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cobragardens · 8 months

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The Colors of Crowley

Black is the color Crowley uses to cover himself, red is the color that represents Crowley to himself, and yellow is the color that represents Crowley to Aziraphale. What each color symbolizes and how it's used give us important information about Crowley (and to some degree Aziraphale) and about the ineffable relationship.

I feel kind of dumb writing this post because I'm sure it's glaringly obvious to everyone else, but there's this Metro UK article of all things (the Metro is owned by the hardcore rightwing Daily Mail, btw, so please don't link to it) that mentions the red stitching on Crowley's gloves in 1867, and it made conscious some details I had only subconsciously noted, so fwiw to anybody else, here are my notes on the colors associated with Crowley in Good Omens and their significance in the context of the way each one is used.

I don't think we need to cover black-as-evil in Western color symbology. [And yet here's a long-ass paragraph about it anyway! --Ed.] Light:dark::good:evil has been a thing with Christianity since before Christianity was even Judaism. The Israelites picked it up from the Zoroastrians way back before YHWH had subsumed El as 'God,' which may have been before they were Israelites as well; I mean it was a LONG time ago. Good Omens has been using black and white to represent Hell and Heaven, respectively, long before the show. In the UK, the book was published in paperback with a choice of black or white cover with an illustration of the contrasting character in the contrasting color: Crowley illustrated in black, Aziraphale in white. The current hardcover is grey.

Crowley wears black, and the Bentley is black. At the metanarrative or authorial level this is obviously for the purposes of the black/white demon/angel contrast, but on the intra-narrative level, the Watsonian level, it's interesting to note that Crowley doesn't have to wear black. He's obviously not free to choose from the full color palette, but Furfur's shirt and sash are is dark emerald green, Dagon is in ultramarine (as befits a marine Elder God), and Shax has only been on Earth for four years before she's wearing head-to-toe oxblood. When she shows up later in battle dress she's got a lot of oxblood there, too. And yet Crowley wears black.

Authorial reasons aside, black suits Crowley for a couple intra-narrative reasons. For much of history, black was the most expensive color to dye and maintain in clothing, and as a result it has always been fashionable. And for several centuries in Christendom, wearing black was also a sign that you were in mourning, which was a social and religious obligation when someone close to you died. Whether you could wear other colors with it depended on how long ago that death had occurred.

Again: black is what Crowley chooses to cover himself, and as there is a sharp distinction between how Crowley presents himself to fulfill his obligations and who he thinks of himself as being, there is likewise a distinction between the colors that represent those two quantities as well.

Red is the color the show uses to represent Crowley to Crowley. The most obvious reason is his hair. This is another change from Book Omens, where Crowley is described as having hair that is "dark." A lot of fans in the UK hated the change when S1 came out because fans hate change and the British have a thing against gingers, but Crowley's red hair suits him better than dark imo because the Mother of Demons in Jewish religious literature, Lilith, is traditionally depicted with red hair. Red hair has been associated for more than a millenium in the Middle East and England and Wales with sorcery, witchcraft, demonic influence/possession, and satan-worship.

Crowley wishes his mom was this cool with snakes.

A good case can be made that Crowley genuinely likes the color red in addition to considering it demonically appropriate. I say this for three reasons. Firstly, because when he has a (limited) choice of (again, demonically appropriate) colors, he always chooses red. The marble of the desk in his apartment is not green or grey. He can have any color stitching on his gloves or lining of his jacket collar he wants, but it's always red. Secondly, it's not only red he chooses, it's almost always bright red.

We know Crowley's red isn't supposed to represent blood or violence, because we have another demon character whose use of red represents just that, and it's not the same red:

Compare Shax' oxblood and burgundy to

and

Crowley's red isn't just red, it's lipstick, cherry, crimson red. And in case we weren't sure that we should read this red as symbolizing passionate, romantic love:

Romantic symbolism aside, bright red is also the color of passion (romantic or otherwise), optimism, heat, vitality, life, (hell)fire, and warning.

Red and black says don't fuck with Jack.

The third reason I think we can safely say that Crowley actually likes the color red is that he hides it. It's always tiny little touches, some of which you have to look for to see. (I still don't know where they snuck in the red on his Elizabethan habit, e.g.) And we know this color is a risk for him, and that he is right to hide it, because Ligur, who doesn't approve of any of Crowley's less-than-fully-demonic embellishments and may share Hastur's opinion that Crowley has gone native, comments on one of Crowley's more noticeably colorful items.

And I think the red tells us one more thing about Crowley, too.

Bright red is the colorest of colors, you know? When we can choose only one color to represent all colors, to represent colorfulness itself, we choose bright red (even in cultures where red symbolizes other meanings than it does in Western art).

Remember how Aziraphale gives Crowley's jacket a tartan collar when he swaps bodies with Crowley and impersonates him in Hell because Aziraphale feels the need to maintain some small secret token of his identity, some tiny unremarked sign of something he loves and thinks is beautiful, when he is down there alone in the gloom among enemies?

Crowley is down there alone among enemies every second of every day and night, whether he's in Hell or on Earth. And he's already had his identity stripped from him once. If you were someone who said

about this

and then you got recruited by the fash downstairs bc the fash upstairs threw you out for not being fashy enough and you had to start wearing nothing but dark colors and more importantly had to hide everything that made you feel warmth or softness or joy, and that was it, that was the deal for eternity, but you could add one (1) little touch to everything you wore to remind yourself that there is some beautiful part of you left, something you loved once, that no one has yet been able to steal or brutalize out of you...what color would the stitching on your gloves be?

