#eleanor seed

[lulu2992]

“Welcome.”

In exactly two years in the timeline of “that fic I’ll never write”, on August 29th, 2026, Taylor and John will welcome their first child, a daughter named Eleanor Hope Seed.

I picked this middle name because it felt right (I doubt I’m the only one who’s had this idea for a Seed baby and/or Far Cry 5 OC) and her first name was inspired by Eleanor Lamb from BioShock 2, the character who awakened my parental instincts.

Between 2026 and 2035, the couple will have a total of four children. In fact, until very recently (about a month and a half ago), I would have said three, but I decided to also include a last son, originally from a sort of New Dawn AU I had. It suddenly made me very sad that he didn’t exist in the “main” timeline, so I fixed that :)

[coochiequeens]

‘100% feminist’: how Eleanor Rathbone invented child benefit – and changed women’s lives for ever

She was an MP and author with a formidable reputation, fighting for the rights of women and refugees, and opposing the appeasement of Hitler. Why isn’t she better known today?

Ladies please reblog to give her the recognition she deserves

By Susanna Rustin Thu 4 Jul 2024

My used copy of the first edition of The Disinherited Family arrives in the post from a secondhand bookseller in Lancashire. A dark blue hardback inscribed with the name of its first owner, Miss M Marshall, and the year of publication, 1924, it cost just £12.99. I am not a collector of old tomes but am thrilled to have this one. It has a case to be considered among the most important feminist economics books ever written.

Its centenary has so far received little, if any, attention. Yet the arguments it sets out are the reason nearly all mothers in the UK receive child benefit from the government. Its author, Eleanor Rathbone, was one of the most influential women in politics in the first half of the 20th century. She led the National Union of Societies for Equal Citizenship (Nusec, the main suffragist organisation, also formerly known as the National Union of Women Suffrage Societies) from 1919, when Millicent Fawcett stood down, until the roughly five million women who were not enfranchised in 1918 gained the vote 10 years later. In 1929, aged 57, she became an MP, and remained in parliament until her death in 1946. While there, she built up a formidable reputation based on her advocacy for women’s rights, welfare reform and the rights of refugees, and her opposition to the appeasement of Hitler.

It would not be true to say that Eleanor Rathbone has been forgotten. Her portrait by James Gunn hangs in the National Portrait Gallery. Twenty years ago she was the subject of a fine biography and she is remembered at Somerville college, Oxford – where she studied in the 1890s and ran a society called the Associated Prigs. (While the name was a joke, Rathbone did have a priggish side – as well as being an original thinker, tremendous campaigner, and stubborn, sensitive personality.) She also features in Rachel Reeves’s book The Women Who Made Modern Economics, although Reeves – who hopes shortly to become the UK’s first female chancellor – pays more attention to her contemporary, Beatrice Webb.

A thrilling tome … The Disinherited Family by Eleanor Rathbone. Photograph: Alicia Canter/The Guardian

But Rathbone, who came from a wealthy dynasty of nonconformist merchants, does not have anything like the name-recognition of the Pankhursts or Millicent Fawcett, or of pioneering politicians including Nancy Astor and Ellen Wilkinson. Nor does she enjoy the cachet of writers such as Virginia Woolf, whose polemic about women’s opportunities, A Room of One’s Own, was published five years after Rathbone’s magnum opus.

There are many reasons for Rathbone’s relative obscurity. One is that she was the first woman elected to parliament as an independent (and one of a handful of men at the time). Thus there is no political party with an interest in turning her into an icon. Having spent the past three years writing a book about the British women’s movement, I am embarrassed to admit that when I started, I didn’t know who she was.

Rathbone was not the first person to propose state benefits paid to mothers. The endowment of motherhood or family allowances, as the policy was known, was written about by the Swedish feminist Ellen Key, and tried out as a project of the Fabian Women’s Group, who published their findings in a pamphlet in 1912. But Rathbone pushed the idea to the forefront. A first attempt to get Nusec to adopt it was knocked back in 1921, and she then spent three years conducting research. The title she gave the book she produced, The Disinherited Family, reflected her view that women and children were being deprived of their rightful share of the country’s wealth.

The problem, as she saw it, was one of distribution. While the wage system in industrialised countries treated all workers on a given pay grade the same, some households needed more money than others. While unions argued for higher wages across the board, Rathbone believed the state should supplement the incomes of larger families. She opened the book with an archly phrased rhetorical question: “Whether there is any subject in the world of equal importance that has received so little consideration as the economic status of the family?” She went on to accuse economists of behaving as if they were “self-propagating bachelors” – so little did the lives of mothers appear to interest them.

Rathbone’s twin aims were to end wives’ dependence on husbands and reward their domestic labour. Family allowances paid directly to them could either be spent on housekeeping or childcare, enabling them to go out to work. Ellen Wilkinson, the radical Labour MP for Middlesbrough (and future minister for education), was among early supporters. William Beveridge read the book when he was director of the London School of Economics, declared himself a convert and introduced one of the first schemes of family-linked payments for his staff.

But others were strongly opposed. Conservative objections to such a radical expansion of the state were predictable. But they were echoed by liberal feminists including Millicent Fawcett, who called the plan “a step in the direction of practical socialism”. Trade unions preferred to push for a living wage, while some male MPs thought the policy undermined the role of men as breadwinners. Labour and the Trades Union Congress (TUC) finally swung behind family allowances in 1942. As the war drew to a close, Rathbone led a backbench rebellion against ministers who wanted to pay the benefit to fathers instead.

Rathbone celebrates the Silver Jubilee of the Women’s Vote in London, 20 February 1943. Photograph: Picture Post/Getty Images

It is for this signature policy that she is most often remembered today. At a time when hundreds of thousands of children have been pushed into poverty by the two-child limit on benefit payments, Rathbone’s advocacy on behalf of larger families could hardly be more relevant. The limit, devised by George Osborne, applies to universal and child tax credits – and not child benefit itself. But Rishi Sunak’s government announced changes to the latter in this year’s budget. From 2026, eligibility will be assessed on a household rather than individual basis. This is intended to limit payments to better-off, dual-income families. But the UK Women’s Budget Group and others have objected on grounds that child benefit should retain its original purpose of directly remunerating primary carers (the vast majority of them mothers) for the work of rearing children. It remains to be seen whether this plan will be carried through by the next government.

Rathbone once told the House of Commons she was “100% feminist”, and few MPs have been as single-minded in their commitment to women’s causes. As president of Nusec (the law-abiding wing of the suffrage campaign), she played a vital role in finishing the job of winning votes for women.

The last few years have seen a resurgence of interest in women’s suffrage, partly due to the centenary of the first women’s suffrage act. Thanks to a brilliant campaign by Caroline Criado Perez, a statue of Millicent Fawcett, the nonmilitant suffragist leader, now stands in Westminster, a few minutes walk from the bronze memorial of Emmeline Pankhurst erected in 1930. Suffragette direct action has long been a source of fascination. What is less well known is that militants played little part in the movement after 1918. It was law-abiding constitutionalists – suffragists rather than suffragettes – who pushed through the 1920s to win votes for the younger and poorer women who did not yet have them. Rathbone helped lead this final phase of the campaign, along with Conservative MP Nancy Astor and others.

Rathbone was highly critical of the militants, and once claimed that they “came within an inch of wrecking the suffrage movement, perhaps for a generation”. Today, with climate groups including Just Stop Oil copying the suffragette tactic of vandalising paintings, it is worth remembering that many women’s suffrage campaigners opposed such methods.

Schismatic though it was, the suffrage movement at least had a shared goal. An even greater challenge for feminists in the 1920s was agreeing on future priorities. Equal pay, parental rights and an end to the sexual double standard were among demands that had broad support. After the arrival in the House of Commons of the first female MPs, legislative successes included the removal of the bar on women’s entry to the professions, new rights for mothers and widows’ pensions. But there were also fierce disagreements.

Tensions between class and sexual politics were longstanding, with some on the left regarding feminism as a distraction. The Labour MP Marion Phillips, for example, thought membership of single-sex groups placed women “in danger of getting their political opinions muddled”. There was also renewed conflict over protective legislation – the name given to employment laws that differentiated between men and women. While such measures included maternity leave and safety rules for pregnant women, many feminists believed their true purpose was to keep jobs for men – and prevent female workers from competing.

Underlying such arguments was the question of whether women, once enfranchised, should strive for equal treatment, or push for measures designed to address their specific needs. As the debate grew more heated, partisans on either side gave themselves the labels of “old” and “new” feminists. While the former, also called equalitarians, wanted to focus on the obstacles that prevented women from participating in public life on the same terms as men, the new feminists led by Rathbone sought to pioneer an innovative, woman-centred politics. Since this brought to the fore issues such as reproductive health and mothers’ poverty, it is known as “maternalist feminism”.

Rathbone and other Liverpool suffragettes campaigning in 1910. Photograph: Shawshots/Alamy

The faultline extended beyond Britain. But Rathbone and her foes had some of the angriest clashes. At one international convention, Lady Rhondda, a wealthy former suffragette, used a speech to deride rivals who chose to “putter away” at welfare work, instead of the issues she considered important.

The specific policy points at issue have, of course, changed over the past century. But arguments about how much emphasis feminists should place on biological differences between men and women carry on.

Eleanor Rathbone did not live long enough to see the welfare state, including child benefit paid to mothers, take root in postwar Britain. Her election to parliament coincided with the Depression, and the lengthening shadows of fascism and nazism meant that she, like her colleagues, became preoccupied with foreign affairs. In the general election of 1935, the number of female MPs fell from 15 to nine, meaning Rathbone’s was one of just a handful of women’s voices. She used hers to oppose the policy of appeasement, and support the rights of refugees, including those escaping Franco’s Spain. During the war she helped run an extra-parliamentary “woman-power committee”, which advocated for female workers.

She also became a supporter of Indian women’s rights, though her liberal imperialism led to tensions with Indian feminists. During the war she angered India’s most eminent writer, Rabindranath Tagore, and its future prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, when she attacked the Congress party’s policy of noncooperation with Britain’s war effort. Tagore criticised what he called the “sheer insolent self-complacency” of her demand that the anti-colonial struggle should be set aside while Britain fought Germany.

Rathbone turned down a damehood. After their first shared house in Westminster was bombed, she and her life partner, the Scottish social worker Elizabeth Macadam, moved around the corner to a flat on Tufton Street (Macadam destroyed their letters, meaning that Rathbone’s intimate life remains obscure, but historians believe the relationship was platonic). From there they moved to a larger, quieter house in Highgate. On 2 January 1946, Rathbone suddenly died.

Rathbone’s blue plaque at Tufton Court. Photograph: PjrPlaques/Alamy

A blue plaque on Tufton Street commemorates her as the “pioneer of family allowances” – providing an alternative claim on posterity for an address more commonly associated with the Brexit campaign, since a house a few doors down became its headquarters. She is remembered, too, in Liverpool, where her experience of dispersing welfare to desperately poor soldiers’ wives in the first world war changed the course of her life, and where one of her former homes is being restored by the university.

I don’t believe in ghosts. But walking in Westminster recently, I imagined her hastening across St James’s Park to one of her meetings at Nancy Astor’s house near the London Library. Today, suffragettes are celebrated for their innovative direct action. But Rathbone blazed a trail, too, with her dedication as a campaigner, writer, lobbyist and “100% feminist” parliamentarian.

