Belle's necklace in his pocket, unaware he'd even grabbed for it as he let his mind drift, then sat back, and prepared for whatever move came next.

"Hello, lovely…you did such a good job today that I've brought a reward for you."

"Reward would imply I had a choice in the matter."

"Oh, don't be that way," Zelena crooned. "It implies that you did your job well."

"The job was done as you commanded," he corrected, remembering how restricting her commands had been. He'd have done the job better if it had been truly of his own free will. He wasn't about to take credit for a slipshod plan. "There's no such thing as 'well done' or 'poorly done' in this case. It was simply completed to your satisfaction."

And no one else's.

"Exactly," she whispered. "Done to my satisfaction. So, here…a reward."

In his hand, she placed a hanger that supported what appeared to be a suit, pocket square already placed in the breast pocket, a matching tie, and it looked like a pair of pants within it. He stared at it in utter confusion.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"What do you think? Wear it."

He sat back as a visceral gut reaction that made him want to vomit rocketed through his body. Yes, wearing it was rather the obvious answer. And yes, what he wore now left him feeling shabby and embarrassed. But to wear a suit like this on Zelena's command made him feel…filthy. It made his skin crawl and his stomach turn. No. That was a step too far. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't.

"I've got Regina's heart, Charming's courage, and right in here…ready to be plucked…"

He twisted and pivoted, trying to avoid the feel of her fingers suddenly delving into his hair, running along his scalp...

"Your lovely brains."

She pulled away, and he was almost grateful. He was going to be sick.

"We've got everything we need. It's a good time to celebrate, don't you think?"

No. No, he didn't think celebrating was what anyone in the town should be doing, and it was premature on her part. Charming's courage…that bit was new to him, but still made little difference in the long run because he knew that she was still missing something or else she'd be busy enacting whatever plan she had rather than trying to dress him up and bend him to her will.

"You don't have everything."

"The baby will come. Now let's get you dressed."

Over his dead body.

"I'm not your doll."

"Aren't you?" she challenged. "I'm not using the dagger, but I could. A certain baby could be here at any minute, so I'm going to give you a choice on how you want to live out the rest of this time. One choice is screaming agony, the other is much more pleasant. Choose well…doll."

[starfall-spirit]

She's in Love With the Boy

Summary: One photograph can change a duo’s whole dynamic. When Marinette's Adrien shrine is replaced with friendly photos as well as a selfie she took with Cat Noir one night a few weeks ago, even our blind boy Adrien is a little suspicious about that.

Chapter II: Love & War

Adrien’s POV:

“Check this out!” Nino said his head popped through the entrance to Marinette’s room. 

“I could if you’d move it already,” I quipped back, a few steps lower than him. With my path clear I followed him up, Tom's food tray in hand. "Hello, ladies." I whistled at the picture wall. "Nice, Marinette. You've got everybody up here."

"Thanks." She gave a little smile. "Yeah, I got a bunch of stuff printed a few days ago and decided to work a little collage here." 

“Cool,” I said. “Maybe you could email us some if you have them backed up somewhere?”

”Of course. Hey, I’ve got a little setup on the balcony so we can eat and start our project. Come on up,” she invited us.

More pictures of our friends, mostly the girls, were to be found over her bed. Marinette,” Nino said teasingly. “A number one fan of the heroes, are you? Or just the bug and cat?”

She blushed as he pointed out the picture. “W-well, were all sort of fans, right? I mean, you know I’ve made dolls for my babysitting gigs and Alya’s got her action figures.”

Except this wasn’t a news clipping or internet download. It wasn’t an obvious selfie, but I wouldn’t forget that first night, settled together on the Arc de Triomphe after Monarch—Shadow Moth renamed—had claimed the majority of the miraculous.

You couldn’t see the red rimming in her eyes in that photo on top of the legendary monument, but I remembered every detail from that night. Her every look towards me had changed. I didn’t dare hope she was in love with me, but in a snap we were a team again. The two of us against the world. I heard the pastry tray clang to the floor and was brought back to the present moment.

My three friends were frozen and I realized I must have said the words aloud. Nino once again paused halfway through the skylight, the girls staring up from below. I was looking at Rena Rouge, Carapace, and...

”M’lady.” She stumbled back, not seeming upset by my identity, but nervous at what knowing the truth could mean for us. “All this time,” I whispered. I climbed back down, Alya taking my place and heading outside with Nino to give the two of us a bit of space to talk. “Marinette, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt it like that. It was wrong of me. I was just shocked, seeing a private picture there.”

”I was stupid. I couldn’t imagine any of my friends were you. I just wanted one thing somewhere I could see it everyday. We can’t have anything, can we?” I frowned. “Well, since you know anyways...” She took my hand as Tikki and Fluff silently joined us from the other corner of the room. Guiding me over to her desk space she opened her sewing box to show a tidy box of thread spools generally organized in the order of the rainbow. Her hand hovered over the green and yellow section. “As we get the miraculous back I want you to have the code in case I’m not around for some reason. Or if you ever need to grab another.”

After she pushed down four buttons slowly so I could memorize them the box opened further, revealing the spotted miracle box and a book. “Marinette, you don’t need to prove your trust in me.”

”Even so, I prioritized Alya as my successor because she wasn’t active when I told her. That needs to change. I already discussed it with her and I was going to bring it up when we met tonight. Not come clean entirely, but tell you she could guide you to the box, should something happen to me.”

I really hated when she talked like that. ”What about this?”

She grimaced as I ran my finger down the spine of what looked to be a scrapbook. She silently nodded for me to take it out as our friends entered the room again. Pictures and sketched in quotes littered each page. “I plan to fill a whole lot more of those.”

”Ah, a baker’s dozen, then.”

She swatted my shoulder, trying to hid a grin. “That was awful. I’m trying to be serious and you always—” Her voice broke. “Please don’t let me forget, Adrien.”

So that’s what this was about. Her memories. I slid the book back into the box, stepping away so Alya could close it. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around my middle. “You’ll be old and grey by the time you pass that box on, m’lady. And I have no doubt whoever you choose will be close enough to you that you’ll still have all of the kwamis around. Maybe it’ll be your own kid you train. Everything will work out just fine, I promise.”

”Alright, you two,” Nino cut in. “Maybe we push this to tomorrow?”

I nodded, moving towards the chaise after our friends had gone and my partner released me. “Kitty.”

My little nick name was barely audible. “Yes?”

”I don’t know how exactly you feel about me after everything, but...” I waited in silence, unwilling to sway her in what she needed to express, only daring to hope this amazing girl could love me back. “I’m sorry I built that wall between us. Not as a guardian, but as your partner. As your friend. When I sensed... other feelings, I was scared. I didn't want to change the team. I didn't want to have another layer of temptation for either of us to expose our identities. If one of us is captured it could be a very dangerous situation. Adrien, there are only three miraculous in our keeping. If this slips and someone learns where to look I don't know what will happen. I don't want my family involved and that's the first move someone will make if they need the box opened."

"I'll wait."

"What?"

"I told myself I could let you go in time if you didn't love me. But if you do then I'll wait. We can date as civilians now and never as heroes. We can be friends in both forms if you need that sense of security. All I need from you is your honestly and faith. The rest we'll find in time."

"Even if I'm admitting I love you?"

"I will always wait for you, Marinette. If I'm young and wild or six feet down, I'll wait for you."