Lastly, Yellow represents Crowley to Aziraphale. I'm going to skip the chain of evidence for this bc I think it's obvious, but the way it's used also lends itself to some inferences supported in other areas in the show.

Here's where I think changing Crowley's hair to red from Book Omens' dark is a good decision in another way. Crowley always has red hair, and if he has any color in his clothes it's going to be red. Red is eye-catching; it always stands out, but it doesn't stand out as demonic. And yet the color Aziraphale associates with Crowley and calls "pretty" isn't red.

I suspect that when Aziraphale says he can make Crowley an angel again, Crowley hears "You're not good enough for me to accept you as you are, let me fix you" because these are words Aziraphale has said to him many times, and has meant some of those times. But

tells the audience differently. The color Aziraphale associates with Crowley, the color he calls "pretty," is the color of Crowley's only overtly demonic feature. Aziraphale doesn't love the angel he knew who isn't Crowley, he loves Crowley, the demon, the person he is now, his yellow demon irises.

Yellow appears in three other places in S2, and they're all symbolically significant, and in fact serve to establish another symbolic significance to the color yellow in addition to that of Yellow Is the Color of My True Love's Eyes.

One of them is a feather duster:

Crowley reacts to a feather duster like a cat confronted by an unfamiliar object

The other three are private conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley:

The walls that surround Crowley and Aziraphale when they speak openly about their situation and how they will handle it are drenched in yellow, and that is super interesting, because in Western color symbolism yellow is the color of fear. The archangel of whom Crowley and Aziraphale are both (rightly) terrified wields a tool the color of fear. The color of fear saturates the backdrop of conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley when they have to discuss their situation and their actions openly.

Remember how Aziraphale's voice shakes here?

Crowley realizes the crows have just handed an angel evidence the angel can take to Hell and use to have Crowley killed

Even the Bentley, that clear sign of Aziraphale's love for Crowley, is also a yellow coffin enclosing him. For Aziraphale, thoughts of Crowley are always entangled with fear, because Crowley is not just Crowley, he is also Crowley's Fall.

And I think fear is what Crowley's eyes themselves represent. For Crowley, fear is now a fundamental part of his perception, his nature, his identity.

The angel Aziraphale once knew is not Crowley, and yet from what we've seen, the chiefest difference in character between this sweetheart and this mischief-maker--

--is that the Starmaker does not know yet that he should be afraid, and the Serpent does. That knowledge and its fear has, shall we say, colored his view of the world.

Aziraphale learns that fear early by observing others rather than Falling himself, and knows enough that by the first time we meet him in the Before, he is already afraid.

Pink was once symbolically equivalent to red; in modern Western color symbology it is a color of innocence, youth, beauty, and first love. Hashtag just sayin'.

The cruellest thing this suggests to me is that, rather than rebellion or his propensity to ask questions, rather than the knowledge of good and evil, the Starmaker's Fall was caused by his innocence. it wasn't the questions that were the problem: it was that he didn't know any better than to speak them out loud.

Y'all, Crowley and Aziraphale do not suffer from communication problems. Despite both being male-coded and British, they don't even seem to lack emotional intelligence. What they do have is a universe of silence and fear they have to communicate within and around. What they lack is the safety to speak and love freely. The true color of Crowley is crimson, but someone gave him those eyes, and Aziraphale either watched that happen or knew about it, and now Crowley covers himself in black--which btw is also the symbolic color for mystery and secrets--and only lets Aziraphale see him as he really is now, because Aziraphale won't judge him for his yellow eyes (or punish and forsake him for his questions). Because Aziraphale carries that fear with him too.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens analysis #good omens crowley color analysis #good omens crowley color #crowley #good omens colour analysis good omens crowley colour #good omens colour #good omens meta #angel!crowley #starmaker

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honestsycrets · 9 months

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querido i: a reward of 2099 | outlaw!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | outlaw!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | doubleshot; chapter is safe for work.

❛ summary | it's been a long time since you've been with miguel o'hara. when your daughter gabriella finds his wanted poster, life starts to unravel.

❛ tags | mention of murder and minor character death, hidden pregnancy, western au, spanish not translated, outlaw!miguel, baby-mama!reader, slight cursing, angst, threats.

❛ sy's notes | here's to listening to the civil wars' devil backbone one too many times. i needed a break from filling most requests, so i only incorporated one very lightly in this piece.

“Mamá, 2099 is a strange amount for a reward, isn’t it?”

Your daughter was a mischievous girl just like her father. She tore down the poster that was tacked up on the homely post office’s bulletin board as you gathered the weekly post. Coming into town was always a bit of a laborious task. With goods to gather and a little girl to socialize, you made it into town once every week.

"Sure is," Jackson the postman said.

“Thank you,” you plucked mail from the man’s dark hands. “I’ll see you next week.”

He wore a warm, kind smile. Working in the post office, he always seemed to be well-versed in what was going on in everyone’s life. His coal-black eyes shone warmly at you.

“Take care now, there’s wild men out there. What with Peter gone and all, you sure you girls will be okay out there? Rio’d sure put up Gabi and you at the hostel.”

Gabi scrunched up her face tight like a screw being twisted into a board.

“That’s real sweet of you to worry but I’m sure we’ll be fine. We've been out there nine years now. I’ll see you next week, sí? ” You tucked your post into a basket that dangled on your elbow, pulling long and heavy skirts to avoid trampling them with your boots as you opened the door.

“See ya then!”

Gabriella stepped out first, pulling on your lace sleeves as a cue for her delayed answer. She wouldn’t butt into a conversation, but she always seemed to hold her questions for a better time. You sighed, looking at the pale wooden buildings. Saloon, feed store, bank, and the occasional hostel. Over the last decade, the town seemed to flourish, bringing all manner of people to your once tiny Spanish town.