 Sexed: A History of British Feminism by Susanna Rustin is published by Polity Press (£20). To support the Guardian order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply

[simplegenius042]

Music Monday & "Which child of Agamemnon and Klytemnestra are you?" quiz

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton

Tagging @adelaidedrubman @shallow-gravy @cassietrn @chazz-anova @strangefable @wrathfulrook @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @voidika @onehornedbeast @vampireninjabunnies-blog @g0dspeeed @direwombat @strafethesesinners @jillvalentinesday @inafieldofdaisies @minilev @a-rose-in-a-garden-of-weeds @snake-in-the-garden and @nightbloodbix

You can find the quiz here. Music and results below:

After my last WIPs only showing angst, here's a love song for OCs Azriel and Schrödinger Turquoise specifically from Far Cry The Silver Chronicles (however, as of typing, I do not make any promises that quiz results will not include angst). Song below:

"Well I don't care what they think Drag racing my little red sports car I'm not unhinged or unhappy, I'm just wild

I'm on the run with you, my sweet love There's nothing wrong contemplating God Under the chemtrails over the country club We're in our jewels in the swimming pool Me and my sister just playin' it cool Under the chemtrails over the country club

Meet you for coffee at the elementary schools We laugh about nothing as the summer gets cool It's beautiful how this deep normality settles down over me I'm not bored or unhappy, I'm still strange and wild

You're in the wind, I'm in the water Nobody's son, nobody's daughter Watching the chemtrails over the country club Suburbia, The Brentwood Market What to do next? Maybe we'll love it White picket chemtrails over the country club

My love, my love

Washing my hair, doing the laundrey Late night TV, I want you on me Like when we were kids under chemtrails and the country clubs It's never too late, baby, so don't give up It's never too late, baby, so don't give up."

And now three results from the quiz!

First we got Eleanor (from The UnTitledverse). And hot damn she got called out. Considering she was created by the first evil being of darkness (by function) to be created into existence only to side with its twin which is an Eldritch that is the embodiment of good and light (though take caution, both Eldritch take their moralities to the extreme) definitely fits the vibe Elektra is giving off.

Next we got Ezekiel (from Far Cry The Silver Chronicles). A man just looking for any survivors from the Tumultite Massacre, hoping his diversion had succeeded in driving away the Enforcers from the Omar sisters (+ Silva's infant daughter). Only to find a world broken down by war and hoping to fix it alongside Thomas Rush as his Captain of Security.

And lastly we have Inviticus (from Life, Despair & Monsters). An antagonist apart of the Midnight Rise, he is Malvolio's main enforcer, and he takes pleasure in the pain he inflicts on his endless hunts.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

will you please give us examples of resources to look at if we want to learn more about the concept of gender and maybe even transness in Medieval Europe? thanks!

whooooo boy right, there's a lot! I wanna start this by saying that I am very much not an expert, and I only have access to stuff I can find for free and the handful of books I can afford to buy second hand. Most of my research has been around gender as it relates to transness and GNC people. I am absolutely missing stuff, or have forgotten stuff, or simply lack the know-how to find stuff.

There's a few bits I've got on a TBR but haven't read yet - some I've included and some I haven't, depending on the source and how established it is.

Also: this is medieval Europe. The way pronouns are used to describe people don't really align with modern views of sex and gender. Also be aware of old-fashioned language use (for example, some texts talk about "hermaphrodites"). Remember that the way we talk about gender and trans identities is far different to how we even spoke about it 20 years ago.

So with that out of the way... I am chucking this under a read more, because it's long:

---

GENDER

Medieval ideas around gender were different to how we now think about it. The Hippocratic view of gender saw gender as a sort of wet/dry, cold/hot spectrum upon which men were at one end and women the other (and in the middle were intersex people). The male body was seen as hot and dry, and the female as cold and wet. The cold, wetness is what made women try to seek out heat from guys. A lot comes down to humors rather than genitals - if you're hot and dry, that innately means you grow a penis, because the heat sorta forces it out. So the marker is that penis = man, but you only have that penis in the first place because of your hot, dry humor.

Some people believed the vagina was an inverted penis - as in, the penis turned outside in. Some schools of thought believed that both men and women produced "seed", and that both were needed for conception. These thoughts and ideas shifted around a lot.

The Hippocratic view shifted towards Aristotelian ideas around the 12th Century, where the male/female divide was a lot stronger. There were also surgeons throughout all these periods who sought to "correct" intersex genitalia with surgery (how little things change).

This podcast (I've linked to a transcript, because I have more time to read than listen to things) with Dr Eleanor Janega is super interesting. In fact, I'd recommend reading her whole blog, which is fascinating. She also has a book out (but I've not read it so I can't give a yay or nay on that one)

The Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages by Joan Cadden seems to be a good source on this, but I've not read it so I can't vouch for it 100%.

I've listed below some real people who could fit into our modern interpretation of transness, and the fact that all of these people were only "outed" when arrested or at their death makes me think that there were probably a lot more people at the time who would also fit into this category. It does feel (to me, a layman) that you could rock up in a new town and go "hello I'm Jeff the Man" and people would just accept that.

It's also important to note that the majority of sources I've found are about people we could define as trans men (FTM). I've only found one person who could be described as a trans woman. If anyone out there has more sources for trans women, I'd love to hear them - specifically in medieval Europe/England.

There's also a big discussion to be had around the idea of women dressing as men to achieve a goal. People love getting into arguments about it. My general rule is that if someone lived as X gender, and was forcibly outed against their will or at death, then I feel we can more safely assume that their experience maps more closely onto a trans narrative than it does one of a woman taking on the "disguise" of a man.

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TRANS & GNC ACADEMIA

Here's some of the sources I've been using that examine medievalism through a trans or trans-adjacent lens.

Trans and Genderqueer Subjects in Medieval Hagiography, Alicia Spencer-Hall & Blake Gutt - a deep dive/collection of essays about medieval religious figures/saints through a trans lens, specifically about cross-dressing figures. Really fascinating, and available on open access.

How to be a Man, Though Female: Changing Sex in Medieval Romance, Angela Jane Weisl - goes into detail about medieval texts in which characters change their sex.

Transgender Genealogy in Tristan de Nanteuil, Blake Gutt - trans theory in the story Tristan de Nanteuil.

Trans Historical: Gender Plurality before the Modern, edited by Greta LaFleur, Masha Raskolnikov & Anna Kłosowska - A great big examination into trans history/gender. I desperately want this book.

Clothes Make the Man, Female Cross Dressing in Medieval Europe, Valerie R. Hotchkiss (book, no online source available) - Another look into women dressing as men and gender inversion.

The Shape of Sex, Leah DeVun (book) - A history of nonbinary sex, 200 - 1400BC. Not read this one yet but it's on my TBR.

In fact, I'd recommend all of Leah DeVun's work, which I'm currently making my way through. I'm currently reading Mapping the Borders of Sex.

The Third Gender and Aelfric's Lives of Saints, Rhonda L. McDaniel - An examination into the idea of a "third gender" in monastic life based around chastity and spiritualism

Erecting Sex: Hermaphrodites and the Medieval Science of Surgery, Leah DeVun - an essay about "corrective" surgery on intersex individuals in the 13th/14th centuries. (I've not fully read this one yet but the topic is relevant)

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TRANS FIGURES

Joseph/Hildegund (died 1188) - A monk who, upon his death, was discovered to have a vagina/breasts.

Eleanor Rykener (1394) - A (likely) trans sex worker arrested in 1394 (and another source that isn't wiki)

Katherina Hetzeldorfer (killed 1477) - An early record of a "woman" being executed for female sodomy. Katherina dressed and presented as a man, and some scholars read them as a trans man.

Marinos/Marina the Monk (5th Cent) - A monk who was born a woman and lived as a man in a monastery. Marinos was accused of getting a local innkeeper's daughter pregnant. Their "true sex" was discovered upon their death.

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ROMANCES* & GENDER

If you're interested in the idea of gender presentation and trans-adjacent stories, I very much recommend taking a look at some contemporary sources. I've tried to take a sort of neutral approach to pronouns for these descriptions, but it's hard to marry the medieval and modern ideas of sex and gender! The titles are all links.

*Romances here means Chivalric Romances: prose/verse narratives about chivalry, often with fantastic elements. Not, like, falling in love Romances.

Le Roman de Silence (13th Cent) - in order to ensure inheritance, a couple raise their daughter as a boy. The baby is called Silence/Silentius/Silentia. The poem features the forces of Nature and Nurture, who argue about Silence's "true" gender - Nature claims they're a girl, and Nurture claims they're a boy. Silence has a variety of adventures, largely referred to in the text as a man with he/him pronouns, and at the end their "true gender" is discovered and, as a woman, they marry the king.

Yde et Olive (15th Cent) - to avoid being married to their own father, Yde, a woman, disguises themselves as a man and becomes a knight. They end up in Rome, where the king marries them to their daughter, Olive. After a couple of weeks, Yde tells Olive about their "true gender", but the conversation is overheard. The King demands Yde bathe with him to prove they are a man. An angel intervenes and transforms Yde's body into that of a man.

Iphis and Ianthe (Greek/Roman myth, but also in Ovid's Metamorphois, which first came to England in the 15th Cent) - Telethusa is due to give birth, but her husband tells her that if the baby is a girl he'll have it killed. When she gives birth to a girl, she disguises the baby as a boy. Eventually, Iphis is engaged to Ianthe. (Incidentally, this is also a really early example of same-sex romance, as Iphis struggles with their love for Ianthe "as a woman"). Before the wedding, Iphis and Telethusa pray at the temple of Isis, who transforms Iphis into a man.

Tristan de Nanteuil (11th/12th Cent) - from the Chanson de geste, after his alleged death, Tristan's wife, Blanchandin/e, disguises themselves as a Knight. Clarinde, a sultan's daughter, falls in love with them. Blanchandin manages to hide their "true sex", but when Clarinde demands they bathe with her to prove they are a man they flee into the woods. There, they meet an angel who asks if they want to be transformed into a man. Blanchandin accepts and he is turned into a man for the rest of the poem. (Incidentally the angel gives him a giant cock. Yes, the text specifies this).

Le Livre de la mutation de fortune (1403) - written in the first person by Christine de Pizan, the poem describes how the narrator is transformed by Fortune into a man after the death of their husband during a storm at sea. They maintain that 13 years after the event, they are still living as a man. (They also mention Tiresias, a Greek mythological figure who was a man transformed into a woman for seven years).

Okay, for now - that's about all I can think of. Happy reading!

[soracities]

It often feels as if I'm not here, that I'm a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I'd lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.

Gail Honeyman, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

[cuubism]

Made in an Instant

Dream's eldritch pregnancy part 4/5

Hob has picked up some books about taking care of babies, because he’s pretty sure whatever knowledge he’s retained from the 1580s is going to be a bit out of date in today’s world. He’s partway through one when there’s a tap on the window, and a moment later, Matthew squeezes through where it’s already open a crack.

Hopping onto the coffee table he says, with no preamble, “Hey, you got any sleeping pills?”

“Why, you need some?” Hob asks, closing the book.

“You need some,” Matthew corrects. “Luce sent me to get you. Says the boss isn’t feeling well.”

Hob lurches upright. “What? What do you mean, not feeling well?”

“That’s all she said.” Matthew flutters his wings anxiously. “Should probably just come along.”

“Matthew!”