She walked over, hugging me tight. With a shaking breath she pressed a kiss to my cheek. "Thank you, kitty."

~~~~~

Two years later they looked over the city of love. Paris was so beautiful at night, even broken by Monarch's war. Their city needed some patching up. Rebuilding. Too many funerals to count. Short of a few required legal matters, Adrien Agreste had washed his hands of his father and cousin. Mercifully-unbelievably-it was over. The fighting was over. They had won. They shared the first mutual kiss they could both say they remembered. Yes, their city needed healed, but from that moment forward Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste lived happily ever after.

Tikki looked on with a sigh of contentment. "Like every other holder of mine," she told her fellow kwamis. "She's in love with the boy."

Previous

[mechgymleaderalar]

The Baker’s Dirty Dozen [Alar/Callie]

@wickedcalliope

Alar stood outside of the Sticky Sensations Bakery, run by the town-famous Dwarven baker Hylda Orrlvater. She was currently crying into her hands as a couple of her attendants and bakers stood behind her, also in shock and tears.

Behind them, the bakery was in ruins: flour and jams had been splashed and splotched and powdered everywhere, the dishes and pans were strung about the floor haphazardly, and none of the pre-baked goods could be seen. Nothing was on the shelves save for a few randomly dropped donuts.

There was easily almost four feet between them in height and Alar found his way to his knees to both talk to and console the dwarf woman as she explained what happened.

"I just don't undahstand, Alar... It was all 'ere last night! The pans were in their proper places, the pots in the cupboards, the flour in tha' pantry! Who woul' wanna rob me! Oi'm jus' a simple baker, I ain't even got no hus-band!" She dropped her face back into her hands and began crying once more.

"Hylda, you know how it is durin' Treasure Fest, too many thieves for their own good... Didja have the door locked last night?"

"'Course I did, ya bloody Troll!" She smacked the back of her hand against Alar's head, though noticably, it was gentle. "Disminrella locked 'er up all nice an' tidy last night!"

She let out a loud bwooooohooooo and dropped her face once more against her palms. "I just dunno what to do! Tha' guild's too busy for me, I'm sure!"

"If I can help, I'll help, Hylda..." 

Her eyes glanced up over her fingers to Alar, and a glimmer came to them. "You'd do that fer me?"

"O'course I would... You know I'd live here if you'd let me."

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Tyrion IV (Chapter 17)

What fresh hell is this? He seriously cocooned Bran with Tyrion chapters?

In the airy chambers beneath the rookery, his girl served them boiled eggs, stewed plums, and porridge, while Pycelle served the pontifications. "In these sad times, when so many hunger, I think it only fitting to keep my table spare."

"Commendable," Tyrion admitted, breaking a large brown egg that reminded him unduly of the Grand Maester's bald spotted head. "I take a different view. If there is food I eat it, in case there is none on the morrow." He smiled.

(...)

Tyrion peeled the cracked shell away from his egg and took a bite. It wanted salt. 

(...)

Pycelle moved so slowly that Tyrion had time to finish his egg and taste the plums—overcooked and watery, to his taste

(...)

The porridge was too thick, Tyrion felt, and wanted butter and honey.

(...)

"That's just the sort of fellow I am." Tyrion returned to the unsatisfactory porridge.

The author would like you to know that Tyrion finds his breakfast unsatisfactory, while peasants eat boiled leather outside the castle.

+.+

"I am here to serve." The maester pushed himself ponderously to his feet, his chain of office clinking softly. It was a heavy thing, a dozen maester's collars threaded around and through each other and ornamented with gemstones. And it seemed to Tyrion that the gold and silver and platinum links far outnumbered those of baser metals.    

The different metals are each a different kind of learning, gold for the study of money and accounts, silver for healing - Jon V, AGOT

+.+

"To be sure. Shall I send for quill and ink after we have eaten?"         

"No need." Tyrion laid the letters on the table beside his porridge, twin parchments tightly rolled and sealed with wax at both ends.

(...)

One letter, in two copies. Send your swiftest birds. The matter is of great import.

(...)

He spied the raven, dark in the dawn sky, and turned briskly toward the maze of shelves at the far end of the room.    

Great job, Pycelle. I bet he didn’t notice there’s only one raven in the sky.

How are we supposed to be impressed with Varys and Littlefinger when everyone in King’s Landing is a buffoon?

+.+

Lady Tanda had been stalking him, armed with a never-ending arsenal of lamprey pies, wild boars, and savory cream stews. Somehow she had gotten the notion that a dwarf lordling would be the perfect consort for her daughter Lollys, a large, soft, dim-witted girl who rumor said was still a maid at thirty-and-three. "Send her my regrets."                 

"No taste for stuffed goose?" Bronn grinned evilly.

"Perhaps you should eat the goose and marry the maid. Or better still, send Shagga."    

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+

"There's a moneylender from Braavos, holding fancy papers and the like, requests to see the king about payment on some loan."

"As if Joff could count past twenty. Send the man to Littlefinger, he'll find a way to put him off. Next?"

"A lordling down from the Trident, says your father's men burned his keep, raped his wife, and killed all his peasants."                 

"I believe they call that war."

(...)

"I'll make time for him on the morrow." Whether truly loyal or merely desperate, a compliant river lord might have his uses. "See that he's given a comfortable chamber and a hot meal. Send him a new pair of boots as well, good ones, courtesy of King Joffrey." A show of generosity never hurt.

(...)

Bronn gave a curt nod. "There's also a great gaggle of bakers, butchers, and greengrocers clamoring to be heard."

"I told them last time, I have nothing to give them." Only a thin trickle of food was coming into King's Landing, most of it earmarked for castle and garrison.

(...)

Tell them King Joffrey shares their fears and will do all he can for them."

"They want bread, not promises." 

"If I give them bread today, on the morrow I'll have twice as many at the gates. Who else?"

"A black brother down from the Wall. The steward says he brought some rotted hand in a jar."

Tyrion smiled wanly. "I'm surprised no one ate it. I suppose I ought to see him. It's not Yoren, perchance?"

(...)

"Ser Alliser Thorne?" Of all the black brothers he'd met on the Wall, Tyrion Lannister had liked Ser Alliser Thorne the least. A bitter, mean-spirited man with too great a sense of his own worth. "Come to think on it, I don't believe I care to see Ser Alliser just now. Find him a snug cell where no one has changed the rushes in a year, and let his hand rot a little more."

This is why it’s so hard to understand. The previous chapter we witness Bran dutifully listening to petitions from all his people for days.

We follow it up with this chapter, where Tyrion is quite noticeably rejecting his duties, and declining to meet with anyone (of course that will have consequences), instead preferring to dedicate his time to playing pointless games with Pycelle, Littlefinger, and Varys.

It would be easier to swallow if Tyrion had ever demonstrated he’s a good hand of the king.

+.+

"Thank you, but no." Littlefinger flashed his mocking smile. "Drink with the dwarf, it's said, and you wake up walking the Wall. Black brings out my unhealthy pallor."                 

Have no fear, my lord, Tyrion thought, it's not the Wall I have in mind for you.

But you don’t do anything? Am I forgetting an entire book or something?

Is that the joke? All these idle threats for Catelyn, for Lysa, for the Vale, for Littlefinger, and it never goes anywhere? Tyrion never pays his debts? Hardy har har.

+.+

There was mischief in Littlefinger's eyes. He drew the knife and glanced at it casually, as if he had never seen it before. "Valyrian steel, and a dragonbone hilt. A trifle plain, though. It's yours, if you would like it."         

"Mine?" Tyrion gave him a long look. "No. I think not. Never mine." He knows, the insolent wretch. He knows and he knows that I know, and he thinks that I cannot touch him.    

YOU DON’T TOUCH HIM?! YOU DON’T DO ANYTHING?!

I’M GOING CRAZY.

+.+

No one had ever thought to question the appointments, and why should they? Littlefinger was no threat to anyone. A clever, smiling, genial man, everyone's friend, always able to find whatever gold the king or his Hand required, and yet of such undistinguished birth, one step up from a hedge knight, he was not a man to fear. He had no banners to call, no army of retainers, no great stronghold, no holdings to speak of, no prospects of a great marriage.

This is awe-inspiring. Tyrion observes that Littlefinger is so easy to trust, because he’s not a threat to anyone.

Pages later he offers the man a great stronghold, armies, and banners to call.

+.+

"I had their maidenhoods. Is that close enough?"                 

The lie—Tyrion was fairly certain it was a lie—was delivered with such an air of nonchalance that one could almost believe it. Could it have been Catelyn Stark who lied?

Are we supposed to think Littlefinger truly believes he took Catelyn’s maidenhead?

I don’t buy that. He knows the truth.

+.+

"That would depend on the words. If you mean to offer Sansa in return for your brother, waste someone else's time. Joffrey will never surrender his plaything, and Lady Catelyn is not so great a fool as to barter the Kingslayer for a slip of a girl."

Funny, considering:

Catelyn would trade Jaime for Sansa in a heartbeat

The high value Littlefinger places on Sansa, his plaything

+.+

Oh, he was clever. He did not simply collect the gold and lock it in a treasure vault, no. He paid the king's debts in promises, and put the king's gold to work. He bought wagons, shops, ships, houses. He bought grain when it was plentiful and sold bread when it was scarce.

Littlefinger is skilled at price gouging food. Got it.

+.+

The maester's medicines made an impressive display; dozens of pots sealed with wax, hundreds of stoppered vials, as many milkglass bottles, countless jars of dried herbs, each container neatly labeled in Pycelle's precise hand. An orderly mind, Tyrion reflected, and indeed, once you puzzled out the arrangement, it was easy to see that every potion had its place. And such interesting things. He noted sweetsleep and nightshade, milk of the poppy, the tears of Lys, powdered greycap, wolfsbane and demon's dance, basilisk venom, blindeye, widow's blood . . .

x

He leaned forward. "If I gave her Jon Arryn's true killer, she might think more kindly of me."                 

That made Littlefinger sit up. "True killer? I confess, you make me curious. Who do you propose?"

It was Tyrion's turn to smile. "Gifts I give my friends, freely. Lysa Arryn would need to understand that."    

Too funny. He thinks Pycelle killed Jon Arryn, and he’s sitting right across from Littlefinger.

Show me Tyrion’s intelligence! Where is it? POV trap!

+.+

Littlefinger looked like a boy who had just taken a furtive bite from a honeycomb. He was trying to watch for bees, but the honey was so sweet. "Harrenhal and all its lands and incomes," he mused. "With a stroke, you'd make me one of the greatest lords in the realm. Not that I'm ungrateful, my lord, but—why?"    

+.+

In the airy chambers beneath the rookery, his girl served them boiled eggs, stewed plums, and porridge

x

Dispatch them now. Stewed plums will keep. The realm may not.

x

Pycelle moved so slowly that Tyrion had time to finish his egg and taste the plums

x

"Ah," the old man muttered into his plums.

x

Lord Petyr was seated on his window seat, languid and elegant in a plush plum-colored doublet and a yellow satin cape

x

"Plum and yellow. Are those the colors of your House?"    

x

Harrenhal was one of the richest plums in the Seven Kingdoms, its lands broad and rich and fertile, its great castle as formidable as any in the realm

I’ve never read any essays or metas on plums, therefore I have no idea what’s being conveyed here.

Only thing I’ve got for you is that Tyrion promises the world to Littlefinger, similar to what he’ll eventually promise Ben Plumm.

And we all know how Littlefinger repays Tyrion.

+.+

"The only puzzle is what you might have offered for his allegiance. The prince is a sentimental man, and he still mourns his sister Elia and her sweet babe."

Babe, singular.

+.+

"Prince Tommen is a good boy."

"If I pry him away from Cersei and Joffrey while he's still young, he may even grow to be a good man."

"And a good king?"                 

"Joffrey is king."

"And Tommen is heir, should anything ill befall His Grace. Tommen, whose nature is so sweet, and notably . . . tractable."

"You have a suspicious mind, Varys."

Varys essentially reveals to Tyrion that Joffrey will be killed, and it flies right over his head.

Kind of like when Varys told Ned there was an active plot to kill the king, and crickets.

Is there a reason why it’s consensus within the fandom that Ned is an idiot and Tyrion is a genius?

+.+

Very deftly done, I would say . . . but for one small flaw."                 

The dwarf laughed. "Named Cersei?"

"What avails statecraft against the love of a mother for the sweet fruit of her womb?

With all the talk of Catelyn’s virginity, trading Sansa for Jaime, and then this, I was willing to put down significant money I would turn the page and see Catelyn’s name.