“I suppose they didn’t wanna give the extra coin out, Gabi.”

She looked back to the paper in her hands.

“Wanted dead or alive. Notorious badman Miguel O’Hara, 38, native of Nueva… why that’s here, mama!”

Your blood chilled. Congealed even. The sun nearly blinded you, even with the hat that kept the hot sun off of your head. You stepped off the doorway and onto the dusty ground, spinning on your heel to face your little girl with your dark blue fan in your hands, waving the heat of the day off your flushed skin.

“Wanted for--”

You swiped the paper from her fingers.

“That’s about enough of that. We best get on our way, we got goods to buy, the undertaker to see, and a new dress to fit for your papá’s funeral.”

“I was just reading it. In case we see him?”

“We won’t. It’s been a time since he’s shown himself around these parts. You have no business looking at-- that kinda man. He’s a troublemaker. Now get in the cart, let’s not dolly around.”

You would know.

“O—okay, mamá.”

“I’m sorry, Gabi, I don't mean to yell. You’re all I got, preciosa,” you wedged the paper into a new bible, right next to your wooden rosary, and flung it into the basket.

"I know."

You started ahead of her, fussing with your white veil, sparing no expense to the many questions that she had that day. You had just as many questions as she did.

You just couldn’t articulate them to a grieving little girl.

Do you think it's a boy or girl? the seamstress asks a woman in her shop. She fashions all sorts of fashions from birth to death. Her store is stuffed to the brim with frilly and lacy baptismal dresses. Your gaze fell on her belly, tracing the curve.

"Una niña," she says. Her voice triggers something old, some ancient memory you've suppressed. His voice in your ear, a soft kiss on your head. You're sitting there, next to the little girl that he always wanted, haunted by the flood of memories that comes with looking at another woman's pregnant belly.

"You're not like the others. Aren't men supposed to want sons?" you teased him. Miguel snorted, his arm underneath your neck as he gazed up at a sky of glittering stars. The air was lightly warm, a light wind fluttering through the tall grass. Post-relation bliss was warm on his skin, peaceful and quiet.

"For what? Men are jealous of sons," he muttered, shifting his head to kiss the top of your head. "Little girls are... the light in their lives. I'm going to call mine Gabriella. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"That's a real pretty name."

"Sure is. ¿por qué?"

You didn't tell him why. That you hid a secret underneath the layers of your dress. A secret that you knew Miguel would have more than an issue with if he knew.

"Mamá?" Gabi shakes your arm, "Mamá we're next."

Your mind likes to pull mean tricks on you.

Wanted for double murder.

Miguel O’Hara was always somewhere between a hangman’s knot and three mouths to feed. For you, the latter. You were under no illusion of the sort of man Miguel was.

Every look at your daughter’s soft, peaceful face at night reminded you of him. You worried that the more she looked at posters of Miguel, peered into an artist’s rendition of Miguel’s slight, sultry eyes, lush lips, and strong jaw-- she might be able to locate the similarities when she looked at herself. That was why you had to take the flyer from her. The artist sure had a fine hand at drawing him, the man who danced in your dreams by a warm fire and stayed up late counting the stars. He’s gotten thicker, you thought. You sat on the rocking chair as she slept peacefully, rocking back and forth on the chair.

A violent knocking at the front door swept you free from your thoughts. You snatched up the silver lantern, yanked a fine ivory rebozo over your shoulders, and rushed down the stairs. The booming knocking became louder, more urgent. The movement was mechanical, with no husband to answer the door for you, you checked the window first. The man who stood there was not a man you’d want to see. Not now, not back then. He had a wicked face that sat beneath a wide-brimmed hat that obscured the balding spot on top of his head.

God, not him. He was obsessed.

“Buenas noches, Doña O’Hara,” he peeped into the window.

“Bendito, don’t call me that,” you rushed out, the heavy wooden door slamming to a close behind you. “I’ve told you already, he is not here.”

“And I don’t believe you. First, your man-loving husband dies. Next, sightings of Miguel a town over. ¿Qué piensas? Hm? What comes after that?”

“My husband was trampled, Aaron. By a bull. He was a hard-working man who worked with violent cattle. These accidents happen. Why don’t you ask the undertaker?”

He wouldn’t. Although you don’t think Aaron is a complete idiot, he surely has his own motivations for which leads to follow and which leads to ignore. Your husband’s death was one of them.

“I’ll tell you what comes next. You come next. It’s only logical that he would come back to you. You have his daughter and all. Or… does he not know about that? I seem to recall him running out of here like a bat outta hell.”

“You’ve checked my property three times. Barn, basement, home. It’s been nine years, Aaron. Gloria a Dios, he’s probably remarried and forgotten me by now.”

“Not according to my reports.”

You hate the twinge of delight that comes from that admission. Your cheeks warm with blood, highlighting the rouge that sits across your cheeks. He chuckles caustically at how easily it shuts you up. Aaron takes a step forward, his deep leather boots creaking along the aged floorboards.

“What’d you want me to do with that information?”

“If he comes to see you, and I know he will,” he reached out for your chin. Your hand connects with his, shoving him back. “Tell me. You know, it’s a crime to kill another man without good cause.”

“You wanna catch Miguel for your own reasons, Aaron. Don’t bring none of that holier-than-thou bullshit to my footstep.”

“She can curse,” he laughs again. “Here I thought you were a good Christian woman.”