But Matthew doesn’t give any more context to settle Hob’s rapidly spiking anxiety. He hops back onto the windowsill. “Sleeping pills!” he insists, and flutters back up to the Dreaming.

Like hell is Hob going to be able to sleep with that kind of omen. ‘Not feeling well?’ Is he sick? Is something wrong?

Hob’s mind goes unbidden to Eleanor, and he nearly drops the bottle of sleeping pills all over the floor in his rush to get them out. Fuck. Fuck.

Please be alright, he thinks, as he downs three pills and crawls into bed to let them, hopefully, take effect. Please.

--

He wakes in a dark dream space—not the palace. Not Dream’s bedroom, where he feared he’d find him ill or feverish or unconscious in bed, or worse.

It’s… not really much of a place at all, really. Sort of liminal, and dusk-colored, an unfinished dream. Dream is sitting on the floor, his long cloak wrapped around him like a blanket, watching something sort of like a screen, sort of like a window—an opening in the dream space through which golden light is visible, though it doesn’t quite spill through.

Hob stumbles over and falls to his knees beside him, takes Dream by the arm, needing to lay hands on him. “Christ, Dream, I thought you were ill. I thought something terrible happened.”

“No.” Dream’s voice is quiet. He doesn’t look over at Hob, just keeps watching the light. “Matthew and Lucienne are dramatic. I am merely contemplating.”

He doesn’t look like he’s merely ‘contemplating’. He looks sad. It’s in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the downturn of his mouth. And even as Hob watches, he wraps his arms tighter around his knees and rests his chin on them.

“What are you contemplating?” Hob asks softly.

“A dream,” Dream says. He’s still studying the golden window, but as Hob directs his own attention to it he can suddenly see that it’s not just light, it’s… a scene. Or rather, as Dream said, a dream. Whose dream, Hob’s not sure, but he gets the sense it’s not one Dream created, or at least, Dream may once have created the seed of it, but this is a dream as experienced by a dreamer.

“I do not observe dreams often,” Dream says. “I came to this one because I felt something awry.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“Nothing. The dream is perfect. What was wrong was…” he dips his face further down into his knees, looking small, “in me.”

Hob wraps an arm around him and pulls him against his side. Dream stays crunched up in his ball, shrouded in his cloak.

“I meant to leave,” he says. “Instead I find myself watching.”

At last Hob turns properly to the dream itself.

The way Dream’s watching in this non-space really does make it feel like peering in through a window. Within the frame is what looks like a fairly normal home, if idealized in the way of a dream—a homey kitchen with warm light and charming clutter, an adjoining sitting room with comfy armchairs arranged in a half circle around a fireplace. Very storybook, Hob thinks, but a real scene too, one you might walk in on in any happy family’s home.

As he watches, a figure comes round the corner into the kitchen—the dreamer, Hob supposes. She’s carrying a baby wrapped in a sling against her chest, and cradles it close as she goes about making up a bottle. The movements are practiced, familiar, and though the dream doesn’t have much sound the way they’re watching it, Hob thinks she might be humming to herself, or singing quietly.

It’s a sweet, simple little scene, and definitely relevant to their current lives, but Hob doesn’t get why it’s caught Dream’s attention so thoroughly. He hopes it’s not actually some kind of nightmare Dream’s using to enmesh himself in fears and worries about their baby’s future. It doesn’t feel like a nightmare. It feels like a happy dream, only Dream’s evidently seeing something else in it, based on how he’s reacting.

Having made up a bottle, the dreamer takes her baby into the sitting room, settling herself in one of the armchairs and sitting the baby up in the crook of her arm to take the bottle. The baby latches on eagerly, hands grasping at the bottle as he suckles, and the mother keeps singing quietly to him.

Hob still doesn’t get what he’s supposed to be looking at. It’s a very sweet dream, makes him feel sort of wistful, looking forward to those same peaceful moments when their baby arrives, those ordinary moments of daily life when—

Oh.

It’s not Dream’s daily life. It will never be Dream’s daily life, because Dream isn’t a human mother, because Dream doesn’t get to choose to prioritize his baby or his own wants, because he’s responsible for an entire kingdom and the whole dreaming world besides. If Dream were human Hob could give him that, could use all the money he’s hoarded over the years to let Dream take eighteen whole years of maternity leave if he wanted to, to spend time with the baby and do nothing else. But all the money in the world can’t change how it is to be Endless.

“I should not watch for so long,” Dream whispers. “My presence might turn the course of the dream.”

Hob could hardly give a fuck about the dream, honestly. If Dream stops watching it should be because it’s hurting him.

“I’m so sorry, love,” Hob says, pulling Dream in closer to kiss his temple. “I didn’t realize how upset you were about this.”

“I am not upset,” Dream says. “I am just thinking.”

“Sure.”

“It is the way things are. I have greater responsibilities. I should not covet what is not mine to have. It only makes things more difficult.”

“Dream—”

Dream moves away far enough to pull his robe aside. Underneath, he’s wearing only silk lounge pants, his chest bare. His belly bears a definitive roundness to it that was not there the last time Hob saw him, which was not long ago at all.

Hob touches the bump, mesmerized. “Dream…”

“I do not want this,” Dream says, voice ragged. “I do not want to be made to think about it. I made it go away but this dream has brought it back.”

When he touches the roundness of his belly, though, it’s not with revulsion, but with reverence. Hob’s heart breaks for him. Dream works so hard, and sacrifices so much, and now he’s here watching this idyllic dream moment between a mother and her baby, a moment he feels he can’t have.

“Come here, darling.” Hob pulls Dream into his arms, lets him twist his limbs around him and tuck his face into his shoulder. “Come here, sweetheart. It’s alright. You don’t have to make anything go away.”

“There is no point to it,” Dream says, voice muffled in Hob’s shirt. “It only serves as a reminder that— that I will no longer be able to have her with me. That I will have to let her go.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Hob says, though it’s somewhat of an empty promise. Dream’s life is shaped by things he has to do, he only manages to live in the little spaces left in between. “Tell me what you actually want.”

“Hob—”

“Do you remember what I said?” Hob asks. “When you thought I was upset about having her?”

“…Do not go unhappy without saying,” Dream echoes.

“Exactly. So tell me what you want. Not what you think you should have.”

“I want,” Dream says, low, “time. And. To be a better parent than I have been. To stay with her while she needs me. And.” He tucks his face in tighter against Hob’s shoulder, fingers twisting intricate patterns in Hob’s shirt. His voice goes softer. “You said that you wanted to take care of me.”

“I do,” Hob says instantly. “I would give you everything.” His heart aches to hear Dream’s voice so quiet and sad, and as Dream curls tighter against him, he decides, no, fuck this. Dream’s said what he wants, and Hob’s not going to let him go unhappy. The least Hob can do for him, when Dream does so much for everyone else, is make his dream real.

“Making a decision,” he says, with finality.

“What decision?”

“Maternity leave. We’re going home. You’re going with me. And I’m going to spoil and coddle you for the last however many months of this pregnancy. And after, too. I know you can’t stay forever, but you’re going to stay for a while, okay?”

“You will make me?” Dream murmurs, but with no ire. Rather, he sounds like he wants Hob to. “Hob, I cannot—”

“You can. It’s not for forever. The Dreaming will manage, I promise. You have to be okay for the Dreaming to be okay, remember?”

“Can I?” Dream says, more to himself than to Hob. Behind him, the dream starts to fade, the dreamer still rocking her baby as she slowly wakes.

“You can,” Hob insists. “Come on, darling. Let’s go home.”

He starts to try to wake himself up. It’s tough thanks to the sleeping pills, but eventually Hob feels himself start to slip from the Dreaming, Dream still wrapped in his arms—and Dream lets him, ceding into the Waking as Hob does, docile and sad. Christ. Hob’s got a lot of work to do.

Blinking awake in bed has him feeling like he’s been hit by a train, but he tries to shake it off. He’s got more important things to think about.

Dream’s appeared beside him, curled in Hob’s arms, head on Hob’s shoulder. Hob gives him a squeeze, kisses his cheek. Then urges him up. “Come on, love. Up. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Normally he’d let Dream rest, but Hob thinks it might be better to get him moving a bit, have some tea, pull him out of what he’s mired himself in. Limit the wallowing.

Dream allows him to draw him up, sit him on the edge of the bed, seems to gradually come awake as Hob wraps him in a cardigan. “Did you mean it? That I should stay for longer?”

“Of course I did.” He runs his palms over Dream’s shoulders, more to soothe himself than anything. Reassure himself that Dream is in fact, mostly, okay. “You should stay for as long as you want to, and I’ll take care of you. Actually, you should stay for longer than you want to, because I know you’re going to convince yourself you want to go back immediately.”

“I do not know how to just…” he gazes off over Hob’s shoulder, out into the living room. “Stay. And do this.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. For both of you.” Hob lays his hand over the roundness of Dream’s belly. He’s actually kept that. Manifested it in the Waking, too. Hob had thought he would just force it away again as soon as he was able. “Come on. Up you get.”

He brings Dream out to the living room, gets him sat on the couch with a blanket over his lap, makes him a cup of tea and some oatmeal—it seems a bit late for him to suddenly start getting morning sickness but Hob still sticks to bland foods for now—then sits beside him again, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Dream eats his food mechanically and then slowly sips his tea, holding the warm mug tight between his fingers. Gradually the tension in his shoulders seems to drop by increments. Hob rubs the back of his neck, and between his shoulder blades where he’s frozen up, and Dream lets out a long, shivering sigh, nearly dropping his mug as his muscles all spasm and then relax.

“You don’t have to go through it like this, love,” Hob says quietly, as Dream lets out a low, pained sound. “Pregnancy’s hard on anybody I’d bet, but we don’t have to make it harder.”

“Always you seek to make things easier for me, forgetting the reality of my nature,” Dream murmurs.

“Haven’t you realized by now that you’ve married a fool who thinks rules like that are bullshit?”

Dream cracks a small smile. “So I have.”

“Wasn’t expecting to get such easy agreement that I’m a fool, but—”

Dream turns and kisses him, leaning into Hob’s side and Hob’s hand on the back of his neck. Hob draws him close, sinking into his kiss. When they part, Dream rests their faces together.

“I want you to have what you want, you know,” Hob tells him gently. “Damn the rules. Damn your function. You’re worth more than that.” He lays his hand lightly over Dream’s belly, and Dream makes a soft sound, closing his eyes. “Both of you are.”

Dream sets his mug aside to grip Hob’s arms instead, leaning into his embrace. Hob kisses his forehead.

“I’ll take care of you both,” he promises.

“I believe you will,” says Dream.

“Good. Now. You’re not going to think about work. You’re going to sit there on the couch with my laptop and browse catalogues and let me know what baby clothes you want to spend all of my money on, what supplies you need to decorate the nursery like a gothic castle, and so on, and I’ll make you another cup of tea.”

He kisses the back of Dream’s hand, then does, in fact, get him situated on the couch with a pile of blankets, a laptop and a credit card—a dangerous proposition for Hob’s bank account, considering Dream’s general lack of awareness of the value of money, but Dream deserves to be spoiled for once and so Hob’s going to spoil him.

Later, after Dream’s happily purchased God knows what baby things—Hob didn’t look at the total, the credit card statement will be a fun surprise for later—Dream lies down with his head in Hob’s lap as Hob reads him a story. His eyes fall shut as Hob plays with his hair. He looks at peace.

