mi ricordo come fosse ieri il suo volto scuro e pieno di gioia.
era una fredda mattinata di autunno o primavera, ma credo fosse più primavera.
mi dicevano "non avvicinarti lì, è proprietà privata!!", infatti ebbi un po' di timore, a me sinceramente sembrava un posto stupendo: un bel boschetto, con tanti fiori, alberi di ulivo, una quercia antica, tanto sole quanta tanta ombra, abitato da diverse creature gioiose e stupende, curiose ecc...
ma forse ad altri non erano molto simpatiche le persone che l' abitavano... a me non importava però, io volevo vedere i cavalli, conoscerli e comunicarci...
quella mattina, ero uscita a fare compere, poi mi sono trovata davanti ad esso, il boschetto, la quercia, gli ulivi, i prati verde menta e le montagne di balle di fieno... sta volta volevo proprio varcare la soglia, ebbi paura per colpa delle dicerie, sì, ma volevo farlo lo stesso. e feci bene, perchè poi fui rimasta felice per lungo tempo...!!
camminavo per quella stradella finchè poi incontrai un recinto di diverse cavalle e vicinissimo dietro di me una fila di stalle con altri cavalli in ognuna. mentre cercai di attirare l' attenzione di una delle signorine mi girai di scatto impaurita come non mai.
lui, mi aveva scelta.
lui mi volle.
lui ebbe l' imprinting.
lui, mi stava chiamando.
c' era lui, dietro di me.
era un cavallo di grande taglia, color morello, maremmano, lunghi capelli corvini e boccolati, occhi scuri, semplicemente stupendi, con riflessi gaieschi, di felicità, come se gli piacessi e come se fosse la prima volta che vide qualcosa del genere...
si fece accarezzare tutto da me.
oggi, siamo ancora innamorati l' un l' altra, il primo cavallo che cavalcai fu lui stesso, fu uno dei miei giorni più belli della mia vita.
oggi vado molto spesso a quel boschetto e la felicità rimane la stessa.
Is it just me or is Jacob describing his imprinting on Renesmee like, the most terrifying thing ever? Losing all of his connections- to his friends, his pack, his sister, his father- and being tethered to the Earth only by her? That's horrifying
Donarsi a chiunque è disperdere la propria essenza, donarsi a chi si è scelto è, invece, moltiplicarla. Non è il piacere a renderci vivi, ma la consapevolezza di essere unici, di rendere l'Altro unico, di perdersi in quell' Essere, sapendo che solo quell'Essere possiede le "mani" per spogliarci.
Imprint!Reader / Pure fluff / Late night drive / Date night
〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰
You’d almost forgotten how the truck sounds when it’s happy.
There’s a particular hum it finds when the road unfurls clean and empty and the trees lean back to watch you pass, when the night has shaken off the busy hours and settled into that velvet hush that belongs to the coastline. Jacob swears the rebuilt engine has a soul. You believe him tonight. The old dashboard glows a mild amber, and the heater breathes warmth into the cab, hinting at pine sap and the sea in the same exhale.
Jacob drives with one hand, the other open between you, palm up, waiting. It’s a familiar invitation, like his laugh or the way he tips his head when he’s listening, and you fit your fingers into his without thinking. His skin is warm in the way that always surprises you even after all this time, heat at the center of his palm and along the pads of his fingers. It pools where your hands meet, a quiet ember.
“Comfy?” he asks, glancing at you. The corner of his mouth kicks up.
“Very.” You squeeze his hand, thumb drawing a small circle where his palm meets his wrist. “You drive like you rebuilt this thing with your bare hands.”
He scoffs. “Because I did rebuild this thing with my bare hands.”
“Right. I keep forgetting to be impressed.”
“Don’t worry.” He winks. “I’ll remind you.”
He puts his attention back on the road, but not before he studies you for a heartbeat longer : the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the soft reflection of the dash in your eyes, the half-smile you can feel even without seeing. You catch his look and look away, warmed all over again by the steadiness of it. Imprinting, you’ve learned, is not a lightning strike so much as a perpetual sunrise. It keeps growing brighter, changing the way you see everything, especially each other.
Outside, the clouds are ragged and fast, backlit by a swollen, low-hung moon. Forks and La Push have their usual handful of lights, little gold pins stuck into the belly of the dark. You left them behind twenty minutes ago, pointed toward the narrow county road Jacob had said was “nothing special,” which means it’s going to be perfect.
“Still mad at Paul?” he asks after a stretch of easy silence. “For stealing your chips at the bonfire?”
“I’m not mad. I’m… keeping score.”
“Oh no.” He says it like it’s a solemn thing. “How steep is my tab?”