“Don’t try me,” He tries to corral you against the door. You flip your skirts up, his eyes following the motion. You seize the handgun strapped to your thigh, threatening to pull it on him. Aaron slides back, holding his calloused hands up. "Get off my property."

“I’m just saying. If you see him, you know where to find me. Who knows, you and I could work a lil something out.”

Even if you knew where he was, you would be hard-pressed to turn him into Aaron Delgado. You knew Miguel O’Hara would kill him. So, really, it was for his good. You watched him beat down the squeaky steps and mount his horse, fading into the distance of dark, twinkly stars. You probably shouldn’t be praying that robbers got ahold of him.

But only Diosito could judge you for that.

You dipped down to pick the lantern up, stepping off the steps to ensure that he was not just off your property, but properly gone. Then, seeing him set off toward town, you gazed up at the deep night sky. It was littered with an abundance of stars, massive and twinkling brilliantly. Miguel’s favorite constellations shone brightly in the sky. The Anglo called it-- Orion’s belt. Around here, it was named for the hunter: the deer, the pronghorn, and the sheep. You count each of the stars on your way back indoors to sleep in your empty bed.

You prayed Aaron’s hunt would be fruitless that night.

With your husband's untimely death came several complex decisions. Namely, what to do with his cattle hands and the animals under your care. You were fortunate enough to have support from the community in caring for the cattle, but you knew human affection did not last forever. You could sell his property at a scam of a price as a woman or you could keep it and work bitterly on the farm.

Or, as Aaron suggested today in the cover of concern, you could remarry yet again. It was nearly the only good option. Working wasn’t sustainable when you had a little girl to raise and a whole host of children to teach, as you always had. It would be nearly impossible to find someone like your dearly departed husband who knew your situation and couldn’t care less about it.

It’s good for a lil girl to have a father, he says. You know that-- but Aaron should be no one’s father. Not Gabriella’s. Miguel would’ve never approved. Neither did you.

You loosened beads of sweat from your hair as you returned inside, the ends of your skirt matted with dust. Gabriella would return home from school soon and you were fully intent on feeding her a slice of fresh peach pie.

You made your way into your home, your boots between your fingers. The smell of a smoky hearth piqued your attention. It didn’t arise from your great big wood stove that sat against the wall, ready to cook fresh tortillas, but the sort of hearth settled in the deep outdoors.

“Dios mío.”

Miguel sat there, plain as a field flower. His fingers tapped over the heavy wooden table, rolling in succession. He’s older than you remember-- jaw peppered with dark facial hair, his hair dark and wild, set away from his kind eyes that caught yours as quickly as you caught his. You dropped your boots at your feet, backing up once, twice.

“Don’t run, you won't get far,” his voice trilled, low and warm. Beside his sombrero on the table sat a thick rope and his gun, you don’t want to know which one he was planning to use today. His head twisted, a mused smile growing on his face. “You look so surprised, amor. You had to know I was coming.”

The nickname cut more than it used to. You had not been someone’s amor in a very long time. Married strictly by the weight of paper, you don’t exactly recall what the fleeting emotion of love felt like. Wisps of it licked a dead flame to life in your stomach.

“Miguel.”

“You look gorgeous,” Miguel hummed, turning his impossibly broad arms one over the other. You don’t remember him being this thick. He lurches onto his leather boots, taking a few practiced steps closer. Brilliant, you think, you’ve languished years thinking of this moment just to smell of sweat and cow shit. You suppose he’s smelled worse as an outlaw, a name that doesn’t quite fit the handsome man before you.

“You were always a bad liar.”

“Look, not smell.”

“My point stands,” you say.

Your normally practiced updo has gone frizzy, bits of hair escaping the clips that kept it flat against your head. Miguel’s eyes flickered over the strands, then down to your skin flush with blood and exhaustion.

“Mine too.”

You stared at him a moment longer before you found yourself laughing, just a light-- a small thing that you had failed to do over the past week. His death, and the subsequent funeral, was all too miserable. Now he was here and for a moment, just a brief thing, everything didn’t feel so earth-shatteringly dire.

He cracks a smile, drawing his hand to your flyaways, soothing it down against your head. You should be more angry at him-- settling you with a baby like he did and disappearing into the long grass with Widow and not a word more.

“I missed you,” you said quietly. His hand falls away from your head, drifting past his dark blue vest, and hooking at the fat metal belt buckle. “Pero… why are you here?”

“I heard Peter passed,” he said in a practiced tone. “I was a few towns over. Seeing how he’s taken good care of you all these years, I dropped in to say my dues to him. Came to see my girl too.”

The grief may not be readable in his eyes, but you know he’s practiced it in the same way you did for your Gabriella. Her only daddy was gone, deep in the cold earth. His words echoed in your ears, cutting through your grief bright and resonant. You wonder if he knew, but logically, you knew he couldn’t. Miguel always wanted to be a father.

“Who’d that be?”

“You,” Miguel turns your name over, making your name sound beautiful and light on his tongue. It’s sweet, like the peach pie cooling in your aged windows.

“After all these years?"

"Claro."

"You... shouldn't be here. You’re a wanted man,” you said. “Aaron is looking for you. You know that, right?”

“He's nothing to be concerned about.” Miguel shrugged off your suggestion. "I'm only wanted in these parts."

“Where else is there?” you said

“Out West. South. You take your pick,” Miguel lifted his hand, tracing your parched lower lip. “It don't matter to me. I seen all manner of places, like it here more than anywhere.”

"There's nothing here."

"Nothing but you."