This, of course, is when Matthew taps on the window.

Hob sighs as Dream sits up, shaking himself back to wakefulness. He wants to curse the interruption. Though, to be fair, he probably should have found a way to let Matthew and Lucienne know that Dream was alright. Whoops. Oversight.

He opens the window to let Matthew in.

“Boss!” says Matthew, landing on the couch beside Dream. “We were worried you were— whoa, you’re like, really pregnant!”

Dream raises an imperious eyebrow. “That was already the case.”

“Yeah, but now you’re— nope. Nope. Not gonna say anything. Don’t comment on people’s bodies. Shoulda learned my lesson as a human.”

“A wise choice,” says Dream. “It seems you’ve learned many things, Matthew.”

“Ha, ha. Well, I’m glad you’re okay either way. Are you, like,” he flutters his feathers, hesitant, “taking a break?”

Dream sighs. “It seems so.”

“Hey, good! That’s good. Bout time, right?”

“We think he’s going to take maternity leave,” Hob says. 

“So the baby’s… due… soon?” Matthew asks.

“Undetermined,” says Dream. He really is the primary cause of Hob’s stress.

“…Right. Well, um.” He lands on Dream’s knee, pushes his head against Dream’s arm in an affectionate gesture. “Enjoy, okay? The break I mean. Not the, like. Birth.”

Dream strokes two fingers lightly along the top of his head. “Thank you, Matthew. I shall.”

Matthew hops away again, shaking out his feathers. “And let me know when I get to meet the baby! I’ve never been an uncle but I’m sure I can manage it!”

And with a winged salute, he’s out the window again.

“An uncle,” Dream echoes, and Hob grins.

“What, you thought our baby would have a normal family?”

“I suppose I would rather Matthew than Desire,” Dream says, derision over the latter name. “Though I am wary of letting him babysit.”

“We’ll work all that out later,” Hob says. “Plenty of time, right?”

“Yes.” Dream frowns, then, looking off into the distance. “I… do not know, actually. It’s difficult for me to gauge the baby’s development, or exactly when we might expect her arrival. She is… fickle.”

“Even better that you’re taking a rest, hm?” Hob says. When Dream doesn’t reply, frown only deepening, he takes Dream’s face between his hands. “Hey, love. It’s alright, what you’re feeling. If you’re overwhelmed or— or scared.” Fuck, Hob is scared on Dream’s behalf.

“I am not scared,” Dream says, and for once Hob doesn’t think he’s trying to downplay his feelings. Well, he would know what’s going on in his sort-of-body better than Hob would. “I am just…” he looks off over Hob’s shoulder, considering. “Sad. That I will have to let her go, soon. And that I cannot be here for her as long as I would like to. I am… still dwelling on that dream.”

“Oh, love.” He pulls Dream close again. “You know I’ll make it as real for you as I can.”

Dream hums. “Might we go to bed?”

“‘Course.” Hob picks Dream up from the couch, which makes Dream squeak and cling to him. But in a moment he relaxes in Hob’s arms, laying his head against Hob’s shoulder. Hob feels a swell of affection for him. Okay, he can do this. He can coddle Dream.

He may not know exactly what he’s going to do when the baby arrives. But taking care of his husband is something he can do.

--

It feels easier after that. Dream is still tired, still sad at times, and Hob knows he’s thinking about after the birth, when he’ll eventually have to return to his responsibilities, have to let go of the dream Hob’s trying to construct around him. It’s hard for him to just be in a moment, he always has so many things on his mind. Sometimes Hob catches him looking at the baby monitor with an expression that almost makes Hob regret giving it to him in the first place.

But he catches him at peace, too. Sitting by the window with a cup of tea and a book, hand resting lightly on his belly. Taking long naps in bed, catching up on the regular sleep he undoubtedly doesn’t get. It’s not common for Dream to be at peace, so Hob doesn’t take it for granted. But the time off seems to be doing him some good. Slowly the perennial tension in him seems to unwind.

Hob, meanwhile, just likes having him around. He’s not used to having Dream all to himself all the time, and gets a little happy surprise every time he comes home and Dream is there. It makes him think on the dream that Dream had been mulling over, the mother with her baby. That fantasy of a simpler life where they could just be together without all the complications.

Neither of them is really that person. But it’s nice to think of, and he catches moments of it, during those fragile days.

Usually, he wakes with Dream lying beside him in bed, its own rare privilege that he doesn’t take for granted. On this morning, too, he wakes to find Dream across from him, studying him, their legs just brushing.

Hob yawns, shaking off sleep. “Have you been awake for a while?”

“One could say that I never truly ‘sleep,’ and therefore I am never truly ‘awake,’” says Dream.

“Pedant.”

Dream’s lips twitch up. Smiles have come easier to him since stepping away from his work. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Dream’s smile deepens. “Her name.”

If Hob was still sleepy at all, that wakes him right up. “She’s got a name already?” He feels a little hurt that Dream’s just decided this on his own, before realizing—

“As I did, before I came into existence. It is of her function and powers. A recent development, however, for this to be clear to me.”

“What is she then, darling?” Hob asks, heart pounding unexpectedly.

Dream says it more as a breath than a word. “She is Wish.”

Wish. A smile breaks out over Hob’s face. “That’s not an Endless power, then?” he asks.

“It is not so fundamental a concept as ours. But it holds its own form of power.”

“And comes from dreams, too,” Hob says, nudging him, delighted at the thought of it, and Dream nods. Then a thought occurs. “Wait, is that why Desire kept going on about being ‘auntie’? They could tell?” Desires and wishes can be somewhat similar, Hob thinks.

Dream sighs tiredly. “Desire insists that she takes after them. They are unreasonably smug about it. However, I believe that it is because of you.”

“Me?”

Dream’s smile curves up again and Hob gets the distinct sense he’s about to be made fun of. “You were wishing rather too aggressively to get me pregnant, were you not? Be careful of your fantasies, Hob.”

“Dream.” It’s mortifying to think of it that way. Dream’s not wrong, though. Hob had been fantasizing about it when they had sex. He just hadn’t thought the fantasies would become real.

“Wished too hard and created a wish,” he says, and Dream snickers. “Never a dull moment with you.”

“It is not only because of your fantasies that she is Wish,” Dream continues, a few moments later, “but also, I believe, because of your curiosity. Your constant interest in what the future holds. This too, I believe, is related to wishing.”

“I guess it is,” Hob says, wondering at it. He’d kind of figured the baby would take more after Dream, being sort-of-Endless and all. But who knows. He likes the idea that she might take after both of them.

“Well, darling,” he says, kissing Dream on the cheek, “I’m looking forward to meeting Wish.”

“She looks forward to meeting you,” Dream says, as if he’s truly passing along the baby’s own feelings, and maybe he is. He takes Hob’s hand and lays it over his stomach, so Hob can feel the swirl of Wish’s power, grown stronger since the last time he felt it. It’s still such a wonder.

He cuddles Dream close. Dream sinks into his touch, pressing their skin together. He’s truly taken to Hob’s coddling, and Hob wonders if he’ll be able to keep it up after the baby’s born. He hopes so. Dream will need that caretaking just as much then as he does now, even if he may not admit it.

In a little while he’ll draw him a bath, maybe, and suggest something for them to do together later that day. But for now he just holds him, and for a moment, everything feels peaceful, and simple, and good.

--

And then, just a few weeks later, Dream disappears.

[eyesfullofsttars]

. ⊹✧༓ 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 ༓✧⊹ .

One of the myriad legends of betrayal among lovers, from childhood friendships to mortal enemies, still bound by a strange affection and an attraction whose nature only they comprehend...

Welcome to the Masterlist of this adventure, a tale of war and betrayal to be reclaimed through bloodshed! Amidst the fog lies the treachery of having been betrayed by the one woman who once understood you, her presence haunting even your dreams...

Warnings: This story will likely contain descriptions of violence (not overly graphic), nudity, obscene language, sin, guilt, an incessant ache in the chest from not being able to kiss the person you’ve most hurt, and the lingering sense that everything would be a thousand times easier if you were young again.

In ancient times, when kingdoms emerged amidst ancient forests and towering mountains, two women of contrasting origins and bold ambitions rose as rulers of neighboring lands, forging a perilous alliance fraught with the impossible-to-conceal forbidden love.

The realm of Loborth rose through the union of wolves, fierce guardians who aided in raising the orphaned queen. Its stone walls stood as unyielding shields against any intruder, and under the governor's command, Loborth's army marched with unwavering discipline. The kingdom's tranquility was forged in the fiery crucible of war, where every strategic decision bore heavily upon the vulnerable, paying the toll for the safety of its citadels.

In Vermont's lush, verdant hills, the kingdom thrived amid the whispers of ancient trees and the serene flow of rivers. Noble music echoed in natural harmony, and their ruler, a jealous protector of her lineage, found solace amidst birdsong and the sweet fragrance of flowers adorning the castle's battlements. Guided by principles of honor and loyalty to their queen, they lived in unity with the land that enveloped them. Every hamlet and farm bore witness to a community bound together under her leadership.

Yet, peace between these bordering realms shattered with the treachery of one of Loborth's wolves. Mercilessly, the Queen ended the life of Vermont's favored son out of spite, severing the peace alliance and sowing the seeds of enmity that would soon grow like the shadow of a storm. Thus began the primary dispute over the borderlands.

Since then, the neighboring nations regarded each other with suspicion and animosity. The coexistence that once flourished between their peoples was eclipsed by deceit, a specter that reaches into the very core of their rulers. This curse inexorably leads to the tragedy of scattered bodies, whose bones lie as mute witnesses beneath the foundations of their castles.

Abigail had always regarded these stories inscribed upon scrolls as mere legends, harbingers of the direst misfortunes. To her, the splendor of Loborth was not condemned by the prophecies of the past, much less by a betrayal motivated by love. Nevertheless, as she beheld her father's crown, stained with his own blood, she began to feel the weight of the history that enveloped her.

In the depths of her grief and rage, Abigail's heart contorted with a desire fueled by sorrow. Despite their former friendship, despite the love she had once nurtured...

"I want Eleanor Williams' head," Abigail declared through clenched teeth, her jaw tightening with ferocity.

𝟎𝟏: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝.

𝟎𝟐: 𝐄𝐲𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞, 𝐀 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝟎𝟑: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐬 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐚𝐫.

𝟎𝟒: 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩ness.

(comment or reblog to be on the taglist for this work!!!)

[derelictheretic]

Fave Female Characters Poll

Got tagged by @neonshrike and I love anything that lets me talk about my favourite women <3

rules: make a poll of your favourite female characters (no limits - as many or as little as you want) and see which your followers like the most!

gonna tag @adelaidedrubman @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @simplegenius042 @megraen @deputyash @aceghosts @clicheantagonist @henbased @i-am-the-balancing-point @killyourrdarlingss @laindtt @purplehairsecretlair @shallow-gravy @shellibisshe @trashcatsnark @wewillryesagain and anyone else who thinks this looks fun (in reality I just want to see who everyones fave women are)! no pressure as always 🌻🌻🌻

[jackiestarsister]

Thoughts while rereading Jane Eyre

I first read Jane Eyre in its entirety when I was in high school, and it has remained one of my all-time favorite books! After reading the Manga Classics adaptation and seeing both the old and new editions of the stage musical, I finally reread it, or rather listened to the audiobook.