I should have known. 😡

Final thoughts:

Fun times, a whole Tyrion chapter revolving around prospective marriages!

No stumpy, you stupid, it won’t be Catelyn that comes next. 😡

13 down, 36 to go. :(

-> return to menu <-

[wolfgods-blog]

- ̗̀ STURDY SUPPORT: VINCE ̖́ -

closed starter for @un-a-mused​

When Maria had mentioned it was time for their daughter’s nine month checkup Rhys had all but jumped at the opportunity to take her. Maria only laughed and picked up the phone to schedule the appointment. Their little girl was growing rapidly and seeing every little milestone pass warmed his heart. Little Marcia was truly the apple of his eye with her dark hair like her mother and chubby light brown cheeks. It was also a plus their pediatrician had a jawline that look like it cut diamonds and their last visit, Rhys had been eyeing him shamelessly while Maria tried her best not to laugh at him. 

“I know, I know, mommy thinks it’s funny I have a crush but do me a favor and act cool okay?” He whispered to the infant as he bounced her lightly on his hip, Marcia babbling all the while and patting at his face with her little hands. “You're my lil wingman, marcie and the coolest baby I know.” Rhys perked up as the door to the room opened, whispering to Marcia as he kissed her cheek “Remember, act nature kiddo. Just be yourself.”

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

no body, no crime - allison argent x reader

(gif source)

Summary: When y/n disappears after confronting her husband about his affair, Allison takes matters into her own hands. Based on “no body, no crime (feat. HAIM)” by taylor swift [x]. You can find the mood board for this fic here

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: cursing, infidelity, implied kidnapping, implied murder, murder, alleged murder, alleged/implied death of reader, reader is married to a man with a j name 🤢

a/n: hi everyone! it’s been a hot minute since i posted a new fic & this is why. i’ve been working on this since late december of 2020, so this is the longest i’ve ever spent on a stand-alone work. i’ll include more gory details about the writing process at the end if you’re interested :)

dedicated to: elle (@demxters) for all of her help and ideas! this fic literally wouldn’t have gotten finished without her, send her some love <3

this is also dedicated to caoimhe (@free-pool-trash​) for not murdering me after i gave her a preview several weeks ago and then just ✨stopped writing✨

master list

Este's a friend of mine

We meet up every Tuesday night for dinner and a glass of wine

“Hey!” Allison greeted cheerily as she met y/n at their usual table tucked in the corner of their favorite restaurant. y/n returned the brunette’s smile as she stood up to hug her friend, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Allison saw through y/n’s facade and furrowed her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” she asked as concern spread across her features.

“I think Justin is having an affair,” y/n admitted. The statement dropped like a bomb between the two women, causing Allison to nearly spew the wine in her mouth all over the table. She coughed a few times and drank some water to clear her throat before she composed herself enough to ask questions.

“What happened? Did you see something?” Allison asked hesitantly. Her mind was still reeling from the mere concept of y/n’s husband cheating on her. Sure, Justin had never been Allison’s favorite guy, but it was normal for girls to think that no guy would ever be good enough for their best friend. Right? 

Her husband's acting different and it smells like infidelity

She says, "That ain't my merlot on his mouth"

"That ain't my jewelry on our joint account"

y/n explained what had been going on over the past few weeks. Justin had been acting distant, which wasn’t too abnormal, but when he started coming home from work much later than his shifts ended and disappearing at odd hours of the night, y/n got concerned. The day that she had planned to approach him about everything and ask if anything was wrong, she got a call from her bank while driving home from work.

“Hi Mrs. y/l/n, this is Kathy from the bank. I’m calling to inform you that there have been a few large cash withdrawals from your joint account recently under your husband’s name, as well as a pretty expensive purchase yesterday at the jeweler,” the rest of Kathy’s words sounded muffled to y/n. It was nowhere near her birthday, Valentine’s day, or their anniversary, so y/n didn’t know what he could possibly be spending all their money on.

The next incident came a few days later when both y/n and Justin were home. y/n’s husband was in the shower and his phone buzzed with a new text message alert. Typically, y/n was never the type to snoop on her husband’s phone, but she figured she should check in case it was a work message. At least that’s how she justified it in her head. Justin had saved the sender’s number under the contact name “Spam Risk.” It was clever, y/n had to give him credit for that at least. Upon further inspection, y/n quickly realized that those texts weren’t sent from a telemarketer bot.

6:24 p.m.   I can’t wait to see you tonight, baby - Spam Risk

6:25 p.m.   Don’t keep me waiting too long ;) - Spam Risk

y/n thought the messages were strange, but the picture that followed the messages was definitely what threw y/n for a loop. There, on her husband’s text message thread, was a racy photo of a woman’s body that definitely wasn’t hers. y/n was quite literally stunned to silence as she dropped the phone back down onto the dresser. For the rest of the night, y/n was numb and quiet, not that Justin noticed. Then, like clockwork, he left the house at 11 p.m. with no explanation of where he was going or when he would be back.

By the end of y/n’s story, Allison’s mouth was open so wide she was sure her jaw would hit the table. 

“What are you going to do?” Allison whispered, still in shock. y/n grimaced before clearing her throat and speaking her next words with finality.

No, there ain't no doubt

I think I'm gonna call him out

Este wasn't there

Tuesday night at Olive Garden at her job or anywhere

“Hi, there should be a reservation for two under Allison Argent or y/n y/l/n for tonight,” Allison greeted warmly as she approached the hostess stand at their go-to girl’s night restaurant.

“Right this way, ma’am,” the hostess said with a smile as she grabbed two menus and led her towards their usual table. Two menus. That must mean that y/n wasn’t there yet? Allison thought it was strange, y/n almost always was the first of the two to arrive. Allison brushed off the thought as she thanked the hostess and sat down. She had intended to look over the menu, but the strangeness of it all wouldn’t leave her mind. y/n was late. She was never late. Allison pulled out her phone to text her best friend, and it then occurred to her that she hadn’t heard from y/n since last week. Allison had been away on a “work” trip with her dad for the past six days and had just gotten back into town. After 30 minutes of sitting at the table alone, half a dozen unanswered text messages, and even more calls sent straight to voicemail, Allison dropped a few bills on the table and left.

As Allison pulled out of the parking lot, she turned on the radio in a futile attempt to drown out some of her racing thoughts. Between songs the radio host took to the mic to make an announcement.

“Hello Beacon Hills, we now interrupt your regularly scheduled listening with an urgent message from the Sheriff's department. Speaking now is Sheriff Noah Stilinski,” the host trailed off before there was a brief crackle as the audio transitioned to the Sheriff’s press briefing. Allison turned up the volume as the Sheriff’s voice carried across the radio.

“Thank you all for attending and tuning in. It is with great displeasure and a heavy heart that I inform you all that y/n y/l/n has been reported missing. Shortly after 8 a.m. this morning, we were informed by her husband that she didn’t show up for work yesterday morning and also didn’t come home last night,” Sheriff Stilinski continued speaking but it all began to sound like white noise to Allison. It took everything she had in her to focus on not veering off the road so that she could head to the Sheriff’s station and speak to Stilinski in person. 

Conveniently, her route took her right past y/n and Justin’s house. Allison didn’t know what to expect as she sped by their house, but the fact that Justin’s normally filthy truck had been cleaned and waxed definitely caught her eye. The truck and driveway were soon out of sight due to the speed she was driving at, but at first glance, it looked as though his tires and grill had been replaced.

He reports his missing wife

And I noticed when I passed his house his truck has got some brand new tires

About a week had passed since y/n had been reported missing. Allison wasn’t sure how many search parties had been held, but they all resulted in the same thing: nothing. There wasn’t a single trace of her best friend, in fact, everything in Beacon Hills looked completely unchanged and normal. Allison’s focus and appetite seemed to have left with her other half, try as she might to desperately hold onto them. Her marksmanship had even been affected, something that hadn’t happened since high school.

Allison started driving around town during her free time. She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, she mostly did it to try to clear her mind, though most times she was unsuccessful. She’d been mindlessly taking right and left turns and before she realized where she was, she passed y/n’s house.

Allison hadn’t planned to slow down as she passed the house, it was a mindless act if anything. Seeing a moving truck backed up to the house while Justin and some unfamiliar blonde woman were unloading boxes ensured that her decision to park her car where it couldn’t be seen and spy on the pair wasn’t mindless. Despite her gut telling her not to, Allison decided to give Justin the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he needed a roommate now since y/n couldn’t pay her share of the rent? Allison tried her best to keep all of her judgments and suspicions at bay as she watched the otherwise uneventful event unfold while biting her fingernails. 

A few boxes later, Justin pulled the blonde in by her waist and kissed her with a fervor that would make most people blush. Allison’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she sat there in shock with her mouth wide open. It took a while, mostly because the kiss lasted for an obnoxious amount of time, but Allison finally regained control of her body. It was like her brain had to go through a hard reset before she was able to face the reality of the situation.

y/n was right. Justin was cheating on her. Not only that, but Justin had cheated on y/n, spent less than a week grieving her disappearance, then allowed this to happen.

And his mistress moved in

Sleeps in Este's bed and everything

Allison found out that Justin Smith’s mistress’s name was Rebecca Baker. She was a few years younger than y/n and she worked at the same company as Justin. It didn’t take long for Allison to hack into both of their iCloud accounts. A few hours of scrolling later she was really regretting her decision, especially when she got to Justin’s messages to Rebecca about y/n.

2:47 a.m.  What about your wife? - Spam Risk

2:47 a.m.  What about her? - Justin

2:48 a.m.  Are you going to leave her or kick her out or something? - Spam Risk

2:48 a.m.  It’s been taken care of. - Justin

2:48 a.m.  Taken care of? Justin, what does that mean? - Spam Risk

2:49 a.m.  Justin??? - Spam Risk

Each new message ensured that bits of Allison’s fingernails had been gnawed off while her left hand fidgeted anxiously in front of her mouth. Allison decided that those messages were probably the most incriminating thing she’d find digitally, but the time and date stamps caught her eye. The texts were sent early Monday morning, the day that y/n allegedly left home and then didn’t show up for work or return home. 

A chill spread from deep within Allison’s bones up to the surface of her skin, making goosebumps appear. Allison didn’t know what exactly, but she knew something terrible had happened to y/n and Justin had something to do with it. She shut her laptop a little harder than necessary as a resolved look spread across her face.

No, there ain't no doubt

Somebody's gotta catch him out

Good thing my daddy made me get a boating license when I was fifteen

Allison regularly accessed her personal armory, whether it was to prepare for a job or pack for a trip to the shooting range, but it had been a while since a powerful and unforgiving feeling hung over her shoulders. Allison carefully ran her fingers over her custom silver arrowheads as she considered her options. Her father’s words from one of her adolescent archery lessons rung in her head.

“The type of bow and arrows you use doesn’t matter. As long as you use them right, you’ll be able to make any shot. Don’t get hung up on the technicalities.”

Not too long after, her bag was stocked with her essentials: a bow, her trusted black leather archery glove, as well as a handful of arrows, though these ones lacked the silver heads she typically reserved for more exotic expeditions.

The rare dark clouds in the California sky at sunset were reflected in Allison’s cold eyes. The drive to her target’s house was familiar, the turns she made were almost instinctual. Normally these roads reminded her of her coffee dates with y/n and nights they spent talking for hours until sunlight crept through the windows. Now, her mind was blank and her heart was devoid of all emotion.