You felt your stomach swoop, a delight filling it better than any meal you’d had. You parted your lips to say something else, to find a response that would fit-- to tell him the truth. But he left you then, came back when something fit better than the road. You wonder what fortune he must have made on the road that he’d come back. His hand caressed your cheek, rubbing it as if to soothe you. It didn’t.

“You think you can just go and come back like nothing happened? After what you did?”

The front door squeaked, dragging with a long hiss. Miguel peered over your shoulder as if it were instinctual, his hand snapping to the gun on his hip. You stopped him short of seizing his handgun. Gabriella bobbed in, closing the door tightly shut behind her. She wore a plain blue dress, fine ribbon braided in the updo she had on that day. She takes a few short steps forward before realizing who you were talking to.

“Mamá, I’m home!” she gasped. “That’s the man in the— in the flyer mamá--”

“Gabi go to your room.”

“I’m not--”

“Gabriella,” your voice went soft but stern. Nearly apologetic. You had been so hard on her lately. Miguel’s eyes dropped from Gabriella’s huge, doe-like eyes to her nose, then lips. His eyes sharpened, whipping back to look at you. “Por mí, okay? He won’t hurt me. Te prometo.”

She darted up the many steps to her room.

"Gabriella?" He stared at you uncomprehendingly. He quickly goes quiet, searching your eyes for something. You worry that he’s found the truth, your breath light as you walked over to your wooden stove, checking the flame and setting a pot of water that you brought from a nearby creek to bathe with. He follows you to the stove.

“My daughter is home. You should go,” you remarked, less of a command than a meek statement, floundering on your lips at the end. As delightful as it sounded, running off into some other territory, town, or world with Miguel-- it was unfeasible and irresponsible to be with a man whose name was stapled on the bulletin boards towns over.

“How old is she?”

"That's none of your business." Your outlaw hovers over you, absorbing the space, a bundle of heavy muscle and rage that plumes off his skin like the smell of sweat on your skin. It’s almost as if he can smell the regret seeping off your skin, despite knowing you couldn’t have done anything differently. No one told him and you could not reach him. Whatever the reason he stayed away, you were not the one he reached out to for updates.

“Tell me,” he growls, waves of anger causing his voice to shake. The tone is heartless, empty of the nights together, of slipping off with the old cattle hand at night and day, in the barn and the field. You’re stuck in the memory of your lovemaking with your vaquero, now your outlaw man. You missed him.

“Don’t do this. She could be listening.” You pad away from the stove to the window with the hope that he wouldn’t follow. He backs you up into the wall, his calloused hands so tight on his belt that you could draw lines of tension through his veins.

“You're not telling me because she’s mine,” he’s whispering, the words going through your chest, fizzling out into terrible pain. He reaches out, squeezing your hips to keep you put. Miguel leans into your space and buries you in his overwhelming scent.

“What do you want me to say?” you stare at his prominent muscles, the shift that is thrown open to expose his skin. He cups your jaw and throat with his large hand, forcing you to confront the truth. Your eyes blink closed, bits of tears dripping there. Miguel doesn’t have the patience for pity, or empathy, whichever the two you were looking for right then.

“I want you to tell me the truth. It's not hard.”

“Me telling you the truth changes a whole lot of nothing. You're putting her life at risk just being here. You're an outlaw,” you say, trying his rapidly evaporating patience. "You got a bounty on your head."

"It changes it all," he shoves you back into the window, a choked cry slipping from your throat. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he meant to have the truth. Distantly, you were aware of Gabriella’s feet beating down the steps. You’re relatively certain she’d never gone all the way up to her room. In this creaky house you would have heard her door shut, the floorboards bounce. In either case, there’s no point running away from what you both know to be true.

“Sí, she’s your daughter,” you mustered the words in a bid to get it over with. Miguel always had to get his way. “Now what?”

Miguel flicked a look over his shoulder, marked by the heavy drag of his weighted firearm skidding across the wooden table. A life on the run will do that. Gabriella’s tiny hands slipped around his handgun.

“That ain't true!”

“Gabriella,” you cut her short. “Gabi, bebe, put that down.”

Miguel took a step back, pulling his head back slightly as you shifted in front of him. Her tiny head shook, over and over, tears pricking her bright brown eyes. You fooled yourself into thinking that she wouldn’t listen-- because your Gabi was a good girl. A wonderful good girl who liked nothing more but running in the field with the boys and brightly colored ribbons laced into her braids. She was also a mischievous girl who had been trying really, really hard to be good for you this week. Children had their limits.

“My papá is dead,” she said, her fingers trembling about the thing. Miguel’s head tilted in response, expecting you to take care of it. “His name was Peter and-- he liked sunsets and fluffy chocolate calves and--”

“Badly made blankets,” Miguel said lowly. Gabi lowered the gun, slowly, just an inch or two. “Shorn fabrics, uneven stitching, ugly colors.”

“He liked to make you smile-- be helpful,” he added. You snapped to look at Miguel as he rose his hand to his hips, gazing at the floor and rocking. He waits another moment, noting how Gabriella’s head nodded, rubbing away the tears that dripped off the corner of her eyes with her shoulder. She set the gun down on the table.

“You knew my papá?” she turns her arms one over another. “How?”

“He was my friend.”

“Mamá?” she looked toward you, seeking an answer from someone who wasn’t a face on a wanted paper with a reward of 2099 dollars.

“Peter was your papá but-- Miguel is your padre, mija,” you breathed hard, exhausted from years of suppression. She looks at you, not used to this level of betrayal. Her eyes are distant, somewhere in her tiny memories. She whips around and runs out the back door. Miguel turns his eye out the window, her tiny body disappearing into the deep green fields. The sun blinds your eyes as you look out to the fields full of cattle. He reaches for his rope and gun, settling them in their respective places.