These were my thoughts on this reading (with spoilers):

~ Jane’s autobiography begins with the line, “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” I take this to mean that if she had taken a walk that day, none of the following events would have happened! John Reed would not have attacked her at that time and place, leading to her traumatic punishment, her meeting with Mr. Lloyd, and going to Lowood Institution.

~ Charlotte Bronte vividly shows the intensity of children’s emotions. I don’t think that was common in British literature at the time!

~ Jane enters and leaves the lives of the Reeds, the Thornfield residents, and the Rivers siblings in very Gothic fashions! I can imagine parts of the story being told from other characters’ perspectives to great dramatic effect.

~ Knowing the whole story, there are many seeds of foreshadowing to be found throughout the story! Great setup and payoff.

~ Jane says about Helen’s grave, “for fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound; but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot.” Jane must have gone back to Lowood when she was about 25, and paid for a fitting monument for her first and life-changing friend!

~ Pilot seems almost like a Disney hero’s sidekick, urging the two love interests to meet each other!

~ Mr. Rochester seems to judge Jane’s character partly by observing how she treats Pilot and Adele, and the contrast against Blanche Ingram’s treatment of them!

~ If Eliza and Georgiana are supposed to represent the extremes of unfeelingness and too effusive feelings, are they basically Eleanor and Marianne Dashwood? I know Charlotte Bronte disliked Pride and Prejudice; maybe she was pushing back against Austen’s other characters too?

~ Rochester actually calls Jane the “adopted daughter” of Mrs. Fairfax and “little English mother” of Adele! I wish this familial dynamic had been brought out more.

~ The impulsive way Jane flees from Thornfield reminds me that she is still a teenager! She does not think of the fact that she has an uncle who wants to give her an inheritance, or of the solicitor’s advice to stay put until she hears news of him. She does not seek help from Mrs. Fairfax or the Leavens family to find a new situation. She might have spared herself a lot of suffering if she had formed a better plan for finding a new home and had her mail forwarded there!

~ St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers are like a reversed reflection of John, Eliza, and Georgiana Reed—both sets of cousins, but completely opposite dynamics with Jane.

~ Jane’s relationship with St. John Rivers is waaaay more toxic than her relationship with Edward Rochester. Jane can stand her ground with Rochester, who would never force her to do anything she decidedly did not want; but she feels compelled to do whatever St. John tells her, and he urges her to do things against her own desires.

~ Rochester literally loses his eye and hand, just like Jesus says about temptation in Matthew 18:8-9!

~ Jane and Rochester’s relationship is bookended by scenes of her supporting him as he walks!

~ Were the parson and clerk who officiated Jane and Rochester’s marriage the same ones who were at the interrupted wedding?! Unless there was a change in position during the year of separation, they probably were the same ones!

~ My headcanon is that all the Thornfield servants placed bets on how long it would take Jane and Rochester to work things out. This is supported by the innkeeper’s account of how the servants observed Jane and Rochester, and John and Mary’s reactions after they finally get married!

[lulu2992]

My beaded creations

And now, the rest of my collection.

Part 2: Alphabet beads

A simple “The Legend of Zelda” bracelet on the left, and on the right, a design inspired by the Sages’ Medallions from Ocarina of Time, but in French: Lumière (Light), Ombre (Shadow), Esprit (Spirit), Eau (Water), Feu (Fire), and Forêt (Forest). Fire is dark pink instead of red but it works.

A very long necklace (can also be worn as a very thick bracelet) made of all the Zelda games’ titles. Each section is independent so more can be easily added when new games are released. Also, if it breaks, I don’t have to remake the whole thing...

Bracelets and rings for a few fictional characters:

Bracelets: Midona (Midna’s French name, from Twilight Princess) — Ghirahim (Skyward Sword) — Babydoll (Sucker Punch) — Vaas Montenegro (Far Cry 3) — Lakshmana Min (Far Cry 4).

Rings: Babydoll — Ghirahim — Vaas.

A few quotes from Sucker Punch:

You see, your fight for survival starts right now. You don’t want to be judged? You won’t be. You don’t think you’re strong enough? You are. You’re afraid, don’t be. You have all the weapons you need. Now fight. (Vera Gorski)

You are safe, it’s all safe. — Now relax, and just let go. (Vera Gorski)

Let the pain go. — Let the hurt go. — Let the guilt go. (Vera Gorski)

Everyone has an angel. (Sweet Pea) — Defend yourself. (The Wiseman)

Bracelets inspired by Far Cry 3:

Vaas’ famous quote: The world is on a diagonal. — I am the balancing point.

Left: Quote from Citra: Rage against the darkness.

Right: Please define “insanity”.

Quote from one of the trailers, “The Savages: Vaas & Buck”: We’re not the savages. — We are the shepherds. (Buck Hughes)

Two quotes (in French) from two songs in Beauty and the Beast I think are cool:

Left: In the French version of “Beauty and the Beast”, “Histoire Éternelle” (it means “Eternal Story”), Madame Samovar (Mrs. Potts) sings C’est vrai, c’est étrange/De voir comme on change/Sans même y penser (“It’s true, it is strange to see how we change without even thinking about it”). The original English lyrics are Bittersweet and strange/Finding you can change/Learning you were wrong. I think about this quote (the French one) often…

Right: In “Belle”, the villagers sing La tête ailleurs et ce petit air audacieux/D'un chat sauvage sous une ombrelle (“In her own head and with this little daring look of a wild cat under an umbrella”) to describe Belle, and I love this description. In English, it was simply Look, there she goes, that girl is strange, no question/Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?

Two other French quotes, this time from video games:

Left: In The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, when Gaepora sees Fi (Fay in French), he quotes a few ancient words: Le guide de l'enfant, hors de l'épée s'élance. Juvéniles sont ses traits, mais grande est sa sapience (“The child’s guide, out of the sword leaps. Juveniles are her features, but great is her sapience”). I really like that we had rhyming alexandrines in French. The English localization said, “The youth will be guided by one born of the blade--one who is also youthful in likeness yet wise with knowledge immeasurable.”

Right: Quote from Child of Light. When he appears and notices Aurora crying, Igniculus says: Quelqu’un pourrait-il m’expliquer/Comment, sans pluie, l’eau peut tomber ? The original English line (Will someone please explain/How water falls with no rain?) means the same thing, but I just liked how it sounded in French. Also, to be honest, the alphabet beads I bought are for French people and we barely use the letter W, so I didn’t have enough W beads :’)

More video game quotes, this time in English. One is from BioShock 2 and the other is from Far Cry 5:

Left: Evil is just a word; under the skin, it’s simple pain. (Eleanor Lamb)

Right: Cherish this feeling. Let it carry you. (John Seed)

Three more English quotes I like:

Left: The Alice In Wonderland quote that appears at the beginning of Far Cry 3: In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

Center: Quote from the FFVII Remake announcement trailer (E3 2015): The reunion at hand may bring joy; it may bring fear. But let us embrace whatever it brings, for they are coming back.

Right: Lyrics from the song “A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes” from Cinderella: No matter how your heart is grieving/If you keep on believing/The dream that you wish will come true.

Finally, here are two quotes from Lady Gaga songs:

Left: Don’t be a drag, just be a queen/Don’t be a drag, just be a queen/Don’t be a drag, just be a queen (“Born This Way” - Born This Way)

Right: It’s not a statement as much as just a move of passion (“Aura” - ARTPOP)

Thank you for looking at my beads :)

[metaphrasis]

“When she made things grow, she experienced a kind of manifest forgiveness, an abiding moving-on and making-new that she found impossible in almost every other sphere of life. Even in her failures and mistakes—as when she learned that onion seeds don’t tend to keep, or that low soil temperatures result in carrots that are pale, or that fennel inhibits growth in other plants and should be propagated only on its own—she never felt chastised, for truth, in a garden, did not take the form of rectitude, and right was not the opposite of wrong. To learn even something as simple as to water the roots of a plant rather than its leaves was not to be dealt the harsh reality of cold hard fact, but rather to be let into a secret. In a garden, expertise was personal and anecdotal—it was allegorical—it was ancient—it had been handed down; one felt that gardeners across the generations were united in a kind of guild, and that every counsel had the quality of wisdom, gentle, patient, and holistic—and yet unwavering, for there was no quarrelling with the laws and tendencies of nature, no room for judgment, no dispute: the proof lay only in the plants themselves, and in the soil, and in the air, and in the harvest.”

— Eleanor Catton, Birnam Wood

[bring-it-all-down]

What’s so interesting about the idea that Eleanor deserved better than her ending is that it’s both the ending she deserved and the only ending she could have had, and *that* is why she deserved better. 

She was a woman born of great wealth amassed in part or totality through participating in the slave trade. Her claim to power in Nassau rested on her last name. She repeatedly chose to secure that power through siding with empire over freedom, and in this quest for power, she sowed the seeds of her destruction. She was a queer white woman whose reliance on her whiteness and her wealth amassed through that whiteness put her at odds with every other queer character in the show, as well as the notion of queerness itself. She sold off parts of herself until she was a husk of the woman we first met, and it was not enough to save herself from the fate foretold to her by her father, from the fate that had met her mother.

She got exactly what was coming to her, and yet her ending, deserved though it was, still was tragic. It was not tragic because she was done wrong by the narrative, but because everyone deserves better than life under capitalism. The entire economic and political structure of capitalism necessitates the selling of parts of ourselves in doomed quests to live lives of material prosperity. It requires endless structural and personal violence. It requires the denial of fundamental parts of ourselves, such as Eleanor’s queerness. There is not one person alive who would be less happy without capitalism.

Eleanor’s arc is thus both cathartic and a deeply cautionary tale.

[dk-thrive]

I do exist, don't I? It often feels as if I'm not here, that I'm a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I'd lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.

— Gail Honeyman, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine (Penguin Books; May 9, 2017)

[xsherewrytesx]

↳ Toji Fushiguro x f! black reader

summary. You and Toji were broken up for 8 months+. Your constant pressure for him to improve led to frequent fights, driving him to spend more time at the mechanic shop and racing than with you. Despite knowing you meant well, the strain became too much, and Toji eventually ended the relationship.

genre: heavy angst, modern au, 18+, explicit smut, street racer au

fic warnings. ooc, profanity, mental health issues, toxic relationships, cheating, explicit smut, drug use, mentions of depression + more to be updated as story progresses.

Prequel

In the early days, before everything unraveled, before the weight of expectations and dreams became too heavy to bear, there was a time when your and Toji's relationship burned bright with hope and passion.

You were deep into your architecture studies at SCAD university, your days filled with drafting tables and design critiques. Toji, on the other hand, lived a more unconventional life. He worked at a mechanic shop during the day, fixing cars with a skill that hinted at years of hands-on experience. But it was the nights and weekends that defined him—a street racer, known for his daring maneuvers and his loyalty to his crew.

Their worlds collided one night at a local hangout spot, where street racers gathered like modern-day gladiators ready to battle it out on the asphalt. Toji's presence was magnetic, his confidence matched only by the roar of his engine. You were drawn to his intensity, the way he seemed to defy the rules both on and off the track.

Their first date was unconventional, to say the least. Toji took you for a ride in his prized Eleanor Mustang, pushing the car to its limits under the cover of night. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of speed—it was intoxicating, a glimpse into Toji's world that you couldn't resist.

As their relationship blossomed, you saw potential in Toji beyond the mechanic shop and the late-night races. You believed in him fiercely, pushing him to dream bigger. It was you who planted the seed of owning his own shop, a place where he could showcase his talents and build something lasting.