Even though Allison had disabled her car’s GPS earlier, she parked her car about a mile away from his house. When she was done, there wouldn’t be any evidence that could be traced back to her. She memorized his schedule; at 5:00 p.m. his shift ended and recently he’d been getting home by 5:20. His girlfriend got home sometime between 5:30 and 5:45, but she would leave for her pilates class around 6:30 and wouldn’t get home until 7:45. Allison had just over an hour window to get the job done, but it wouldn’t take that long. If everything went according to plan, she’d be off the property within a few minutes of taking the shot.

When she arrived her target had just come home from work and was alone in the house. She waited patiently, hidden by the trees that the property backed up to. She watched as he moved around through the open curtains and then as his girlfriend entered the house and kissed him with a passion that made Allison’s stomach churn. She watched as they ate dinner together, as her target’s girlfriend got ready for her gym class, and watched as she got in her car and drove away. When Allison checked her watch it was only 6:25 p.m., she had far more time than she needed.

The plan was simple, really. Under the cover of darkness, she’d flip the breakers, effectively cutting the power. When her target came out to investigate, she’d let him fumble around in the darkness for a while. He’d always been a paranoid individual, so it wouldn’t take much to get him on edge. A rustle in the bushes here, a small snapped tree branch there, and then something that would get his attention. Allison wanted his eyes to be on her when she took the shot.

Allison’s target was watching TV so he knew immediately when the power went out, plus the fact that the once illuminated house was suddenly bathed in darkness. The high-pitched yelp that escaped his throat almost made Allison laugh. She had to keep quiet though, at least for now. As expected, the dopey man scurried around to the side of the house where the breakers were located in no time. The batteries in the flashlight he held were on their last leg, that much was evident in the way the light beam flickered every few seconds.

Just as he opened the door to the circuit breaker panel, Allison moved. A rustle here. The sound practically echoed in the silence of the night, causing the man to whip around and shine his flashlight directly at the source of the noise. There was nothing there. It’s just the wind, he reasoned before getting back to work. After a few switches had been flipped - none of them for the outdoor lights - he heard another noise. This one was much louder than the last, a small snapped tree branch there. Again, the flashlight’s flickering light beam uncovered nothing, but it was enough to make all of the hairs on the back of Allison’s target’s neck stand up straight. He hastily flipped the rest of the breakers and the outdoor lights finally came on. 

When yellow light from the backyard fixtures flooded the area, both Allison and her target were revealed. Allison stood a considerable distance away from the man, but she was close enough to see the blood drain from his face and his Adam's apple bob. When his eyes darted to the bow hung by her side, realization dawned on his face. He began to turn away with the intention of running, but Allison’s voice held him frozen in place.

“Don’t move,” she ordered quietly without any aggression behind her tone. Her face wasn’t threatening, she just looked calm and focused. Allison’s smooth features and peaceful expression was what scared the man the most.

“I- I’m sorry- I didn’t-” he stammered out, his arms and legs beginning to tremble.

“Shh,” Allison chastised as she raised her bow, loading it with an arrow. Her fingers moved with precision, her muscles knew this routine well.

“Please don’t- no, you can’t, you can’t do this!” the man pleaded. He wasn’t above begging on his knees, but Allison wasn’t about to give him the chance. Her gaze was sharply focused on her target, the view of her tightly grasped bow in her peripheral vision.

“Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

When Allison’s fingers let go of the bowstring the arrow flew smoothly through the air. The only sounds heard were the arrowhead piercing skin and the man wordlessly falling to the ground. The arrow went straight through his heart. Maybe Allison’s shot landed right where she intended. Maybe there was a metaphor in there. Allison checked her wristwatch, the numbers 6:45 shining back at her. An entire hour to spare.

Time to take out the trash.

I've cleaned enough houses to know how to cover up a scene

The job didn’t take long at all and it was definitely one of Allison’s least challenging ones, but it still felt nice to take a hot shower and sit in front of her fireplace with a cup of tea. The fire served a dual purpose; the crackles of the burning wood soothed her like a lullaby while the flames licked around and destroyed her bloody clothes from earlier. All of her equipment had been cleaned and put away, positioned exactly as it had been before. Everything was the same, nothing changed or out of place. There was just one less heartbeat in the world that night.

Good thing Este's sister's gonna swear she was with me

On the second day of the trial,  Rebecca Baker’s lawyers were throwing whatever they could against the wall to see if something would stick. That morning they began to argue that Allison Argent might’ve abducted and murdered Justin Smith in retaliation for y/n’s disappearance. It was all speculation at best, but the theory unfortunately made sense to the jury. Before things could get too far, the prosecution called its first witness of the day to the stand.

“Mrs. Martin, where were you on the night of Mr. Smith’s suspected disappearance?” the prosecution lawyer questioned calmly. 

“I was with Allison at my house. We were having a girls night in, you can check my security cameras,” Lydia answered confidently. Lydia still had a pocketful of favors from her MIT days, so when the jurors were shown the clips from Lydia’s home security cameras, they saw exactly what they would’ve expected based on Lydia’s testimony. 

Truth be told, Lydia didn’t know anything about what happened that night; including Allison’s whereabouts and any details related to Justin’s alleged demise. All she knew was that Allison called and asked for a simple favor - an alibi for just a few hours. Lydia didn’t ask questions and Allison didn’t give answers.

Good thing his mistress took out a big life insurance policy

On the third day of the trial, Rebecca Baker took the stand. Her lawyers tried to help her as best they could, but the prosecution was ruthless. All of the evidence was circumstantial at best -  all parties, including the judge and jurors, knew that - but it was enough to make everyone reconsider the spotless image the defense had tried to create for Ms. Baker.

“Ms. Baker, is it true that you knowingly engaged in a romantic relationship while Justin Smith was married to and living with his wife?” another one of the prosecution’s attorneys began.

“Yes,” Rebecca replied meekly. Allison internally scoffed from her seat in the gallery. She found irony in the fact that Rebecca didn’t find any humility or shame in sleeping with another woman’s husband until she was under oath.

“Is it also true that within approximately a week of Mrs. y/l/n’s disappearance, you moved into Mr. Smith and Mrs. y/l/n’s house?”

“That is correct,” Rebecca said as she began to wring her hands together anxiously. The judge tapped his wrist watch and shot a stern look towards the prosecutor. The man nodded in response and continued to his final points.

“I’ll wrap up my questions for you, Ms. Baker. Can you confirm that shortly after moving in with Mr. Smith, multiple legal and financial arrangements and adjustments were made? And these new arrangements make you the sole beneficiary of Mr. Smith’s life issuance policy, assets, and investments?”

By the end of the prosecution’s final question, every jury member and spectator sat up straighter and waited to hear Rebecca’s response with bated breath. The blonde ball of nerves sighed defeatedly before turning to face the attorney directly as she answered his question.

“Yes, that’s true.”

“No further questions, your honor.” As the lead prosecutor returned to the plaintiff’s table, Rebecca’s attorney stood up to address the judge.

“Your honor, the defense would like to request a brief recess,” the defense attorney nearly pleaded. Though his poker face was much better than his client’s, it was clear that he was getting nervous.

“We’ll reconvene in 15 minutes,” the judge ordered with a stern glare cast towards Rebecca.

They think she did it but they just can't prove it

It soon became clear to Rebecca that the recess her legal team requested was nothing more than a “kiss your dignity goodbye” meeting. If she hadn’t been queasy before the recess was called, she definitely was upon re-entering the courtroom.

The rest of the trial seemed to move in slow motion for Rebecca. A few more witnesses were called to the stand, more lackluster evidence was presented, both sides made their closing arguments, and the jury left to discuss the verdict. After what felt like an eternity, the jury returned with an official decision.

Silence settled over the room as a single juror stood to address the court.

“The jury finds the defendant not guilty on count 1 of murder in the first degree based on lack of sufficient evidence. The jury finds the defendant not guilty on count 2 of kidnapping based on lack of sufficient evidence. The jury finds the defendant guilty on count 3 of insurance fraud based on…” 

The rest of the jurors’ statement sounded like white noise to Rebecca. She was just barely coherent enough to hear the judge deliver her punishment a few minutes later. $50,000 fine and 200 hours of community service.

Allison stuck around to the bitter end of the trial to hear the verdict in person. In all honesty, Allison didn’t want Rebecca to go to jail. It wouldn’t be right for her to serve time for a crime she didn’t commit, but Allison did find satisfaction in the fact that Rebecca would soon be picking up garbage in a fluorescent orange vest.

After the majority of the spectators had vacated the courtroom gallery, Allison leisurely gathered her things. Justice had been served to Justin, she personally made sure of that, and now justice had been served to Rebecca. The blonde and brunette women briefly locked eye contact as Allison made her way towards the exit. 

“You did this,” Rebecca whispered to Allison. Suddenly, it was like a flip switched within her. One moment she was numb, yet calm and collected, and the next moment she was screaming (literal) bloody murder and had to be held back by her lawyers.

“YOU DID THIS! YOU KILLED JUSTIN, YOU BITCH!” Rebecca cried, though her words fell on deaf ears. Allison exited the courtroom with her head held high as the courtroom deputy and defense lawyers did their best to calm the hysterical woman.

She thinks I did it but she just can't prove it

A week later the court case was still on Allison’s mind but the emotional scars had begun to scab. Healing was never a straight or smooth path, Allison had learned that the hard way over the years, but this was a start.

y/n’s landlord had been generous enough to allow Allison to gather y/n’s things before he cleaned out the house for new renters. As Allison walked through the home she once considered to be an extension of her own, she felt her throat dry out and tighten up. She hadn’t realized she was crying until she was wiping salty tears off of the picture frames she’d carefully picked up. Each photo unlocked a new memory, some even elicited a chuckle out of Allison amidst her tears.

A photo from y/n’s wedding day stood out among all the rest as Allison’s eyes jumped from frame to frame. It was a candid shot Lydia had taken while they were in y/n’s dressing room before the ceremony. y/n looked as beautiful as ever in her flowy white gown and Allison’s mulberry maid of honor dress complemented it well. As Allison put the final touches on y/n’s hair and makeup, y/n fastened the clasp of a custom necklace behind Allison’s neck. On a thin, medium-length chain hung an arrowhead from the first time Allison had ever tried to teach y/n how to shoot a bow and arrow. y/n failed miserably, but it was a cherished memory for both girls. Since that day, Allison had only taken the necklace off a handful of times.

Allison smiled bittersweetly at the memory and wiped a fresh tear off of the decorative frame before pulling her necklace out from underneath her shirt. She pressed a gentle kiss to the cool silver arrowhead and then to the photo frame, right above y/n’s styled hair. 

A feeling that Allison couldn’t quite explain flowed through her body just then; it was like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being stuck underwater or seeing the gentle rays of the sun for the first time after a hurricane, it felt like freedom. Allison felt almost as if y/n was right there next to her, with her head resting on Allison's shoulder and wrapping her arms around the brunette’s torso. In that moment, Allison somehow wordlessly knew with every fiber in her being that y/n was finally at peace. 

No, no body, no crime

I wasn't letting up until the day he died

a/n: AHHHH DID YOU LIKE IT? it was kind of a wild ride from start to finish and i definitely shed a few tears while i was writing it. please lmk what you think!

okay, now onto the writing process from hell: i started drafting ideas for the fic on dec. 21 or 22 of 2020, after i put together a mood board. i had written more than half of the fic when i decided i hated it and scrapped the whole thing on xmas eve (~3000 words 🤡). after that i was kinda in a rut and couldn’t decide how i wanted to end the fic so i ended up writing and deleting ~2500 words over the past month and a half. @demxters​ is an absolute GODDESS and helped me come up with the ending, so i am eternally grateful to her for that. if any of this seems a lil strange it’s probably because i finished writing it at 4:45 a.m. after working on it for 3ish hours straight. have a great day lovelies!