“¡Déjala! She needs time alone.”

He heads out the backdoor. He never did listen well.

#miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spider 2099 x reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines #atsv miguel imagine #atsv imagine #atsv x you #atsv imagines #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction

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apoemaday · 5 months

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A Brave and Startling Truth

by Maya Angelou

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth And when we come to it To the day of peacemaking When we release our fingers From fists of hostility And allow the pure air to cool our palms When we come to it When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean When battlefields and coliseum No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters Up with the bruised and bloody grass To lie in identical plots in foreign soil When the rapacious storming of the churches The screaming racket in the temples have ceased When the pennants are waving gaily When the banners of the world tremble Stoutly in the good, clean breeze When we come to it When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders And children dress their dolls in flags of truce When land mines of death have been removed And the aged can walk into evenings of peace When religious ritual is not perfumed By the incense of burning flesh And childhood dreams are not kicked awake By nightmares of abuse When we come to it Then we will confess that not the Pyramids With their stones set in mysterious perfection Nor the Gardens of Babylon Hanging as eternal beauty In our collective memory Not the Grand Canyon Kindled into delicious color By Western sunsets Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji Stretching to the Rising Sun Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores These are not the only wonders of the world When we come to it We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace We, this people on this mote of matter In whose mouths abide cankerous words Which challenge our very existence Yet out of those same mouths Come songs of such exquisite sweetness That the heart falters in its labor And the body is quieted into awe We, this people, on this small and drifting planet Whose hands can strike with such abandon That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness That the haughty neck is happy to bow And the proud back is glad to bend Out of such chaos, of such contradiction We learn that we are neither devils nor divines When we come to it We, this people, on this wayward, floating body Created on this earth, of this earth Have the power to fashion for this earth A climate where every man and every woman Can live freely without sanctimonious piety Without crippling fear When we come to it We must confess that we are the possible We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world That is when, and only when We come to it.

#poetry #maya angelou #a brave and startling truth

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onmyyan · 1 year

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Save a horse, ride a cowboy.

A/N: here comes the boy NOT EDITED

TW'S: FEM READER, YANDERE, STALKING, MANIPULATION, MURDER, MENTION OF PIGS EATING CORPSES NOT GRAPHIC 👁️👄👁️, READER GETS CALLED PRETTY GIRL

Ashley Hunt HC's

The idealized western cowboy in a modern man's body.

6'6 and wide as a barn, Ashley is an old-fashioned type of beautiful, looks like someone straight out of an Old Western.

His sandy hair has a habit of falling in his eyes when he's working so he often wears a brown leather hat he'd gotten from his Father to prevent this.

He has this habit when he's thinking where he plays with his lips, it's very distracting.

Smells and looks like he's just come running from somewhere- never unpleasant though, it's a mix of sweat and the country air.

Always has that saccharine smile on his handsome face.

Has a loud, goofy laugh, his eyes light up when he does it and his nose scrunches in the cutest way.

He's polite to everyone he meets but he is far from a pushover.

Hates bullies of any kind. Takes on the hero role whenever he's confronted with injustice.

If he sees something wrong he can't just sit by and not do something.

Which isn't hard considering this big mf hauls farm equipment around for a living, he's had to wrestle rowdy bulls into their pens before, he can take another person down easily.

Holds the door open for you every time. Don't even think about touching that handle.

His go-to look is a pair of denim Levi jeans (man's got serious cake when he's working all the strong muscles in his thighs bulge), a white tank that sits on his flesh like a second skin, if it isn't too hot he'll throw on a flannel.

Got a BAMF belt buckle as a gag gift one year but he unironically loves it.

Does this thing where he stands at his full height, stares down at you, his hat casting a dark shadow over his heated stare, both of his big, strong hands rested comfortably on the buckle, it made your knees weak every time.

Knows you have a thing for his voice so he likes to come up from behind and gently kiss just below your ear,

"Hey there Sugar Bear."

All his clothes look well-loved and worn, he don't care much for how he looks, which is ironic since the whole town calls him a pretty boy.

Looks like someone pulled him straight out of one of those sexy country man calendars.

He's a pretty confident guy, except when it comes to you, of course, then he turns into a bumbling teenager trying to talk to his crush without fumbling over his words.

Gets all red and blushy when you call him pretty. Literally has to fan himself with his hat.

You like to randomly shower him with compliments and he gets so flustered he has to stop what he's doing to kiss you.

"Good lord woman yer gonna' put me in an early grave."

For a while, you had to avoid the friendly farmer because the mere sight of him hauling hundred-pound stacks of hay like they weighed nothing had you feeling some not-so-platonic things.

Has you sweating like a sinner in church just from one well-timed boyish smile.

His wavy locks are a few different shades of dirty blonde, he's almost always wearing his hat in an effort to keep his bangs outta his eyes,

The times he took the damn thing off were your favorite cuz the way his hair fell around his face, framing it beautifully, you could really see all of his marble-carved features.

Takes his hat off inside, of course, his mama raised him right.

Works on his family's farm, he grew up working the fields with his Pa so hard work is in his blood.

When he starts something he finishes it. No matter what.

That includes pursuing you as his one and only.

Sun-kissed skin from being outside all day.

He can play the acoustic guitar and loves to sing to himself during his free time.

Voice is deep and warm.

Really good at puzzles.

Loves the idea of a big family but at the same time is so possessive of you and your attention that he battles with the idea.

Likes to draw for fun, mostly sketches and stuff is really good at it.

He likes to sketch you most of all.