Toji was hesitant at first, wary of your relentless optimism. "You think I don't want it hard enough?" he would argue, his voice tinged with frustration. "I take my time to learn things right, not rush into something half-assed like you want."

Their arguments became a cycle—a dance of passion and frustration, love and misunderstanding. You both made up after each fight, drawn back together by their shared fire, only to fall into another argument soon after.

The highs of victory at the races were often followed by the lows of heated debates over dinner, their friends, Sukuna, Geto, and Gojo, bearing witness to their volatile love affair.

One night, after Toji lost a crucial race, your disappointment turned to biting criticism. "You were too slow off the line," you snapped, your words a slap in the face. Toji, already raw from the defeat, snapped back with equal force. "I don't need this from you, Y/n! You think you know everything, but you don't understand what it takes!"

You scoffed and rolled your eyes," You sure act like you don't have what it takes." Toji's eyes widen incredulously at your words. He felt his heart crack for the first time since you guys started arguing almost daily.

Toji voice was raised,

"So, this is how you see me huh, just some bum mechanic. I hold my own. I pay my share and more. I do everything I can and more for you, for us. You want L.V, Bottega Veneta, anything you got that plus more. Trips to see your family back home. Tuition fees I help you pay that AND ONE FUCKING NIGHT IM OFF MY GAME AND THATS WHAT I GET Y/N. FORREAL"

Their friends watched in silence as the argument escalated, the air thick with tension and unspoken truths. Sukuna, usually the voice of reason, exchanged a worried glance with Geto and Gojo.

They had seen this before but not to this extent—the clash of two strong-willed souls who loved fiercely but couldn't find common ground.

Toji walked off leaving you with his friends. He walked over to his cousins Maki and Mai who were hanging with Yuuji, Nobara and Megumi, his younger brother.

Megumi sensing his older brother's tension offered him a beer and a quick smoke. Toji took the beer and the joint leaning against Megumi's custom built 2000 Mazda rx7 series 8 in orange.

Megumi stood next to Toji analyzing him before asking. "Wanna talk about it bro. We all saw the commotion from over here. The music was too loud for us to hear but we know it was bad."

Toji sighed not wanting to talk, just think. "Just the usual these days honestly but I'm good man......For the most part." Megumi studied his older brother's face for a moment. He's never seen Toji look so stressed out before. He's usually a bit more carefree and relaxed. Yuuji strode over to offer Megumi another drink and glanced at Toji, who was deep in thought. "Is y/n trippin on him again?" Yuuji inquired, to which Megumi nodded in confirmation.

"Why doesn't he just...idk take a break or end things. They went from the it couple of the meet ups to that old miserable couple who hate each other but stay together for the kids and mortgage." Toji laughed at Yuuji's analogy of his and your relationship.

As the night wore on, Toji retreated into brooding silence, nursing his wounded pride. you, to hurt to stay, stormed off into the night, leaving behind a trail of regrets and unresolved emotions.

The weeks following that pivotal night were filled with tension and distance for you and Toji. What was once a vibrant relationship had deteriorated into a fragile shell of its former self. Intimacy had become a distant memory—

No more shared moments of passion, no lazy mornings in each other's embrace, no whispered promises. Instead, your interactions were marked by tense exchanges and the heavy weight of unspoken issues weighing on you and Toji's mind.

Toji sought solace in the familiar clang of tools and the smell of motor oil at the mechanic shop. It became his sanctuary, a place to bury himself in work, tuning up cars before and after races, avoiding the suffocating atmosphere of his once-shared apartment.

His boss and uncle, Naobito, initially tried to send Toji home at reasonable hours. But seeing the turmoil in his young mechanic, he relented, letting Toji work as long as he needed to find peace in the roaring engines and the adrenaline-fueled world of street racing.

Days stretched into weeks, and Toji's absence from home became the new normal. He spent his evenings at Geto's or Sukuna's place, smoking, chilling and talking about life and racing. He liked being around them. They understood the allure of the fast life and how the life is, especially for him.

When Toji finally returned home, it was almost three weeks since he had last stepped foot in the apartment. Exhausted, he unlocked the door, hoping for a moment of peace, but you were waiting for him, your eyes blazing with anger.

The sight of Toji, worn and distant, triggered a burst of accusations and pent-up frustrations. “Where the hell you been, Toji? Do you even care anymore?” Your voice cracked with anger and hurt.

Toji just sighed not wanting to argue with you as soon as he got through the door. He opted for silence, but you pushed on again

“Toji, where the hell have you been?” you demanded again, your voice sharp. “You think you can just disappear for weeks and not tell me where you are?”

Toji, weary from weeks of turmoil and external pressure, finally snapped. “You think I don’t care? You think this is easy for me? Plus, I’ve been working, racing. I needed some space."

His words were sharp, each syllable laced with bitterness and exhaustion. He was trying not to unleash everything that had been brewing inside him for weeks.

“Man, miss me with that,” you fired back, tears streaming down your face. “You been out here actin’ like I don’t exist. You think I’m stupid? You out there wit’ somebody else? and what's this bullshit about Space...SPACE! You needed space, so you just leave me here, not knowing if you’re dead or alive? You didn’t even call!”

Toji’s eyes flashed with frustration. “I ain’t been with nobody else! I’ve been at the shop, tryin’ to get my mind right. But you always jumpin’ to conclusions. I didn't wanna fight with you almost every night after a day at the shop. I just needed to clear my head."

“You expect me to believe that? You ain’t been home in weeks, Toji! Weeks! and you talking shit about clearing your head” you shouted, your voice rising with every word.

“Clear your head?” you echoed again, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “You mean avoid your responsibilities. Avoid me. Toji, this isn’t working,” you said, your voice breaking. “You’ve been gone for weeks, and you didn’t even think to call me. What am I supposed to think?”

“I needed space! You don’t get it, do you? Every time I come home, it’s like walkin’ into a battlefield. I can’t breathe here! You think I was out there having fun? I was working my ass off, trying to keep my head above water! And you? You didn’t check on me either! You didn’t care if I was alive or dead!”

Toji yelled back, his frustration boiling over.

“That’s not fair, Toji! You shut me out!” you shouted, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. “You didn’t give me a chance! You needed space? So you just leave? Just like that? What about us? What about our plans, our dreams?” you cried, desperation seeping into your voice.

“Toji, I’m tired of this!” you yelled, your frustration boiling over. “You never take anything seriously! Not our relationship, not your future. You just coast by, doing the bare minimum.”

Toji scoffed, “That's bull shit and you know it I've been busting my ass trying to make something of myself. All you do is nag and push and talk and push and fucking frustrate me and the fuck you mean by plans? dreams? You mean your plans, your dreams. You never asked what I wanted. You just assumed. You pushed and pushed until there was nothing left of me but your expectations.”

“Nah, that’s bullshit!” you cried. “I was tryin’ to make you see your worth. You got talent, Toji. You could be somethin’ big, but you stuck in that damn garage like you scared of success! Why can’t you see that I just want what’s best for you?"

“You don’t get it!” Toji roared back, his face contorted with pain and anger. “I love working on cars. I love racing. It ain’t about throwin’ away potential. It’s about doin’ what makes me happy. But you... you always want more. Nothing is ever enough for you NOTHING I DO OR TRY IS ENOUGH!”

“So it’s wrong to want the best for you? For us?” you countered, desperation creeping into your voice. “We had dreams, Toji. Big dreams. What happened to those?”

“They turned into your dreams, not mine,” Toji shot back. “You never asked what I wanted. You just assumed. You pushed and pushed until there was nothing left of me but your expectations.”

“You think I’m just naggin’ you? You think I don’t want you to be happy? I just wanted us to be happy. To build somethin’ real,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Toji’s voice, when he spoke again, was cold and detached. “I can’t do this anymore,” he declared.

“I’m done, Y/n,” Toji said, his voice cold. “I’m done fighting. I’m done trying to be someone I’m not for you.”

Toji stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed Sukuna’s number.

“Yo, Sukuna. I need your help. Can you come over and help me move my stuff?”

Your shock turned to disbelief, then to a desperate plea. “Toji, please, don’t do this. We can work through this, I promise.”

Toji paused, his gaze hardening. “Nah, it’s too late for promises,” he said flatly, his eyes devoid of emotion.

“Sukuna,” Toji said into the phone, “I need you to come over. Help me move out.”

Sukuna’s voice came through the phone, confused and concerned. “What’s going on, man? You sure about this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Toji replied, glancing at you. “I need to get out of here.”

As he hung up, you continued to shout at him, your voice desperate and raw. “You can’t just leave, Toji! You can’t just walk out on us!”

Toji ignored your pleas, moving through the apartment with a sense of finality. He packed his belongings swiftly, each item a silent testament to your shattered dreams.

Pulling out a wad of cash, he dropped it on the table. “Cover my share of the expenses. It's about 15k”

Overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions—anger, sadness, betrayal—you snatched the money and flung it at Toji hitting him in the back. “I don’t want your damn money!” Your voice cracked with emotion, your heart breaking with each passing moment.

Toji picked up the cash calmly, placing it on a side table without a second glance. He took off his apartment keys, dropping them next to the money. “Use it or not, I don’t care anymore.” His voice was hollow, his gaze distant as he turned away.

“You runnin’ away again, Toji! Just like you always do when things get tough!” you shouted, anger and pain mixing into a volatile cocktail.

Toji froze, his back to you. Slowly, he turned around, his expression hardened by years of unresolved conflict. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“But I can’t keep pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired, Y/n. I’m tired of fighting, of trying to live up to your expectations. I need space to figure things out.” Toji said dejected rubbing his temples.

Just as the tension reached its peak, there was a knock at the door. Sukuna entered; his usual smirk replaced with a look of concern. “Yo, you really doin’ this, Toji?”

Toji nodded, his resolve unwavering. “Yeah, I’m done. Just need to be out of here.”

You followed them through the house, your pleas growing more desperate. “Toji, please! Don’t do this. We can fix this; I know we can!”

Sukuna glanced at Toji, his brow furrowed. “You sure about this, man? You wanna throw all this away?”

Toji’s frustration boiled over, and he snapped at Sukuna. “I said, I’m sure! Just help me pack and let’s get out of here!”

Sukuna nodded, silently helping Toji gather his things. You trailed behind, tears streaming down your face, your heart breaking with each passing moment.

“Toji, you can’t just walk away. What about all the good times? What about us?” you begged, your voice cracking.

Toji paused, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I really am. But I can’t keep doing this. I need to breathe. I need to be me, without all this pressure.”

You watched helplessly as Toji packed his belongings, his movements mechanical and distant. In a desperate attempt to stop him, you grabbed at his clothes, trying to yank them out of his hands. “Toji, don’t go. Don’t leave me like this.”

Toji, startled by your physical resistance, tugged his clothes back with a firm grip. “Let go, Y/n. This ain’t gonna change nothin’.”

“Stop it, Toji! Just stop!” you screamed, your voice filled with a mix of rage and desperation. “You can’t do this to us!”

The tussle escalated, both of you pulling at his belongings until Toji managed to wrench them from your grasp. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the apartment.

Breathing heavily, you looked at him with tear-filled eyes, your voice a trembling whisper. “I hate you, Toji. I wish I never met you.”

Toji froze, his eyes widen at your words, his expression one of shock and pain. He stared at you; his voice dangerously quiet. “Say that again.”