join my tag list!

@dashkana​ @rogershoe​ @basicbibitxh​ @sweetfairyprincess17​ @samkysnks​ @ellxpsismm​ @pure-ghost​ @lilyspells​ @ineedyourskulls​ @loveheathens​ @plq-cid @linkpk88​ @grace-wade-08​ @brithedemonspawn​ @fanfichoex​ @wistful-chaos​ @silveralma​ @malfoysadore​ @miss-i-ship-it​ @sonnydoesrandomshit​

[entities-of-posts]

...cant put this off for much longer. to hell with it. ramble ahead.

the source statements really... get to me. to the point it physically hurts most often too. either it’s a binge of a dozen or few of the recorded statements at a time, leaving me unable to think about anything else for quite a while afterwards, or... even the inability to listen to half of one. the voices, the events described in each statement...

the only way i can describe it is wanting to go home, except this home is a place you have never been to. it all doesn’t quite seem familiar, but rather just comforting, bringing the feeling that that is where i belong. not a single place has truly felt like home like this, at least not in this life. it hurts to think that everything about it is so distant to me now- i miss the atmosphere and the feeling more than anything in my entire life. it feels wrong to be so far away, so separated from it.

time and time again this leaves me thinking i should do something for The Entities, but i simply do not know what it should be. one could argue that since everything feels so... close to home, it should come naturally. however, it does not. and that hurts even more - imagine it as an art you have spent years perfecting, only for something sudden to interrupt you- and it’s gone. you can’t manage to get anything out at all anymore. you’ve exhausted the resources you’ve had and yet you still yearn to create, to dedicate, but you’re stood empty-handed.

even when it comes to choosing a direction, looking into each of The Entities, it does not click. my day-to-day indecisiveness making it even worse, i am always wondering how much longer i will have to spend in this... foreign limbo of not being near where i feel i should be, and if i even would deserve it at that point.

...apologies, Archivist, as this turned out much longer and with more... possibly unnecessary feelings than i would have liked it to. if you have any advice to offer, that would mean the absolute world to me. if by chance this is too ambiguous or in other ways not fitting to receive an answer, simply thank you for hearing me out. this had been something i’d needed to get out of my system for a long time now, so i am forever grateful for this opportunity.

If you’ve already pondered at length the domains of the Fears, looking for kinship, and didn’t find it, I don’t know that anything I have to say would do much more to make things click. But I can tell you this:

Sometimes one can long to live in a world of monstrous wonders without necessarily wishing to become one. If none of the Fears call, that doesn’t mean you’re locked out of participating in this story. Jurgen Leitner, Basira Hussein, Georgina Baker, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Mikaele Salesa and many others never became avatars. Some felt a call, but none followed it far enough to begin losing their humanity. Even some who did follow quite a way down the path to Fear - Melanie King, Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood - never did take that last step. They were given a choice, and they chose against, and they were right to. It did not make them lesser parts of the whole, superfluous threads in the story’s tapestry. It made them, kept them themselves.

And yourself is enough. Transcendence sometimes calls, but is never needed.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian fic “Always and Forever” Chapter 3

Summary: After the death of their daughter Grace, Kurt and Sebastian drift apart. Kurt wraps himself up in his grief so tightly he starts to push Sebastian away, and Sebastian, feeling himself shoved aside when he needs Kurt most, cheats. They make the decision to start over, to leave New York City and their pain behind, and start over again in a house Upstate. Sebastian buys Kurt a "fixer upper" and gives him free reign. While redecorating the room that will be his studio, Kurt comes across something interesting underneath the wallpaper. It starts to become an obsession for Kurt - an obsession that begins to replace Kurt's love for his husband, which Sebastian is holding on to by a thread. Can Kurt and Sebastian break through the pain and the hurt and find a way to fall in love again?

Read on AO3.

Chapter 3 (4753 words)

Kurt stares out his studio window at the neighborhood below. It’s 10:15 a.m. and a Tuesday, so it isn’t as if the place is teeming with activity. Everyone living on Colony Lane seems content to stick to their own spaces, abide by their own schedules, and go about their lives without much interference from the world outside.

Kurt hates to hand it to Sebastian, but that’s what he wants as well. Isolation in a quaint fixer-upper is precisely what he needs.

Another point for Sebastian. 

Damn. 

He seems to be racking them up lately, while Kurt…

Kurt can admit that he’s not trying as hard as he should be, but he’s giving himself permission to be selfish. There shouldn’t be a timetable for bouncing back from loss, and Kurt got the double-whammy. 

Sebastian gave him betrayal to get over, too. 

Kurt knows that he should deem repairing his marriage a priority, but he also needs to do what’s right for him. 

He hasn’t figured out what that is yet, but it'll come to him.

Underlying childhood guilt has him believing that he should introduce himself to the neighbors. Etiquette and all that. It’s what his mother would do. Every time his family moved, and there had been a handful of times, Kurt’s mother would bake a batch of cookies for the neighbors. She'd put a baker's dozen into colorful cellophane bags, tie the tops with curled ribbon, and take them door to door to say hello. She wouldn’t wait for people to show up on their doorstep with a casserole and a smile. She believed in being proactive. She would tell him, “New neighborhood, new life. Go out and be a part of it.”

But Kurt doesn’t want to, and the neighbors seem fine with that. 

It’s been three days, and Kurt and Sebastian have only gotten one visitor – the technician who came to fix the heating. Of course, the neighbors could be waiting for them to get settled. Then they’ll pounce over with perfectly iced Gingerbread Bundt cakes and Chicken Kievs, church invites, and Girl Scout cookie order forms, like a swarm of Stepford Wives. 

Kurt doesn’t care about being proactive, and his mother isn’t around to scold him for behaving like a hermit. 

That may sound harsh, but it's true. 

The clouds pulling together in the sky overhead, threatening rain, give Kurt an excuse to shut himself away and work on the house - an excuse he can ply without the assistance of a tragic backstory. With his laptop open on the floor in front of him, he browses those websites that feed his design fetishes: Ethan Allen, Neiman Marcus, Anthropologie. 

But he's not the least bit inspired. 

He’d decided to start small, take things room by room instead of attacking everything at once. But he gets stumped, staring at the screen in front of him, unsure whether the chair he’s been mulling over for the past half hour is gorgeous or gaudy. 

He should focus on bringing the living room together since it’s where they do the bulk of their entertaining, provided they ever start entertaining again. And he should do something about the master bedroom, which, for the moment, houses a bed, a TV, and a dresser within the confines of four ashy walls. 

Opinions on the topic vary, but Kurt has always felt that the bedrooms are the heart of the home. They’re sanctuaries where dreaming, planning, and affirmation happen. He only has the one to worry about, so he should put extra effort into making it comforting, relaxing, sensual on the off chance he ever plans on touching his husband again.

The jury is still out on that one, unfortunately. 

The kitchen, he’s not looking forward to decorating. Aside from his studio, he and Grace spent much of their time together in the kitchen. They baked daily: cakes, cookies, bread, and anything else they could slop onto a baking sheet and shove into the oven. They also made jam, pickled fruit, and taught themselves (using YouTube videos mainly) to prepare various types of cuisine. Some were a hit, others a miss, but it was always an adventure. 

Kurt had done something similar with his mother and her collection of vintage cookbooks, congregating around the kitchen island in the afternoons to shed the angst of public school, and spread the wings of his stifled creativity. He and his mother discussed everything in the kitchen while sifting flour and creaming butter. It was a tradition he had so looked forward to continuing. 

Now, he’d rather not be bothered going into the kitchen again.

He could pick a page out of the IKEA catalog and recreate it. That should offend him. It did when Sebastian suggested it the first time Kurt redecorated their penthouse. But Kurt hardly cares. It doesn’t matter as much as it did. He can’t remember the last time he stepped into the kitchen and prepared anything more elaborate than toast and coffee, maybe dry scrambled eggs. Sebastian took over cooking duties after Grace died, which, nine times out of ten, means ordering out, if for no other reason than he gets to leave the house to pick up the food.

He knows Kurt appreciates the time alone more than he does a home-cooked meal.

Then there’s Sebastian’s office, which Kurt is decorating for the first time. He has tried to start a shopping cart for it numerous times, but, unlike the windfall of ideas he had for his studio, he can’t get into a groove. He remembers a time when thinking about decorating Sebastian’s office put a hundred ideas into his head. 

Currently, he has only one.

The cheap, vomit-worthy, knock-off furnishings of the no-tell hotel room he pictures whenever he thinks of Sebastian sleeping with another man. 

Kurt shivers in disgust. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy. 

The room or the infidelity.

But how would Sebastian react if Kurt decorated his office to look like the business suite at the Marriott?

Kurt snickers, envisioning the sitcom-worthy shock that would erupt on Sebastian's face if he presented that to him.

"As you can see," Kurt would say, strolling through the room with his head held high atop the straightest spine pettiness can deliver, "I have chosen the most flame-retardant carpet available in subtle hues of tan and beige, a color combination well suited for concealing cum stains. This ergonomic, curved leather loveseat, for when you want to get adventurous with your afternoon romps, which, at your age, requires plenty of lumbar support. Plus, it cleans up in a snap with just a Clorox wipe, so that's a useful feature. Faux fireplace, faux aquarium, faux chandelier... are we sensing a theme? And in the corner, I've provided you a foldout of your own, for when you bring... ahem... work home."

The grin on Kurt's lips slides when Sebastian, wearing a gutted expression, pops to mind. It's an expression that Kurt didn't believe possible for Sebastian till their daughter died. He's only seen it once. He doesn't want to bring it back.

He sighs. 

Revenge-dreaming isn't helping. 

It isn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

He’s not breaking through his creative block anytime soon. He puts his plans for the other rooms on the back burner and decides to spend time picking out furniture for his studio. With the exception of his sewing machines, he didn’t bring anything from his penthouse studio here, so he’s starting over fresh. He switches tabs and starts filling his online shopping cart with the basics: a new drafting table, a cabinet, a chair he’ll have to custom-upholster, a bolt of drapery fabric he can repurpose to make a bedspread (if he goes through with his plans for a foldout), and a few other miscellaneous odds and ends, nothing worth wasting too much brain-power over.

The clunk-clunk of Sebastian stacking cans in the kitchen cabinets reaches Kurt upstairs, as does the water running in the sink while he washes dishes and the squeak of the sticky pantry door when he fixes it. Kurt plans on redoing the kitchen and giving the entire room a facelift. Sebastian knows that. But repairing the door gives Sebastian something to do.

Sebastian has been considerate enough to let Kurt do his thing undisturbed for the morning. Kurt’s reluctance to talk to anyone extends to Sebastian, which Sebastian understands. He’s keeping his distance. But it’s nice to hear him puttering around the house. It gives Kurt comfort, the same way listening to his father snore in the middle of the night helped Kurt feel less alone after his mother died.

He may want to be left alone, but it’s nice to know that he’s not alone.

Especially not today.

Today did not start out good for Kurt.

Kurt woke up later than he’d intended, and when he did, he couldn’t remember where he was. Sebastian had woken up and gotten out of bed hours earlier, leaving Kurt alone to sleep in. Kurt climbed out of bed and wandered around frightened, hands crawling along the walls, searching for something familiar. Footsteps passed somewhere underneath him, and he froze. He didn’t want to venture downstairs because he didn’t know who could be there. Maybe someone had broken in, or worse - this was somebody else’s house, and Kurt was the intruder. 

