i finally watched headless: a sleepy hollow story and oh. my. god.
every line of dialogue, every shot, every costume, every tiny detail in the background of every scene, all of it was captivating.
my knowledge of the legend of sleepy hollow is extremely limited. when i was around five or six i watched the first fifteen minutes of the disney cartoon, before my grandmother shut it off saying it was "too scary" (although i disagreed. i was six, i wasn't gonna win) and that was the end of that.
but i don't need to be the #1 washington irving fan to know that shipwrecked did it right. it was comedic, it was spooky, it was heart-warming and heart-wrenching and i loved it.
i know of almost everyone in the cast from different projects, but they blend so beautifully here you forget you're watching a show (even with jon cozart breaking the fourth wall to beautifully sing at you)
so anyway if you haven't seen it yet, i highly suggest setting aside two and a half hours to watch this masterpiece (and all other shipwrecked masterpieces) because you will want to press play again right after.
alright i'm done being sappy but i just really loved it and i have a lot of feelings
204 notes
·
View notes
Some Sentences Sunday!
I was tagged by @honestlydarkprincess @wikiangela @daffi-990 thank you 💜
I hit a random burst of inspiration with the Buck breakdown fic, and I wanna preface this bit by saying I have very complex feelings about Eddie's parents and these are definitely translating into the fic because I was really deep into this story before I realized I can't really almost kill both Eddie and Chris (since the whole concept of the fic is both of them in getting into a crash and Buck spiraling from that) and not have Eddie's parents show up so I had to add a whole other layer I didn't fully planned on exploring, but have a bit of Eddie's mother seeing right through Buck. prev snippet
"And Chris, I know he's not mine but I don't care, I'd do anything for that kid," he says and Helena studies him for a beat, the purse of her lip and the crease in her eyebrows looking so much like every time Eddie managed to see right through him. It's also the same face Chris makes when he's concentrating. It makes his heart ache in a way he doesn't really understand while he waits for her to say whatever she needs.
"I thought the two of you were together," she finally says and he gives her a startled look, "when we first got here, I thought you were together and Eddie didn't tell us because he was afraid of how we would react," she explains, reading the confusion on his face but he's still looking at her in disbelief.
"It's not," he manages to choke out and she places a hand on his arm, squeezing lighting.
"I know that now, it's just that all the stories he tells us involve you, all the stories Chris tells involve you, and I've been watching you with him, you're not just dad's friend, the three of you have something."
Buck doesn't really know what to do with what she's saying. It's true, they have something. But he never dared asking for it to be defined, too scared it would be taken away from him if he got too comfortable.
"They're my family," he says, feeling like he's been put under a magnifying glass as Helena nods.
"But you're not acting like someone who almost lost his best friend, you're acting like someone who almost lost a partner. You've been bouncing between their rooms, and I can see you're trying your hardest to make sure everything is taken care of, but, honey, you look like your world doesn't make sense anymore without him."
no pressure tagging <3: @bucks118 @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @giddyupbuck @vampbuckley @try-set-me-on-fire @housewifebuck
51 notes
·
View notes
In Clays and Creams and Yellow Music is now on ao3
Robin is gay, is the thing. She always has been.
She remembers being very small and watching the way girls skirts twirled around their knees, the way their hair would brush they collarbones and get stuck on their mouths, lips sticky with gloss and— his hair has grown out, is the thing. Since everything. Since it's all been over. He hasn't gotten it cut.
Used to be every three months like clockwork, the minute it would start brushing his shoulders. And she'd asked him once, why he bothered when it looked so nice longer. He'd tensed up, facing away from her, hands still poised above the register. And then his shoulders had dropped, all at once, forced like, and he’d shrugged. Told her he didn't like the feeling of it brushing his shoulders. He hadn't looked her in the for the rest of their shift.
She doesn't think she believed him then, either, but she hadn't known what to say to him about it (years later, in the quiet dark of their apartment, he will tell her about his first hair cut and his father and the way his hair brushing against his shoulder's made him want to cry and how confusing that was because it was from happiness and from fear and sadness and some weird twisted second-hand form of disgust (and she knows if she ever sees Harrington senior again she will absolutely break her fucking hand for the sheer pleasure of popping him one right in his great big nose.))