“I said I hate you! I wish I never met you!” you repeated, each word cutting through the air like a knife.

Toji’s face hardened, the weight of your words settling heavily on his shoulders. Slowly, he reached for the double Cuban link bracelets on his wrists, removing them one by one. He placed them gently on the coffee table, followed by the matching ring and the promise ring you both exchanged on Valentine’s Day last year.

He looked at you one last time, his voice filled with a cold finality. “I hope you’re happy now. Goodbye, Y/n."

With those words, Toji turned away, grabbing his packed bags and walking out the door without a backward glance. Sukuna lingered for a moment, casting a sympathetic look your way before following Toji out of the apartment.

Alone in the silence that followed, you collapsed onto the couch, tears streaming down your face. The apartment felt emptier than it ever had before, the air thick with the weight of shattered dreams and unresolved emotions.

Weeks turned into months, and the ache in your heart slowly dulled to a persistent throb. Toji’s absence became a void you learned to live with, the memories of happier times a bittersweet reminder of what once was.

You threw yourself into your studies, burying your pain in the relentless pursuit of your dreams. Architecture became your sanctuary, a place where you could lose yourself in the creative process, if only temporarily.

Occasionally, you caught glimpses of Toji’s life through mutual friends or social media—snapshots of him at races, laughing with Sukuna and Geto, the tattooed sleeves on his arms a stark reminder of how much had changed.

Sometimes you'd even attend street races, it's been apart of your routine for so long. It was hard to stop.

And yet, despite the passage of time, a part of you couldn’t let go. The memories of Toji—

𝕆𝕟𝕖, 𝔼𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕥

You hadn't planned on driving through this part of town. Memories lurked here, painful and poignant, like ghosts whispering from every corner. Your hands tightened on the steering wheel as you navigated familiar streets, the echoes of old arguments and broken promises haunting your thoughts.

The engine of your car hummed steadily, a contrast to the erratic beat of your heart. The shop came into view, its neon sign with the words Zenin Auto's flickering even in the bright midday sun.

As you approached, the sound of an all-too-familiar song filled the air, blending with the scent of gasoline and burnt rubber. "Same Old Song" by The Weeknd. Ironic, really.

You saw him before he saw you. Toji was at the center of the garage, his presence commanding, even now. His back was turned, engrossed in conversation with Sukuna near the open hood of a sleek, black Dodge Hellcat.

Sukuna, his lean frame leaning casually against the car, glanced up and caught your eye with a grimace, his cigarette dangling from his lips as usual. He nudged Toji, and Toji turned slowly, a spark of recognition igniting in his eyes.

Toji looked different yet the same. His muscles seemed more defined, his sleeves of his jumpsuit tied around his waist to reveal new tattoos that snaked up his arms like wild vines. A silver lip ring gleamed on the opposite side of his lip scar, a bold addition to his rugged appearance.

His hair, always a bit tousled, now fell just a touch longer, framing his face in a way that made your heart ache with nostalgia. He wore his usual navy-blue jumpsuit with the sleeves tied around his waist, paired with black Timberland work boots and a black fitted vest.

You felt frozen, caught between the urge to turn away and the magnetic pull of unfinished business. Your car idling in front the shop. Memories flooded back, unbidden. Late nights spent waiting for him to come home, the scent of motor oil clinging to his clothes.

The fierce arguments, the passionate reconciliations, and the relentless push from you for him to strive for more. You had meant well, always. But sometimes, love alone couldn't bridge the gap between two people heading in different directions.

Toji's gaze locked onto yours, his expression unreadable at first. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though time had stood still. Then, a flicker of something crossed his face—was it surprise, regret, or resignation?

He scoffed lightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he lifted a joint to his mouth and lit it with practiced ease. The flame briefly illuminated the scar on his lip, a mark you used to trace with your fingers in quieter times.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Toji thought, the anger he had buried resurfacing. "After all this time, she just shows up. For what?"

The sight of you, unchanged yet somehow different, tugged at memories he had tried to bury beneath the noise of the racing engines and the smoke of his joint.

He remembered the way your eyes sparkled when you smiled, the softness of your touch that could soothe even his fiercest temper. But alongside those memories, there was also the weight of unresolved issues, the fear of falling back into old patterns that had left you both scarred.

Your thoughts were a whirlwind. "Why does he have to look so good?" you wondered, struggling to maintain your composure. "Does he even care that I'm here? Does he even miss me?"

In that charged silence, you found yourself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions.

The lyrics of the song playing in the background seemed to mock you both.

And now I'm poppin', yeah Ain't nobody showed me how I made it big poppin', yeah Tell me how you like me now I swear I loved you, girl,

a bitter reminder of the love you had once shared and the pain that had torn you apart.

Toji wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension that crackled between you. But pride and stubbornness held his words captive, leaving only the smoke of his joint to fill the silence.

"She really had the nerve to come here," Toji thought, his jaw tightening. "Ain't no way I'm letting her see me sweat."

In that suspended moment, neither of you moved. You could feel Sukuna's eyes on you, a silent observer to the reunion that neither of you had expected.

Toji's jaw tightened imperceptibly as he pushed a hand through his hair, breaking eye contact and turning away with a dismissive gesture. The casualness of the gesture masked the turmoil beneath the surface, a storm of conflicting emotions that threatened to engulf you both.

"I should just leave," you thought, the weight of the past too heavy to bear. But before you could gather your thoughts, Toji turned his back completely, disappearing deeper into the shadows of the garage. Sukuna's lingering gaze followed you as you stood there, grappling with the weight of unfinished conversations and unresolved feelings.

"Toji really gonna let her presence fuck his head up like this?" Sukuna thought, watching Toji retreat.

The decision was made in a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you turned the wheel sharply, the tires squealing in protest as you sped away from the shop and the ghosts of the past that lingered there.

As the distance between you and Toji grew, you fought to steady your trembling hands and quiet the storm of emotions raging within.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 68 - SMDH

The crew has some Questions.

On AO3.

Half the crew pointedly do not look at you, while the other half of them keep glancing over all unsubtle-like. Except Lae’zel, who glares steadily, but that’s just her face.

“Not a goddamn word outta none of you,” you say, picking around the semi-circle around the campfire to snag one of them griddlecakes.

Everybody eats in silence. The looks keep zinging over your head or behind your back—occasionally hit the corner of your eye. You rip off a hunk of the cake and dab up some of the jam Gale broke out for it. Strawberry, thank fuck. You can do strawberry just fine. At least you think it’s strawberry, because ain’t that another really funny form of parallel evolution? Unless strawberry seeds got carried across interdimensional space to end up cross pollinating over here.

And you wait. One of them is gonna crack. You can feel it. Your money is on Shadowheart. She wasn’t there, and her surreptitious glances are a touch too amused for your liking. Or maybe they’ll all forget because they’re a bunch of chaotic assholes and will actually keep their tongues to themselves.

“What is a ‘virgin?’” Lae’zel says.

Looking back, you shouldn’t be surprised. At least she’s direct about it.

You chew your griddle cake as she looks around camp at a bunch of people now avoiding her gaze. Is Wyll blushing? You can’t actually tell, but he’s doing that head duck thing that usually means somebody is blushing.

“Well?” Lae’zel says. “Or is this more istik foolishness?”

You sit there and take another bite like this don’t even concern you. It’s their turn to squirm.

It’s Gale that clears his throat and lifts his pointer finger (bless him).

“Typically, the word is used to describe someone who has never engaged in sex with a partner,” he says. And huh, ain’t no blush on the man or hesitation to him at all. Didn’t he say he was banging the goddess that dumped him? “But as Eleanor argued—rather successfully, I might add—the definition can be rather vague and unfitting.”

Lae’zel turns to you and says, point blank, “You have never mated?”

It occurs to you that this wouldn’t be happening if you’d just opened your coward mouth and fucking told that goblin vampire man the fucking truth to begin with. You one hundred percent made this entire goddamn bed, and now you gotta sleep in it. So you swallow, stare at your booted toes a second, and lift your head.

You ain’t some blushing maiden (technically you are, but that whole thing is a steaming pile of social construct bullshit). And brazening things out has been working pretty good so far.

“Nope,” you say, and pop the “p” at the end.

“Why? Are you deficient?”

Good old Lae’zel. It’s actually refreshing to have somebody just come out and say it. Don’t give the others a chance to go whispering their theories around.

“Didn’t like anybody enough,” you say.

Lae’zel’s eyes narrow.

“Aww,” Karlach says. “That’s cute. And kinda sad.”

“I think it’s rather noble,” Wyll says.

That one irks you, though you know he means well. People make assumptions. Sometimes painfully close ones.

“And you, Wyll,” Shadowheart says. “Have you met someone you liked well enough?”

He has to be blushing. He scratches behind one ear. “I’m an old-fashioned sort, it’s true. But there was a boy some years back…”

Fuck’s sake, seriously? You’re the only one? Goddamn everybody else and their stupid fucking libidos. It never doesn’t shock you how willing so many people are to drop their pants and grind their genitals together with a near damn stranger.

“I,” Gale starts. Stops. Actually reconsiders. You stare at him as he clears his throat. “In the interest of scholarly pursuits, I am rather curious where you got your information? Not that it was inaccurate! It’s just…in my experience, dormitory gossip tends to get things rather, er, wrong, and the kind of books that do get it right are rather harder to find.”

Wyll makes a sound. Covers his mouth. When everybody looks at him, he says, “Perhaps not so difficult.”

“The Blade of Frontiers reads erotic books?” Shadowheart says.

“It was…” Wyll sort of mumbles the rest. Both Karlach and Shadowheart lean forwards. Wyll coughs. “It was in my father’s study.”

Karlach guffaws. A real good one, too: head back, joy all but bursting out of her. “Wyll! You, skulking about your da’s office and finding dirty books? Oh mate, that’s proper gold, right there. I found my first penny papers, you know the ones, all ‘heaving bosoms’ and all that? Only this one had drawings. First proper pair of tits I ever saw! Aside from the neighborhood bathing days, anyway.”

Gale’s smiling. They’re all talking about this with each other, instead of focusing on you. He did that on purpose.

“So what’d you find?” Karlach says to you.

A whole lotta sin and sermons and hellfire.

“The internet,” you saw. And now you gotta explain that. “Gale, I think I seen a crystal ball in your tent before. Can you see stuff in it? Like, talk to each other with magic over a long distance?”

He can, and they have what he calls “sending stones.” Neat.

“Okay. So think if a lot of people, and I mean most common people, had crystal balls that were also them speaking stones, only they was flat and square and could fit in your pan—trouser pockets. And each one connects to every other one in the whole world. And you can put libraries in them. And music, and speeches, and plays and everybody else can access them. And it’s all got sound and color and sometimes it’s live—showing something as it happens.”

Gale watches you like he’s a dingo and you’re a human baby.

“So humans, being humans—”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes and mutters, “Of course.”

“—they put sex in it. Pictures, writing, performances. All of it.”

“Performances?” Wyll says. “You mean…?”

“Two—or more—people actually fucking, yeah. Like you’re there, only it’s in the crystal square and anybody with one can watch. I seen all kinds’a shit.”

“That’s,” Gale starts. Can’t even finish his sentence.

Is Karlach sweating?

“You can just…?” Wyll says and makes some vague hand motion.

“Ye-awp.” With another popped “p” cause it makes everybody uncomfortable and this is hilarious.