His heart raced. He started hyperventilating. He went from room to room, trying to figure out where he was and why he was there. It wasn’t until the second time he went into his studio that he began to remember. He saw his bag on the floor and, beside it, his sketchbook. He remembered sitting in there the day before, making plans. He remembered the wood grain of the floor, the dusty glass, the tree outside, the wallpaper, and that ripped corner by the window, which Kurt refuses to acknowledge any more than he has to.

He feels it behind him, like the sun on his back, trying to get him to turn his face to it, but he refuses. Of all the things he needs to deal with, that ripped corner and the word beneath it don’t make the list. It isn't doing the palpitations in his chest any favors.

It confuses him. 

It angers him. 

It saddens him.

It makes him consider what could have been, forces him to face everything he's lost. He didn't succeed in running away from his problems. He ran headlong into brand new ones.

But this is his house. He has to get used to it.

These episodes aren’t uncommon. They crop up whenever Kurt needs to adapt to change. They’re unexpected, like mines in fields he discovers he’s been running through when a second ago he was picking flowers in the park or strolling down the street.

It's their unpredictability that is the true torture. 

They show up even on his good days.

His life for the last ten years revolved around his daughter. When she was a baby, he adjusted his work schedule to match her sleep schedule. They had the money to afford the best nurses in New York, but Kurt didn’t want that. He didn’t want his daughter raised by a governess. He was as hands-on a parent as there ever was. 

As Grace grew, her schedule changed, and Kurt adjusted: daycare, Gymboree, kindergarten, ballet, elementary school. He dropped her off in the mornings, then picked her up in the afternoons. They spent the rest of the day going over her homework until it was time to make dinner, which they did together. 

That was the great thing about being a designer and freelance editor. Kurt could work from anywhere, and, aside from doing consultations at Vogue, he could work any time. 

When Grace became sick, her doctor visits and her medication regimen dictated Kurt's schedule, then her chemo.

Towards the end, there was only one item written in Kurt’s schedule - lie beside his daughter in her bed, holding on to her for dear life. 

And not just her life.

His, too.

In sickness and in health, Grace kept Kurt’s life regulated. 

Things flipped drastically when she died. 

He felt adrift. Detached from the life he had gotten used to, he didn’t know what to latch on to. His internal clock would wake him up at six to get Grace ready for the day, only to find himself walking into a vacant bedroom. At the supermarket, he would grab her favorite cereal out of habit and put it in his cart, even though it wasn’t on the list. He would jolt when he'd come across a song he thought she’d like or saw an advertisement for a movie he thought she’d enjoy. 

He has yet to stop the automatic deposits from his bank account to hers, her weekly allowance piling up on top of birthday and Christmas money. She had earmarked it for college (her decision, not his). Now it waits to be donated to the children’s hospital that took such incredible care of her. He doesn’t have the heart to empty it. She was so proud of it.

He doesn’t know what it will do to him to see the balance at zero.

But the worst moment of all, the absolute worst, was when he tried to go back to work right after they lost her. 

There are many moments after Grace’s death, during Kurt’s own struggle for acceptance, that blur together, but this one he remembers so vividly, it brings a lump to his throat and tears to his eyes. 

He was in the middle of a brainstorming session with his team. His boss Isabelle was there. She had dropped by with a box of cronuts and a grande nonfat mocha. Kurt hadn’t been eating. Everyone could tell. But Kurt overlooked the signs – the sharper than normal angle to his cheekbones and chin, his collarbone that showed through his skin a little too much, his hands that never stopped shaking. He had waved the food away when she offered. 

An hour later, he was on his third one.

The tension of his presence in the office so soon after his daughter’s death slowly dissipated, making way for the familiar, though attenuated, back and forth banter he had so missed. Without knowing it, he was paving the way for a potential comeback. He wouldn’t have a line up for a while, and he would need to keep an eye on fashion trends as they came and went in his absence. But this, this felt so natural, so normal, it almost seemed like it was. He got caught up in the rhythm of this impromptu jam session. He smiled, he laughed.

He felt alive again.

Somewhere in the middle of outlining a rough schedule, he glanced down at the time on his phone. Mid-sentence, he got up from his chair and walked over to get his coat off the hook by the door.

“Alright,” he said with a chuckle over Chase’s last clap back at a jab from his boyfriend Ian, “thanks for everything, you guys, but I’ve gotta run. We’ll talk about this more when I come in tomorrow.”

The room went pin-drop silent. Kurt didn’t notice.

“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked, getting up from her seat on the corner of his desk and approaching, knowing that he would need her in a second, the way she always knew. Kurt has referred to Isabelle as his Fairy Godmother ever since he first walked into Vogue fresh out of high school and trying to find a foothold in the hectic Gulf Stream that is New York City. She became his pillar of support, a sympathetic ear, and a clear head whenever he needed one. She had thrown his bachelor party. Hers was the condo he stayed in the night before his wedding. She’d hosted Grace’s baby shower.

Also, Grace’s wake.

She didn’t have children of her own and didn't plan on it, but she loved Grace as much as anyone.

And hers was the shoulder Kurt cried on when he found out Sebastian had cheated. 

Kurt looked at her, confused, wondering why it was that everyone around him seemed to be holding their breath. “I just… have to go pick up Grace. From school. I’m going… I’m going to be late.”

Isabelle shook her head and put a hand on his. “Sweetie… ”

It took Kurt a second. 

Even after one person gasped and another sniffled, with Isabelle’s sorrowful eyes staring at him, begging him to remember so she wouldn’t have to say it, he didn’t catch on.

When he did, it hit him like an electric shock straight through his body, rendering his muscles useless, and he crumbled to the floor. Isabelle held him for over an hour in that spot until Sebastian arrived. Kurt didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go to their empty penthouse and face the truth about his empty life. He wanted to stay at Vogue with Isabelle and live in that moment where everything was alright again for one shimmering second, even if it wasn’t real.

But he had to go. He had to leave with Sebastian, who had hurt him, back to his home, even if it killed him because even though he felt like his life was over, everything else continued on. People lived, and people died. The sun set in the evening, but in the morning, it would rise again.

He just didn’t want to be a part of it anymore. 

Not without his Grace.

He was cried out by the time Sebastian got him home. Sebastian undressed him, helped him with his cleaning and moisturizing routine, and then put him to bed. It was Friday evening when Kurt shut his eyes and went to sleep. He lived that horrible moment at his office over again a hundred times before he opened his eyes. And when he did, it was Sunday morning.

Like this morning, but to a greater extent, when these attacks happen, locked in his own brain, sifting through the pieces to find one big enough and sturdy enough to hold on to, Kurt loses time.

In a blink, hours go by, sometimes a day. He’ll climb in the shower in the morning, turn the water on hot, and by the time he realizes it’s cold, it’s close to noon. He has sat at the dining room table for breakfast, staring at a bowl of oatmeal, and when he found the will to pick up the spoon, the oatmeal was old and stiff, and it was dinner time. He’s gone to bed on Monday and stared at the black behind his eyelids till Wednesday. 

As far as Kurt knows, it’s only around lunchtime, but he glances at the clock in the corner of his screen to make sure. 

12:45.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He double-checks the date to make sure he has a reason to and sighs again.

Still Tuesday.

Kurt switches back to the IKEA tab he’d been laboring long but not hard on earlier. He looks at the shopping cart he’s been steadily filling, scrolls through his selections of personality bereft, assembly line furniture, and groans. This isn’t him. This house, this blank slate, should be an endless fount of motivation. 

But he's numb. 

Maybe he's rushing into this. He should give this house and the neighborhood time to grow on him before he sentences it to the mundane.

He needs a break. (Kurt Hummel need a break from shopping? Since when?) He flips to a new page in his sketchbook. For shits and giggles, he tries drawing a sketch for his husband’s office. He starts with the easy part – Sebastian’s desk. Sebastian didn’t leave that in the penthouse, so Kurt will make it the linchpin and design around it.

Things flow surprisingly easily from there once he gets started, with a pencil in his hand writing on paper instead of working on a screen: an ornamental rug, a matching leather chair, burgundy velvet curtains, a chainmail style Tiffany desk lamp, 1930s art deco décor with a soupcon of Persian flair. But he doesn’t want the room to be too dark. No. Kurt wants nothing in their house to be dark. He adds a Salento chandelier over the open portion of the room and a sweep of color – one wall, opposite a window, a lighter shade than the rest. He doesn’t know what Sebastian’s office looks like, but there has to be a wall in there that will fit the bill. 

An enamel and copper vase, a Khatam inlaid photo frame, a few Negar Gari…

Kurt stops.

Would Sebastian want that? The softer elements countering the strict lines of the art deco pieces, what could be described as feminine influences, are Kurt’s signature touch. But might Sebastian prefer the art deco without Kurt’s fingerprints all over it? Isn’t that what Sebastian meant by Kurt being heavy-handed with the pastels? 

Back in high school, Kurt had decorated his bedroom so that he and his stepbrother could share it. He'd skipped school so he could complete it in one day. He’d worked hard on it, trying to fuse a masculine air with his theatrical influence. What he thought was an eclectic representation of the masculine and the feminine turned into a Moroccan-themed disaster.

The word his stepbrother chose to use at the time was faggy, but there were ulterior motives behind it.

Sebastian made jabs in high school about Kurt not wearing boy clothes, comments that adult Kurt recognizes as the teenage boy equivalent of pulling Kurt’s pigtails. But at the time, they stung. Sebastian wouldn’t have made those comments if there weren’t a grain of truth to them, would he? 

Sebastian has never retracted those statements, so as far as Kurt is concerned, they stand.

Kurt flips his pencil over and starts erasing. He’ll pare down the extras – trade the Tiffany lamp for a banker’s lamp, replace the rug with something more Brooks Brothers than Pier 1.

Maybe he should just opt for another IKEA recreation, but that feels like copping out, going back on his word. 

He could always ask Sebastian. He swears his husband has passed by a few times, his footsteps rising and falling outside his door, but Kurt didn’t think anything of it. He figures Sebastian is passing through on his way to get something from the bedroom that he needs downstairs. Kurt doesn’t imagine the man is pacing the hallway, even if he is, trying to find a way to tell Kurt that lunch is ready. Little things like lunch, innocuous things, have become huge divides over the past few months. With anyone else, Sebastian has a history of railroading over them, hurt feelings be damned.

But Sebastian has learned his lesson. He paid a hefty price learning it, too.

Contemplating between clearing his throat so that Kurt knows he’s there and letting another meal go cold, he sees Kurt’s head lift up. It seems like an opening. Whether or not it is, Sebastian takes it.

“Lunch is ready.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kurt mumbles, brushing eraser shavings aside.

“Are you… are you coming downstairs?”

Kurt erases again, then pencils something on a sheet of paper that Sebastian can’t see. “Hmm… mmm?” 

It sounds like a question and an answer, but since Kurt doesn’t follow it up with anything, it most likely means that Kurt will be skipping lunch… again. Sebastian knocks idly on the door frame, giving Kurt a second longer to tell him for sure.

“Alright.” Disappointed, he turns to leave. “I guess I’ll come back up at dinner then.”

Kurt doesn’t know why the thought returns when he wasn’t even thinking about it, why it decided to nag at his brain when he had been able to ignore it for this long, but that’s the way his brain works now. His thoughts don’t always travel straight paths. They twist and turn, taking one thing and linking it to something unrelated. Erasing the ideas he’d sketched out, removing every inch of himself from Sebastian’s office, made him think about how eager he was to be rid of that word darling from above the window, and that ripped corner returns to his mind with a vengeance.

Well, as long as Sebastian is there, he might as well ask.

“Sebastian?”