So, yeah. His hair is getting long, and the longest bits reach past his shoulders, now, and the front pieces are falling just past his chin, with this one extra short bit— lifted by his great big swirling cow’s-lick— tickling his cheek-bone. And he’s stopped swooping it up with too much hairspray, lets it fall soft and wispy around his face instead— and the door opens, bell jiggling, and he smiles at the pretty girl on the other side of the counter. All big and flirty-like, that one that shows off his one crooked incisor and it makes her stomach twist uncomfortably and she feels sick with it. But Steve is talking with his hands now, fingers flying as he explains the plot of whatever movie he’s recommend, and she can see the way the girl tracks them, nose wrinkling, and that makes Robin's stomach twist for a whole other reason, sinking like a rock in her fucking abdomen, tugging at her diaphragm until she can't breathe with it either. Because really, Steve’s picked up a lot of that from her and Eddie, the way he flourishes his hands. But Eddie knows better than to really do it much in public, and he’s created the kind of personae that it wouldn’t matter even if he did but Steve doesn’t have that, and he doesn’t even really know.
But Steve is ringing her up now, and they’re both smiling and the girl is thanking him and—it’s fine, really, it's all fine.
Except that now Robin's looking at his hands too, all cluttered with rings, which he's slowly been collecting for the past month now—two months? All delicate weaved silver and floral motifs, one with a small inset amethyst and one with weaving ivy (from Robin) and another, the only chunky one (one of Eddie’s)— an old signet style ring with a heavy lined moth, weighing down his pinky-finger in tarnished silver. And his nails— they’re painted. A soft pink clear coat you can barely see, except for when it catches the light just right and the florescent bulb shines in arcs across them. He'd had Robin repaint them Saturday night, after the girls had left, from a bright yellow ( his favourite colour) to this ‘so he could still wear it into work’. (When pressed he had simply stated that he'd promised El, and then, in a much quieter hushed kind of voice, that he thought it would be good for Will to have some positive roll models.) They're well cared for, Robin knows, and by turns soft and rough—slightly callused from years of sports and swinging his dumb bat at dumb terrifying monsters, but he has this whole drawer full of fancy creams and she knows that he trims his cuticles, files his nails until they are a perfectly shaped oval—
“-obin" Steve is looking at her now, head tilted to the side with that soft exasperated Robin-smile he saves just for her. "Robs?" he says again, and he laughs softly when she just blinks at him, it makes something in her stomach clench painfully. She feels sick. Is she sick? She wonders if this is all some sort of fever induced hallucination and— Steve is looking worried now, stepping closer with that little furrow between his brows, one hand lifted like he's thinking about pressing it to her forehead to check her temperature and— is he wearing lip gloss what the fuck? But— no. Steve is not allowed to look worried.
He's worried so often— about her and the kids and Eddie and even Nance and Jonathan, and there's absolutely no need for him to be looking like that right now, not about whatever is happening inside Robin's head because its nothing. So she laughs and pokes at his forehead, and he swats at her hands, still kind of frowning at her, and she knows he's still worried.
“I'm okay, Stevie, really” she says, and then he goes a little pink, the way he always does when she calls him that, fond and pleased, and he squeezes her hand tightly between his.
"You looked a little warm, are you sure?" and she doesn't stop him from pressing the back of his hand to her cheek, forehead, neck until he's satisfied. He smells like the lavender he puts on his temples before bed and like something else sweet and musky and floral. Fuck.
"See?" She says, and squeezes his other hand where they're still clasped by their sides. “All good."
He hums, still looking her over. "Alight, but let me know if that changes okay? We’re closing early to day to help out at the middle school, so I can always drive you home and then come back to finish closing up on my own.” And then he's back to work again, squinting at the computer screen and typing with his painfully slow two-fingered jabs.
And Robin's gay, is thing. She always has been. She likes women, or at least, she doesn't like men.
But Steve is—
Well. Fuck.
Part 2
53 notes
·
View notes