“So you view what you like, and then take yourself to bed?” Shadowheart says.

Cause that’s what happens when you get cocky.

“Bit personal,” you say.

She crosses her fucking legs. “Ah. You were comfortable earlier, though. With the bugbear genitalia. I only wondered.”

Jesus fuck.

You shove the last of your griddlecake into your face, chew it, and say, “I am inexperienced, not uneducated. And that’s it for me, before y’all actually embarrass me enough I gotta burn down the camp while y’all sleep. I’m going to bed.”

“All by yourself?” Shadowheart says, and she is smirking.

You give her a look. She just tilts her head, all sweet like.

“Y’all are a bunch’a dickheads.”

***

Y’all get caught up in your first mountain storm the next morning. Wake up and a bear is trying to rip into your tent. And then the shadow moves against the tent flap and Halsin ducks in. Has to raise his voice to be heard over the hissing and howling of the wind, and the thunder of rain pelting your tent (thank Gale for putting a water-off spell on all y’all’s tents).

The storm is too nasty for y’all to move. So you stay put.

Rain continues to dump. You don’t got nothing to do, so you scurry over to Gale’s tent for another TED talk/reading/language lesson. Which lasts a good few hours until water starts coming in through the bottom of Gale’s tent and he swears and everybody pitches in to grab his shit and evacuate. The water is up to your ankles by the time y’all are done—Astarion don’t come out once, though a candle burns in there and y’all can see his silhouette in the golden halo on the red fabric.

Wyll, turns out, probably has the best setup outta all y’all. And he’s nice enough to let Gale crash there while his shit dries out. There’s too many damn people in that tent, though, so you head back to your own and curl in for a nap.

The quiet is what wakes you. No rain. No wind roaring down from the jagged slopes above. Just the soft sounds of a mountain breeze at night—it’s dark in the tent, shit damnit you slept too long—and the snapping of a campfire.

You done went and wasted a dirt potion. You consider leaving it be, but somebody is awake out there, and you ain’t gonna be able to sleep again for a while, and y’all got yourselves a fucking stock of it. So you slam it back, and duck outside.

Gale greets you as you emerge. Sweetums looks up from where he’s nestled with Scratch in the open flap of Wyll’s tent. You’re all groggy and tired, and so are they, apparently. The wizard  is hunched by the fire, his boots set out on their sides to dry, clothing and rugs hanging over rocks and low branches.

“Is it bad?” you say.

“Oh, nothing I can’t handle,” he says.

Ain’t nobody else up. Goddamn, how long did you sleep?

“I took first watch,” Gale says. “Seemed prudent, given the chores I’ve yet to attend to. I’m afraid dinner is whatever cold rations we’ve got. Should be some bread and cheese in the pack over there.”

You nod. Dinner would be good, though your stomach ain’t woken up yet. But that’s not what pulled you outta your bedroll. That is your screaming bladder.

“Sounds good,” you say. “I’m just gonna go take care of something.”

“Piss, yes,” he says. In English.

“I’m gonna regret teaching you that, huh?”

“Oh, it’s not like wizards have a tendency to become knowledge-obsessed, power-hungry madmen or anything. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He can only hold a straight face for a couple more seconds. Then he cracks, and so do you, and so does your bladder (nearly).

You wave and scurry off. Note that Astarion’s tent is dark—must be back on the hunt.

“He left not long ago,” Gale calls out. “Rotten mood. I don’t think he’s had any success for a while.”

Shit. Y’all are gonna have to talk, then. See if you can’t come up with a solution. Maybe get Shadowheart to help you bleed into a cup (you can’t do it yourself; your brain shies hard from that thought).

You can talk to Wyll, too; see if he can’t bring in his hunts and trappings and let y’all’s resident vampire at them first.

Y’all are set up next to a shallow valley in the woods. Trees sweep all the way over and up the flanks of the mountains on the other side. Ought to be deer or bunnies in there. For you, these woods is spooky in the dark. Yeah yeah, Cherokee princess noble savages one with nature shit. But smart people don’t go into the fucking woods alone at night. That’s how mama mountain cats feed little baby mountain cats.

You piss hard to speed it up and get back. Do a little shimmy in your crouch and wipe with the square of torn up rags you brought with (you been collecting them and boiling them when y’all make camp) (you made yourself Baby’s First Breechcloth, but it’s an unwieldy mess in your trousers cause you don’t actually know what you’re doing and the goddamn cloth bunches up sometimes).

The creepy gets worse. You shove your britches back in and button yourself up. You start to turn back when your brain finally registers what’s giving you the heeby jeebies.

It’s quiet. Not just “storm fucked off” quiet, but there should be owls. Squirrels. Mice or rats or possums rustling around. But there ain’t.

It is dead quiet.

The hairs on the back of your neck lift. You should turn. You don’t wanna. Don’t need to see some old woman with one finger a long, long talon staring at you from behind a tree.

A crow caws. You damn near jump clean outta your skin.

“Fucking asshole!” you hiss.

A branch rustles right above you. The damned bird. It’s dark out here. Proper dark. A bit of the campfire glow filters in, though. Just enough for you to make out dark wings up there as the stupid bird flaps over to land right above your head.

It caws again.

“Right, sorry for being on your turf,” you say. Only something ain’t right about that bird. Something about the wing ain’t moving correctly.

Is it broken? Is this a hurt bird nosing for scraps? But as you peer up, you realize it’s got something in its beak.

“Whatcha got…there…?”

A berry, you think. Some kinds big, pale berry with the stem still attached. A long stem, trailing down, flopping as the bird twitches. Only that ain’t a berry. That’s a motherfucking eyeball.

The crow caws three times, a sort of “a ha ha!” Only it don’t sound like a crow no more; more like an old woman.

Like a fucking swamp hag.

You’re still in screaming range. Gale’s awake, and you know he can blast a good quarter of an acre to ashes. You can back away, you start to back away—

Dark tent. He just left, not long ago. No luck hunting. He’d be tired; be slower, weaker than usual.

“Astarion.”

Your voice seems to spook the bird. It takes off in a burst of feathers, heading further into the dark.

“Wait,” you say. “Wait!”

And it does. Fucker stops, perches about ten feet further in. That little bastard is waiting for you. And now you know why White people get murdered in horror movies. Because this is a trap. One hundred percent, most definitely a trap. But you feel deep down in your bone marrow that if you (sensibly) sprint for backup, or shout out a warning to the others, that crow will disappear and something very, very bad is going to happen.

“Fuck, fuck.”

You waffle for a second. Maybe two. And then it’s like a hook grabs your insides and hauls you after that goddamn, motherfucking lure bird deeper and deeper into the woods.

You crash through bushes. Branches swat your face. Your toes skip over something and you tear open your palms catching yourself on the rough trunk of a tree. The crow stops. Lets you catch up before it laughs and heads deeper and you’re so fucked. This is so fucking stupid. This is how you get murdered by a swamp hag in the woods. This is how a monster pounces on you and crunches right through the back of your skull.

Then the glimmer of torchlight. Orange and flickering. And your brain spits out an image of Astarion lounging next to a campfire, munching down on a squirrel like it’s a boiled ear of corn. He’d lift his head all lazy to give you a judgmental look when you emerge from the woods like a madwoman with sticks in your hair.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A clearing. A horse in that clearing, with a torch set into a harness on the saddle. The crow flaps to a branch on the edge, flutters its rotten wings, and visibly gloats.

You reach the edge.

A shape on the ground. Big, brown: a deer, very dead. And next to that something else. White hair spattered in red. White shirt and pale hands, also red. Red everywhere.

“Astarion?” you say.

He’s on his back, unmoving. There’s something wrong with his chest. A branch or a…

A stake. A stake right through the middle of his chest. And then you look at his face and his eyes are huge and his mouth moves but no sound comes out—

“That’s far enough, friend,” a voice says.

You turn. Spot the crossbow. The leather arm braces. An embroidered vest and a pointy beard.

Gandrel the monster hunter stands with a bolt aimed at your face.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[zagreuses-toast]

My Vetinari Playlist. Some songs are very specific others are entirely vibes based, also a lot of girlboss songs because those fit his approach to being a Tyrant the best somehow. Like Vimes he would vehemently hate some of these songs, I have added them nonetheless. Reasoning/guide to the songs under the cut.

Politics and The City, always the City. I think a lot about Vimes' internal monologue from Night Watch about the city's supply chain and Vetinari being the only ruler of the city to really worry about it's function :

Hymn to the Breaking Strain by Secular Solstice (because the Leslie fish version isn't available on Spotify. Vetinari isn't an engineer but he appreciates their value and danger)

All Along The Watchtower by Bear Mcreary (Vimes gets the Jimi Hendrix, Vetinari gets the version from BSG, which is ominous and was used to unveil a conspiracy)

& by Tally Hall

How Now Dark Cloud by TMBG

I Am Alone by TMBG

Darling The Dose by TMBG

His Kiss The Riot from Hades Town (I also imagine if Vetinari sang his voice would be a baritone of this caliber)

The Body Is A Blade by Japanese Breakfast

Stone Cold Coup D'etat

Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles

Ballad of a Politician by Regina Spektor

Everybody Wants to Rule The World by Tears for Fears (cover by NSP)

She's Always A Woman by Billy Joel

The Circle by Secular Solstice (this is actually a carrot song, but there's a reason Carrot and Vetinari get along)

Gun Song from Assassins (I am always thinking about men at arms and the Gonne)

This is where I would normally put the characters love interest songs but Vetinari's one true love is The Bit:

Hate the Villanelle by TMBG

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park & Pollution by Tom Lerher

Rest Employed by The Stupendium

I Palindrome I by TMBG

Party Dog by Tom Cardy (dog things AND city-state politics)

The World's Address by TMBG

Havelock "do I need a button that says Tyrant" Vetinari and his commitment to the Villain bit:

Villain by Stella Jang

Red Right Hand by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Oh No! By MARINA

Villain by K/DA

Feeling Good by Nina Simone cover by Micheal Bublé (Bond villain sounding song but the lyrics are just enjoying normal nice stuff, exactly Vetinari's thing)

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Bitch Better Have My Money by Rihanna (soundtrack to drumknott getting out the Tax Ledger)

I'm Alive from Next To Normal

No one Knows My Plan by TMBG

Be Prepared from The Lion King (did you think I wouldn't include a real Disney villain song, besides it's JEREMY IRONS aka Vetinari from the Color of Magic tv series)

Vetinari's nihilism and humanism, the roiling sea of evil and the moral imperative to be better than the gods:

Things Are Not What They Appear by The Gothic Archies

Last Wave by TMBG

This Too Shall Pass by Danny Schmidt

They're Only Human from the Death Note musical (hear me out, it's a conversation between Vetinari and Margolotta, you decide who's who)

Let's Get This Over With by TMBG

Cruel to be Cruel by Jessica Law

Living Thing by Electric Light Orchestra (Vetinari and his difficulty getting rid of one of a kind things, I think about leonard of quirm a lot)

Mad World by Gary Jules and Micheal Andrews

Misc:

I Like Fun by TMBG (entirely for the "my excellence at parkour may be unexpected at the age of 58" also the clock thing)

A Good Song Never Dies by Saint Motel (local patrician haunted by a little goblin girl's music forever)

Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons (Vetinari and Vimes song, ruining his life/the watch, being part of fixing it, constantly pushing him, occasionally pushing too hard)