Sebastian pauses in the doorway, not daring to move. “Yes?” 

“When was the last time you were here?” Kurt raised an eyebrow at the idea when it originally came to him. When would Sebastian have come to this house that Kurt didn’t know? They traveled Upstate once a year, but they always did it together as a family. And while they were here, Sebastian rarely ventured out alone. Sebastian isn’t the kind of person who would buy a house sight unseen. 

Unless he had found it during one of his outings with Grace. Which would mean that Grace had seen the inside. 

Grace would have seen this room and thought it would be hers, thought that they would someday live here, and Sebastian hid that word darling by the window for her and not Kurt.

The thought is so painful, it makes Kurt want to tear his nails out with his teeth so he’ll stop thinking about it.

Sebastian keeps his eyes locked to Kurt’s profile so he won’t miss the moment Kurt decides to look at him instead of the floor, the wall, or the ceiling.

“I found this house online. It wasn’t even on the market when I stumbled on it. To be honest, I’d only driven by it once. I hadn’t been inside until we moved in.”

“But you saw the inside,” Kurt asks. “Otherwise, how would you know about this room?”

“I took a virtual tour,” Sebastian admits sheepishly, “but it was extremely thorough. I’ve seen the blueprints, gone over the permits and the zoning. I had Tristan from the office look over the place when he came up to visit his folks. He facetimed me while he was here.” Sebastian furrows his brow. “Why? Is something wrong?”

Kurt’s heart beats regular again. Grace hadn’t seen it. 

Thank God. 

His eyes find the torn section of wallpaper, but they don’t stay there. He doesn’t want to clue Sebastian in about it if Sebastian doesn’t already know. He wants to uncover this mystery on his own. If Sebastian gets to keep secrets, big ones at that, then Kurt wants this one for himself. 

“No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I was just curious, you know. Wanted to understand your process. Why this house, why this neighborhood, that sort of thing.”

Kurt’s sentence comes out choppy. It’s odd how awkward talking has become for them. Sebastian used to think that the two things they had mastered were talking and fucking. They did both together with such ease. There were never any boundaries between them, emotionally or physically. Even when they were cutting each other down, which they did in the beginning, they did so with such finesse.

Not like now, when Sebastian is walking on eggshells and Kurt doesn’t want to hear half of what he has to say.

“If you come down for lunch, we can talk about my process. If you’re curious, that is.” Sebastian watches Kurt expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

And while Sebastian does, Kurt looks at his sketch – Sebastian’s office, the same way Sebastian always has it decorated. This is Sebastian without him and Grace: bland and emotionless, no light, little color, and no joy. Nothing exciting, nothing nuanced, nothing to indicate that he and Sebastian are together.

Not even those snapshots he’s so proud of.

Kurt hasn’t decided whether that’s a bleak picture or not. 

“Sure. I’ll be down in a sec,” Kurt decides because he does and doesn’t have an answer to that one. It changes as the day changes, and the days change too quickly. 

“Alright. I’ll be waiting.” Sebastian walks away, or Kurt thinks he does. He checks the time on his clock. It’s closing in on 2. 

Kurt glances up at the window, the dangling wallpaper bouncing with the breeze coming from a draft near the ceiling. It would be so easy to tear it down – grab an edge and rip, be done with it once and for all. It might even feel cathartic, exposing whatever is underneath it. But lunch is ready. He’s already left Sebastian waiting long enough.

He leaves that mystery for another day.

[unfoldingmoments]

Valentino The Narratives

by : Fatima Farheen Mirza

Once I met a man I could love and in his mouth my name dissolved. Pronounced how my mother whispered it when I was a girl, feverish and falling into fitful sleep. To hear it was like tuning through radio static until suddenly— song. I flinched. Told all my life that love means obedience, I’d made a deal with my child-universe: fine, I’ll live without it. Crossing streets, the thought would come abruptly: I’m nobody’s girl. Wind lifting hair. Wolf without fangs. Winking at the moon herself. Reverse alchemist, I’d turn gold into copper, lovers into time passed.

On his rooftop, the man I could love passed me a bowl of washed strawberries. I pursed my lips. Wore tattered baseball caps, wiped make-up from my face. I did not want to be called beautiful. I wanted to be hidden. Yet every time we spoke a veil in the universe tore— have we lived this life before? For one blinking summer we were magnets dancing, pulled together, repelled apart.

I was proud when I said goodbye to him. Kept my hands in my pockets. Kept my end of the deal. Walked in forests kicking snow and breathing frost clouds. Attended dinner parties, candles flickering, centerpieces spilling peonies. A tour of Laura’s closet, doorknobs imported from Sweden, cedar sachets, dozens of sweaters, all cashmere. I nodded wow and pressed my spoon into my pudding. On weekends, I auditioned dates in red bars. My song on the jukebox, eyeliner all glitter, I popped pink bubblegum and lied with my body. Danced hard until violet sky then hooked my heels from two fingers for the long walk home. All night, all across the city, sirens sang their lonely songs. I wanted to be found.

When asked, Why didn’t you tell him you could have loved him? I laughed. I was twenty-five the first time my mother called me beautiful. Her text read: Never noticed your eyes before. I held my phone until the screen darkened, lit, darkened. My father cried when strangers piled bouquets at Diana’s funeral. Love? My mother said, No one needs love to live.

But once I met a man I knew I could love and I climbed a hundred steps to reach his rooftop. Squinted in the bright sun just to see him. That was my throat parched from the climb, my heart in my chest, rattling like an animal I was ashamed of. I wanted to want nothing. Not even water.

In Paris, I translate nobody’s girl into French: daughter of no one, girl of nothing. C’est moi. FKA Twigs spins on stage and I’m dizzy too. Didn’t I do it for you? How powerful was she, singing from the tender inside of an eggshell. Her desire a creature she claimed. I thought I was proud when I said goodbye to the man I loved, but now I know I was a coward. Afraid to ask a question I didn’t know the answer to. So afraid to be made a fool, I’d fooled myself. For weeks, I’m in a daze. Bakers call after me, holding paper bags of pastries, Mademoiselle, have you forgotten what you wanted? I shatter a glass door. Tell the nurse threading my stitches I walked right through it.

That night I dream a fever dream: my mother is the last uniformed girl waiting by the school gates. The slow drift of snow. When no one comes to claim her, I go.

I wake and take the next train. Call the man I love and say I’m here. I’m ready. Come and pick me up. Make a fool of me for free. St Pancras is lit electric pink too, I want my time with you. 

REF: https://www.valentino.com/en-us/experience/the-narratives/fatima-farheen-mirza

Fatima Farheen Mirza

Fatima Farheen Mirza was born and raised in California and now lives in London. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her debut novel, A Place For Us, was an instant New York Times bestseller and is being translated into seven languages. Copyright © Fatima Farheen Mirza, 2021 All rights reserved

[time-forum]

TIME's UP!

Why does Doctor Who completely suck? I’ll try to keep this brief. It seems to have begun with Moffat’s takeover as show runner. While there were good stories and bad alike, and while he tended to keep within the realm of the Doctor’s general narrative, he left loose threads all over the place and gaps with the size and strength of black holes everywhere.

For instance, bringing in John Hurt to be the canonical 9th Doctor because Russell T. Davies wouldn’t bring 8th Doctor Paul McGann in for at LEAST a regeneration cameo back on ’05… SO unnecessary. McGann was never called in for the 50th anniversary until near post production as a sort of after-thought to cement Hurt’s incarnation into place. WHY didn’t Moffat simply put McGann back in the TARDIS for the 50th? Answer- because he’s a narcissistic bastard who thinks he’s clever.

To be fair, the move WAS very clever. However, it was also stupid, insufferable, and has proven that much of the fan base if filled with morons, psychopaths and mental defectives. Not counting Hurt as the 9th Doctor??? Seriously? Tough shit, kids; it’s canon. You SAW the show, right? You DID listen when he did, in fact, call himself “The Doctor”, didn’t you? Capaldi was called “The Doctor of War”, but that’s not an isolating moniker, now is it? Seriously, kids; get a grip!

Despite this infuriating shit-fuckery, fans have also neglected the fact that David Tenant portrayed two, YES TWO incarnations of the Doctor. In “School Reunion” he did tell Sarah Jane Smith that he’d regenerated ‘half a dozen times’ since last they met.

They last time they canonically met was in ‘The Five Doctors’ with Peter Davison as the 5th Doctor. Add six more- Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy, Paul McGann, and at the time, Eccleston… that’s only 5, right? Well, Hurt makes 6, baby. That’s just basic math. Need more? Alright, let’s include Matt Smith’s explanation to Clara while he was on Trenzalore. He told her that he was done and couldn’t regenerate anymore and that he was the last of “THIRTEEN SILLY DOCTORS”. Point and set. Done. Canon. Etched in dwarf star alloy. There’s no debate here, children. It’s fact, not your perception, your “truth” or skewed point of view. Fact.

Regeneration, for you novices out there who can’t be bothered with canon material, is when a Time Lord’s body is repaired to cheat death by replacing every single cell with a fresh, new one. Often, this also creates a change of appearance but it is not mandatory or conducive to the process. Anyone who is ‘old school’ and recalls former companion and Time Lady ‘Romana’ already knows that form change can be controlled at will, at least when it isn’t during a time of duress.

Perhaps the Doctor was never good at controlling his regeneration process. Perhaps it’s because he’s half human, according to canon from the 1996 movie. Perhaps his faces were from memories of random people that leapt to mind during the near-fatal instance that triggered the regeneration. Colin Baker played a Time Lord before he was the Doctor and he shot then-Doctor Peter Davison on Gallifrey. Right after, the Doctor wore that face. Perhaps Pertwee’s 3rdDoctor had met the young Curator of the Undergallery, hence changing into Tom Baker’s face as inferred in “Day of the Doctor”. Even Capaldi acknowledged his Doctor’s facial origin.

What we do know for sure and beyond doubt is that when you have something like a coffee mug and it breaks and you follow up by buying a new mug that looks exactly like it, you simply cannot claim that they’re both the same mug and in the case of the Doctor, this simple, cognitive avenue of thought applies as well. All new body- same shape- new incarnation. Period.

While we may live in the Era of Anti-Intellectualism, what with the Americans having elected Trump and the Brits putting that ass-scab Johnson into top political offices, it’s no wonder that the Doctor Who fan base cannot accept these things. They’re still crying like infants; screaming at those of us with working brain cells that Jodie Whittaker is the 13th Doctor.

So while the show may have had its issues, part of the problem is that “Newvians” think they’re oh-so-smart-and-facts-be-damned attitude is somehow valid. It isn’t even a pleasure talking ‘Who’ with others. Too often there’s the resounding risk of being attacked or ostracized as a heretic for calling them out on their bullshit. This isn’t to let the BBC, marketing divisions and “bling” makers that don’t want to change their packaging off the hook. They’re very much part of this problem and it’s an issue that wouldn’t BE an issue had Davies clarified to the unwashed masses that Tennant was two incarnations and had Moffat simply hired Paul McGann to be the Doctor for the Time War in the goddamn first place.

Moving on, this brings us to the post-Smith era with the 14th Doctor, Peter Capaldi. I had very much looked forward to his time as the Doctor as he was a long-time fan of the show and he knew his stuff. That seems a little trivial to some, but if you’re going to play a role, you should KNOW the character you’re going to portray. I really have no complaints about Capaldi’s era; his Doctor was a bit like earlier incarnations and it was Capaldi’s interpretation of how the character should be, but thinking back, not too many of the stories from his time were… memorable. Part of what made Davies’ time as show runner was that most, not all but most of the stories done during his tenure as show runner were not only memorable but worth revisiting.

I’ve binged Eccleston and Tennant’s stories, starting with “Rose” straight through until “End of Time” with a lot of enthusiasm. During that stretch, I found that one of the best; nay THE best one-off writer was Moffat. I was looking forward to his legacy when it was announced that he was taking the helm when Davies stepped down. However, he initially turned the show into “The Amy Pond Show featuring Rory and some guy called The Doctor with special guest star River Song”. The lead character, the one the show is named after, seriously took a back seat for the first few seasons. The “Suck Factor” came into play, not just on a story by story basis but for a whole season where Moffat couldn’t hold a story arc together if his life depended upon it while Davies was a total master of it. Moffat refused to listen to suggestion on criticism, and that egotism make the suck factor worse.