Has dozens upon dozens of journals filled with your visage, he doesn't think he can ever truly capture your beauty.

Really self-sufficient if something breaks down in your house and you don't wanna spend a fortune calling some company, you called Ashley Hunt, and he never asked for anything in return either.

Whenever he goes to town people always stop him for something, be it for his help or to give him some goods as thanks, he never leaves empty-handed.

The whole town just adores him, so much so that if you ever tried to run from him, try to use the townsfolk to hide, they'd lure you into a false sense of security, convincing you they'd drive you outta town, only to hand deliver you back to Ash.

He's a protective/possessive/worshiper kinda Yandere.

The first time you meet you're just moving into your Gran's old farmhouse, he knows your Grandma well as she's the closest neighbor to his Farm, he'd been regularly helping her out with household chores or busy work whenever she asked.

The day he sees you hop out of her pick-up, he swore his heart skipped seven different beats.

Your delicious-looking form was clad in these little shorts, no doubt trying to combat that county heat. The black t-shirt you had on was rolled up at the sleeves showing off your arms, he watched them flex as you hauled a box over your shoulder like it was nothing.

His throat goes dry, sweat begins beading at his temple, and it's not the 90-degree weather, you helped your grandmother out of the car with a graceful smile and a certain kind of sweetness, the sight had a swarm of butterflies going wild in his belly.

He saw the remaining boxes stacked in the back of the truck and knew he'd found his ticket in.

You'd come back outside to the towering man at the edge of the yard, hat in hand, he'd shoot you that star-studded smile, voice sounding like melted butter.

"Hello there Miss, my name's Ashley Hunt, I'm your next-door neighbor, I just came on by to check if y'all needed a hand." He gestured towards the truck with his hat.

Then you had the nerve to shoot him that damned smile, so bright and full of life it nearly knocked him out of his socks.

He spends the rest of the day helping you move in, the conversation flowing so easily by the time you two stopped talking it was well past midnight.

He learned so much about you, just from this one convo he knows everything he needs to about you.

And you're perfect.

"I sure am sorry for keeping you up so late sweetheart." Running his hands through his hair he couldn't keep his eyes off you.

He watched you visibly light up at the pet name and couldn't fight the smirk pulling at his lips.

"Don't worry about it! I was having so much fun- again thank you so much for all your help today." You looked so sweet standing there next to him, he was a good head or so taller than you, you looked up at him with those beautiful (e/c) eyes and he had to fight the strong urge to hold you against his chest.

Knows from that night alone you're his Darling.

It's inevitable you spend time with him, as he was your closest neighbor.

He finds any and all excuses to come over in the beginning.

"This floorboard feels a little loose, I'll come by later n' fix her up."

"That window feels a bit drafty hun, why don't I get a handle on that."

Eventually, he runs out of stuff to repair and builds the courage to just ask you out for a romantic dinner at his place. He doesn't cook anything fancy, but it does taste good a real homemade meal.

He thinks long and hard about how to show you he's the one and comes up with a teeth-rottingly cute idea.

Leads you by a gentle hand out to his field where he'd prepared a soft blanket and several throw pillows, fairy lights were strung up on the fence nearest, casting a warm glow on the scene.

After you spend hours talking and giggling, you lay back against the soft blanket and stare up at the clear sky.

Well, you were busy with the stars, he was busy staring at you.

"Ain't you a pretty picture."

That night after he walks you home, just before you turn to say goodnight, cups your face in one hand, "Can I kiss you pretty girl?" And when you breathlessly nod yes, he brings his other hand to the back of your neck and softly pulls you the rest of the way in.

He kisses you the same way soldiers kiss their wives before war, takes the breath outta you both.

Loves when you do anything domestic if you cook at his place or oh my god for him? He's whipping out the ring before the plates are clear.

Or when you stay the night for the first time, he's immediately addicted to the way you feel in his arms, and literally cannot sleep without you by his side look what you've done.

His morning voice is to die for.

"G'mornin' pumpkin." He has the biggest grin on his face when he wakes up, likes to trace his fingers on your bare skin.

You put his hat on once as a goof but he freezes in place, his face is beet red and his breath gets all heavy.

"Don't move a muscle Darlin'- lemme get a good look at ya'."

"Mm mm mm- now that's a sight a man could get used to."

Sleeps naked, if you're uncomfortable with it he'd throw on some boxers but that's it.

Runs too hot for much else.

Sleeps on his stomach and likes to stare at you when he does it.

Hold his hand and he will giggle like a little kid.

He's a lot smarter than he looks so his Yandere tendencies are easy to hide.

"C'mere sweetheart, don't think we're leaving the bed yet."

He's slowly getting you used to the idea of being his housewife, just wants to take care of you.

Like I said before he's beloved by the entire town so if anyone ever tried something with you he didn't approve of (smile at you a little too hard, make you laugh, get too close for his liking) all he's gotta do is give em' that look and if they're smart enough they back right on off.

However if their self-preservation doesn't kick in at that murderous glare, he gives em' one and only one warning to stay away from what was his. It's only polite.

If they did, Ashley would be all smiles and buddy-buddy. You'd never even know something was wrong.

If they don't back down though, well that's what he keeps pigs for.

Did you know pigs can eat a whole body in like three hours? Cuz Ashley knows.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere x y/n #Ashley Hunt oc #my oc #yandere oc #yandere oc x y/n #Ashley Hunt #yandere oc hc's #onmyyan

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toychest321 · 1 month

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With the end of Ramadan rapidly approaching, I'd like to give attention to another Muslim doll line. Though unlike the others, this one is far less obscure...

You know them, you love them, give it up for the Arabian Friends!!!

While Fulla is objectively more popular than Arabian Friends (having a longer span of releases and merchandise), I'd definitely say Arabian Friends are more talked about in western doll collecting circles. This is likely because while all the other Muslim doll lines I've found use Barbie proportions, these moreso resemble Winx or W.I.T.C.H.

Arabian Friends were released by Newboy, the company behind Fulla, in 2007. They were first teased in issues 08 and 10 of Fulla Magazine, before being officially revealed in issues 11 and 14 (the latter seen above).

Only 8 dolls in total have been released for the line: a Deluxe and a Budget doll for each of the four characters. The Deluxe sets came with two outfits, accessories, and an Abaya. The Budget sets came with one outfit and a matching Hijab. Each doll had 7 points of articulation, with bend-and-snap knees.

A third line was announced in 2008 in Fulla Magazine issue 19, advertising that whoever could answer which character had which profession would enter a raffle with the chance to receive a full Arabian Friends collection, but this ultimately never came to pass. (The answers were: Muna - Fashion Designer, Amal - Kids' Teacher, Dunya - Coach, and Ahlam - Air Hostess)

It's said on Dollect there might have been an accompanying animated series, but the most I was able to find were two videos. One seems to be a trailer for the animated series.

youtube

The other includes a Back To School merchandise advertisement, and what might be an animation where the girls reminisce on when they were younger and how their aspirations led to their respective careers (the trailer seems to re-use animation from both of these).

youtube

A comment beneath the Trailer claims these were actually meant to advertise for an upcoming movie rather than a series, but no further news came out after these videos were released. If this is true it's honestly a shame, and might have been cancelled around when the third series was intended to release. The animation provided reminds me of Sailor Moon, and I would've loved to see it in a full storyline!

First character up is Amal, whose name means "Hope"! Her description reads:

"Never forget that hope is the key that opens all closed doors. With hope in your heart you will never be alone and nothing in life will seem impossible.."

Amal reminds me the most of Usagi from Sailor Moon, as the animation seems to portray her personality as being kind yet clumsy. It's ironic that she eventually becomes a schoolteacher as well, considering she apparently had a habit of arriving to classes late. She's also seen tucking a child into bed, so perhaps she's a mother, older sister, or aunt as well?

While depicted in the animation as having honey blonde hair, her doll has dirty blonde hair in two low pigtails (possibly tied by pink ribbon or thread). And ironically, despite her Deluxe doll using more patterns than her friends, her Budget doll is the only one without a patterned shirt.

Next is Muna, whose name means "Wish". Her description reads:

"Wishes are like bright stars in a dark sky although they are only small they fill our lives with happiness and make the darkness beautiful."

Muna is a Fashion Designer with an eye for intricate design and detail. She spends a good amount of time in her studio, seen drawing on her friend's leg cast and her highschool classroom's chalkboard. At one point, Muna is also seen helping an elderly woman across the street, so clearly her devotion to her work doesn't stop her from being charitable when she can be!

Her fashion style in both doll and animated form definitely seems the most bold out of her friends, reminding me of when 2000s-era fashion would draw inspiration from the 70s! While in the animation she and Dunya were depicted with tanned olive skin, their dolls have the same skintone as Amal and Ahlam. She has brown hair with red highlights. In the animation her hair was often depicted with side part bangs and a headband. However, her Deluxe doll has a red beanie, and her Budget doll has a middle part with braids coming down on either side of her head.

Ahlam's name means "Dreams". Her description reads:

"Dreams are like beautiful butterflies that fly in the wide blue sky. It is good to have dreams because they take you to a place where anything is possible.."

Ahlam is apparently a pianist in addition to her Air Hostess job, having dreamt of flying since she was in school. She seems to be portrayed as considerate and low-key, which aligns with her cool blue color scheme!

Her doll's fashion style seems to be Boho Chic, with beads, frills, and florals. In the animation her hair is short, with a side part and a blue butterfly barrette. Her doll, meanwhile, wears her black and blue hair beneath a navy cap in her Deluxe look, and a middle part tied back in her Budget look. Visually, she reminds me of Ami Mizuno!

And last but not least, Dunya! Her name means "Life", and her description reads:

"Your friendship is like a beautiful flower to me. Your nice words, kind deeds and positive attitude are sure to be rewarded with happiness and love.."

Dunya seems to be a healthy eater, going to someone's house with a bowl of greens (salad or kale perhaps?), and making a smoothie while on the phone. She also does stretches and runs on her treadmill. All of this makes her the perfect fit for a coaching position!

Weirdly enough, her hairstyle in the animation is exactly like Amal's doll, with two low pigtails tied by pink ribbon. Her doll, meanwhile, has brown hair in a side part tied in a high pony with silver elastics (giving me Vidia vibes tbh). Her olive green fashion seems to be relatively modern (at least for the 2000s) and urban. Her clothes are the ones I can most easily see on a Bratz doll!

Overall, I simply adore this line!!! It feels more character-focused than other ones I've covered, and I'm a sucker for such strong color-blocking! It's hard for me to even pick a favorite, since their centralized aesthetics are all so compelling and unique! If anyone who knows Arabic would be able to translate what they say in the animations, I'll happily add an addendum to this post for clarification!

It's a shame the line and its movie was cancelled before it could receive the acclaim it deserved, I would've loved to see what more it had to offer! Regardless, I'm thoroughly impressed with what they managed to put out, and hope the designers have been able to apply their clear talents in other endeavors!

Ramadan Kareem!

#dolls #dollblr #muslim dolls #arabian friends dolls

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