During Capaldi’s time it only got worse. Add to that the same horrific fuck-ups that were done during the show’s original run began bubbling up like they did back then. Egos began to run the show. The “PC” police started poking at it, chipping away and changing it so that it took a lot of the fun out of things. The writing got bad. The filming schedules were sporadic and there were large gaps of time between shows. It was a death spiral for Doctor Who back in the 1980’s, and we’re seeing it again. At least Capaldi’s time as the Doctor ended will and introducing ‘Missy’ was a welcome surprise which was obviously a warm-up for the introduction of a female Doctor (which was a concept that had been around since 4th Doctor Tom Baker left the show and before they’d cast Peter Davison as his successor).

With that said, I get asked “Why a woman? What’s wrong with having a decent male role model that doesn’t carry a gun?” Well, the answer is- nothing. I rather prefer a male in the role, but have never, EVER been adverse to a female actor in the lead. This is a science fiction show, after all, and if it is to grow, new ideas and concepts will come around for better or worse and there’s never been an issue for me having a female lead. I just wish it wasn’t Jodie Whittaker. Holy. Shit.

She’s an alright actor, but she’s clearly out of her bailiwick when it came to Doctor Who. She’d barely heard of it and new NOTHING of the character or the show’s history. She went into this with ZERO research and it shows. She’s NOT Doctor material on any level and cannot act the part for shit. This era already began in the crapper and of course, having Chibnall as show runner made the show’s inevitable demise more concrete.

To begin with, let’s just start with some basics, shall we? I’ve made it clear that I loathe Whittaker in the role, especially when there’s someone like Phoebe Waller-Bridge out there who’d simply and totally own the role and make it so much better. However, the show kicked off trying to run like an Olympic sprinter and it ended up staggering like a drunk on meth attempting to navigate a dark, foggy back alley in a heavy snow on icy tarmac covered in wet leaves.

The outfit. Holy mother of god, what the fuck? If you thought Colin Baker’s ‘technicolour dreamcoat’ was a disaster, what the unholy hell did the wardrobe department put Whittaker in? It looks like something from a “Mork and Mindy” reject bin. The first female incarnation and THAT was the best they could come up with??? Seriously?

Then came the crystal-tipped dildo of a sonic screwdriver. Need I say more on this? Your first woman Doctor and you give her a sonic screwdriver that’s sure to hit the ol’ G-spot every time? What the hell were they thinking?

And the TARDIS. Sweet Jesus, who the hell let props DO that to the TARDIS???? A biscuit dispenser? I thought Smith’s initial ‘brassworks’ console room was horrible at first but it did grow on me after a while but Whittaker’s “Crystal Fuckery On Ice” console room is simply the singular, worst of all the TARDIS sets ever made since the show’s inception.

To compliment the already uninteresting new Doctor, let’s talk about the companions. Not much to say, really. Not interesting. Not exciting. Not memorable in any way other than the fact that they cast everyone from ‘the north’ and if it wasn’t for captioning, most Americans can’t understand most of what any of the main cast is saying. Hell, I’m an American and my family mostly British and my kid has to keep asking me what the hell is being said most of the time and I can’t even tell half the time.

First season… What can I say? I’ve got nothing, mostly because I can’t really recall it without looking it up or watching it again. It was totally unmemorable until the very end when it perked up a tick with the desperate yet irrelevant stunt of bring Captain Jack Harkness in for a cameo out of sheer desperation for rating because things were just THAT boring and unmemorable. Add to that a ‘mystery Doctor’, or ‘Doctor Ruth’ as she’s sometimes called, dressed FAR better than Jodi and man, could Jo Martin command the role, upstaging Jodie on every level. She was more The Doctor in her few and short scenes than Jodie was in her entire time in the role. There’s no solid explanation as to who Jo’s character really was at time or writing. Then again, no solid anything is Chibnall’s signature in Doctor Who. Nothing is consistent or sacred to this fop. This brings us to…

Whittaker’s final season- thank fuck.

While I was all for a more inclusive and diverse cast for DW, and having a woman in the lead, putting a twat like Chibnall in charge became a real deal breaker. I knew his type back in school. He tipped his hand as one of those angry little jerks who say the 4th Doctor’s story “The Brain of Morbius” back in the summer of 1977 and lost his mind in the process.

In this particular story, the Doctor visits Karn, meets the Sisterhood, and discovers that a villainous renegade and war criminal Time Lord named Morbius, who’d been executed on Karn long ago, lived on in the lab of a ‘mad scientist’. Only Morbius’ brain survived and was kept in a jar to be placed in an amalgamation of alien body parts found in different crash sites on the barren plains of Karn. The scientist even has an ‘Igor’ sidekick to help him. Eventually (spoiler alert) the brain of Morbius gets put inside the “Frankenstein’s Monster” of a body and the Doctor faces off with him in a game Time Lords call “Mind Bending” which is, as the Doctor explained to Sarah Jane Smith, a sort of Time Lord wrestling, mind-to-mind.

With the Doctor and Morbius at the controls of a mind scanning machine, the two duke it out, trying to push each other back into their own memories, risking death if pushed too far. We saw the faces of Jon Pertwee, Patrick Troughton and William Hartnell appear on the monitor as well as eight others. No actual, solid declaration was initially made at the time but behind the scenes, writers and producers inferred that the Doctor could be older than we thought and his story having begun far before Hartnell came along… BUT!

THEN came “The Deadly Assassin” which flushed that notion down the shitter. It was two stories after when the 4th Doctor had to return to Gallifrey (first time on screen) and he’d left Sarah Jane back on Earth (apparently nowhere near her home in Croydon). In this story, it is plainly and definitively cast out there: The Rule of Twelve. A Time Lord could regenerate twelve times for a total of thirteen incarnations. This meant that given that there were already eight “Morbius Doctors” revealed on top of the four we knew of from the show already, that put Tom Baker at incarnation number twelve and that his successor would be the last one.

Given that this would complicate matters and/or kill one of the BBC’s biggest cash-cow, they amended the prior narrative that inferred that the other faces were the Doctor and changed it to those of Morbius before he was executed. It wasn’t a detrimental fix, but one that was needed to clarify things. Thus it was clarified, settled, and that was that, right?

Wrong. There were and are still fans who will tear your face off like a maddened monkey if you tell them otherwise; they are firm that those faces were of the Doctor. “Take your facts and get fucked! It’s the Doctor!” Wild, right? You’d think that people who persisted with it would be considered the bloody village idiot and ignored, ostracized and put into a mental health facility before they hurt themselves of others or do irreparable damage to something… Something like Doctor Who… by making one of these deranged arseholes show runner someday… like Chibnall. Yeah, he was one of the village idiots. You can tell because he specifically and intentionally showed a very brief flash of the Mind Bending scene when “Doctor Karen” was having flashback as the whole “Timeless Child” horse shit was being shoveled around.

Speaking of “Doctor Karen” and Whittaker’s Doctor is known in some circles… While I had no complaints of grief over a woman actor taking the role… I thought the point of feminism was to being all people to a respectful, common level of existence. People who fear feminism because of misinterpretation just had their fears affirmed when Doctor Karen told Stephen Fry’s character that she’s “had an upgrade”… UPGRADE???? Really? Now Doctor Who is pitching that women are an upgrade from being a man? Moffat did the same thing after The General regenerated into a woman and she complained about how men cope with all the testosterone. Jesus Horatio Christ. What a defeat for Doctor Who right there. So much for the assertion that women aren’t trying to make themselves out to be better than men and the really shit thing is that it was MEN that put that out there in the Whoniverse. Yeah; fuck you, Moffat and ESPECIALLY Chibnall, you ball-less wonders.

As this whole “Timeless Child” shit-fuckery rolled out, I could see that Chibnall was trying to push his own views out into the show with no regard to established canon or respect for all those who worked so hard on the show for over fifty years. He was going to burn it all down and try to remake it in his own image. Unfortunately, that image is akin to an angry monkey throwing its own shit around the zoo and he clearly thinks he’s clever and even funny. Hell, he seems to be having a grand old time while the Whoniverse burns to the ground irreparably.

So what hope does Russell T. Davies have as he returns as show runner in charge of all the creative powers while the BBC is left sitting in a damp puddle of it’s own shart-fest?

Part of the magic of Doctor Who was the lead character being a good-guy shrouded in a bit of mystery. We weren’t meant to know exactly who he was in his past before leaving Gallifrey. Having a little slice of his past come to light on rare occasion was gravitas; a bit of sweet delight added to an already delightful meal for the mind that was as subtle as a chocolate covered cherry. Davies knew this when he re-imagined the Doctor as a sort of PTSD stricken, post war veteran of the Time War and he left that time a mystery to slowly be unfurled over the course of years that led up to the 50thanniversary story eight years later. During that time, the Doctor revealed a bit about his origins but not really a lot. It was more of a revelation into the people of Gallifrey, really.

During the Classics, Hartnell never specified why he and his granddaughter Susan were exiled. Troughton revealed that the Doctor’s family was “gone” and that he’d still think of them but we don’t actually know if he meant that they were dead or lost somewhere or if they were the ones that sent the Doctor away and didn’t want him around anymore. Much later, during McCoy’s story “Remembrance of the Daleks” it is revealed that when the Doctor first stole the TARDIS and ran away with Susan that he’d brought with him a relic of the Ancients of Gallifrey; the Hand of Omega. Still, he wasn’t totally clear on how he got this relic or specifically WHY he made off with it. All we know is that when the Doctor first arrived at Totter’s Lane, he hid the Hand on Earth and that McCoy came back to just after that time in order to reclaim it so that the Daleks wouldn’t get their plungers on it.

The Doctor is, or at least WAS a character with a mostly untold, mysterious past and that defined the character immensely. It was a common consistency from the first episode right up until the show died with Peter Capaldi’s incarnation. The entire “Whittaker Era” destroyed any semblance of Doctor Who. While everyone was once free to imagine what the Doctor’s past was all about, that’s now been utterly annihilated by Chibnall’s maniacal, childish and outright desperation to be loved as he crammed a nonsensical, boorish, and very forced storyline out of his arse in order to make his own fantasies and dreams the final, end-all-be-all of Whovian Canon. There is no longer really a “Who” in “Doctor Who” anymore. It’s now Chibnall’s wet dream; a foul-tasting scheme for revenge for all the times he was told to sod off over the Morbius Doctors and all the times he’d been beaten up by bullies for being such an argumentative, geeky asshole. Well, that’s what I’d wager this all is, at any rate.

There’s only one real fix to this problem and sadly, it sucks and yet it’s the only path to redemption for my beloved Doctor Who. Davies has two solid paths to take from here on out and either choice is going to piss off a lot of people. To restore Doctor Who to its former greatness, he’s going to essentially have to do a major retcon job and start over with Capaldi’s regeneration. Maybe getting Jo Martin to return as the REAL post-Capaldi Doctor and making Jodi a stray bit of regeneration energy that went astray or something would do it… Perhaps Phoebe Waller-Bridge… Helen Mirren, anyone?

The other path Davies could take is literally to do nothing. He could try to soldier on and hope ignoring the issue like he did in clarifying Tennant’s two incarnations and push by it in hope we’ll ignore or forget about it as well. That seems to be the 21stcentury way of dealing with things in “polite society”; turning things into “alternative facts”.

In closing, I can only say this- this sort of thing is EXACTLY what the 4thDoctor was driving at when he said:

"You know the very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common. They don't alter their views to fit the facts. They alter the facts to fit the views. Which can be uncomfortable if you happen to be one of the facts that needs altering."