“You’re safe tonight.” You lean your head against the cool window, grin at him. “But if you steal my fries again, I will whisper to Embry that your favorite song is that boy band ballad and he will never let you live it down.”
He’s mock-offended. “Wow. You’re really going straight for the nuclear option.”
“I am ruthless in defense of fries.”
“Noted.” He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, a quick warm brush that sends something bright rippling through your chest. “I’ll buy you a whole extra order just for insurance.”
“You already did.”
“Then I’ll buy two.”
You ride the curve of a hill, and the trees thin. Jacob flips on the high beams, and the road spills forward, silvered with dew. He takes a turn you would have missed, up a gravel path that crunches under the tires and twists through undergrowth. Ferns sweep the doors. The truck climbs slow and sure.
“You sure this road is real?” you ask, playful.
“Scout’s honor.” His thumb strokes your hand. “Found it on patrol last week. Figured we could use some actual quiet.”
You know what he means by quiet. Not just the absence of laughter and bickering, not the lack of woodsmoke or surf or wolf paws drumming the forest paths. Real quiet, the kind where you don’t have to be anyone else’s anchor, not the pack’s, not friends’ who need you, not the one who keeps a calendar in your head for work, appointments, favors you’ve promised. A pocket of time that belongs to exactly two people.
The truck noses through one more switchback and then the trees fall away altogether. The hilltop is a bald scallop of earth and wild grass. Above you, the sky opens deep and wide and pricked with stars; in front of you, the land relaxes into a dark green quilted valley, the river a pale seam threading through it. Farther beyond, the ocean is a flat inhale of black, the moon painting a path over it like a secret that only you and Jacob share.
He parks at the edge, kills the engine. The sudden quiet is a soft, profound thing. It makes your heart sound too loud in your chest for a moment until you match its rhythm with Jacob’s steady breathing. He doesn’t let go of your hand.
“Well?” he asks, voice low as if the night might echo.
“Nothing special,” you say, and he bumps your shoulder with his, the truck tipping just enough to rock you closer.
The windows fog a little from your combined heat. Jacob leans forward, wipes a clear circle in the glass with the side of his hand, then looks back at you. “Blanket in the back,” he says. “And hot chocolate in the thermos that I absolutely did not make just to show off.”
“Did you add marshmallows?”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Do you even have to ask?”
You laugh quietly. “Show me.”
He slides out first, rounding the truck with that easy grace you know in your bones now, the way he moves like the earth is his, like gravity is a favor he knows how to call in. When he opens your door, the night air curls around your legs, cool and sweet with the scent of wet grass. He offers his hand, palm up again, and you take it because you always will.
The truck bed tarp is already rolled back. Jacob pulls out a bulky, soft blanket, shakes it once so it blooms, and tucks two corners under the toolbox to keep it from slipping. He makes a point of fluffing it like it’s a five-star hotel turn-down, which earns him an exaggeratedly grateful curtsy from you that makes him grin, all teeth and warm eyes.
He helps you climb up and then joins you, shoulders touching as you sit cross-legged. He pulls a thermos from a paper bag, and the moment he twists the top, a rush of chocolatey steam breathes up into the cold air. He closes his eyes for a second, inhaling, then opens them and catches you already looking. You don’t pretend you weren’t.
“Two mugs,” he announces, unnecessarily proud, producing chipped enamel cups in mismatched colors, your favorite blue and his green one that’s dented near the rim.
“You brought the blue.” A small, sappy warmth uncurls in your chest.
“I brought the blue,” he confirms, pouring. “Can’t have you drinking from anything less.”
You take the cup, and he watches as you hold it with both hands, breath fogging the surface, the heat gathering the cold from your fingers. The first sip sears your tongue just a little and tastes like cocoa and cinnamon and the kitchen you share on slow mornings, like hands brushing in the sugar jar, like the soft sizzle of butter in a pan, like Jacob’s laugh when you shake the pan too enthusiastically and send a pancake into an improbable arc.
“Good?” he asks, knees bumped against yours.
“Ridiculously.”
His chest lifts, satisfied. “I accept your praise.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
You tilt your head. “I do.”
Just like that, simple. You say it often, and it still plants a flag every time. Jacob’s throat works. He sets his mug down on the folded lip of the tailgate and turns so he can look at you head-on. Night wind ruffles his hair. The moon puts a faint halo on his cheekbone. He reaches, slow enough you could stop him if you want, sure enough that he knows you won’t, and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear.
“I could watch you say that,” he murmurs, “and not get tired of it.”
You tip forward and press your forehead to his. “That’s good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going to stop.”
He closes his eyes, just breathing with you for a moment, and that is the quiet you came for. The kind that happens when the world stops being something you have to hold up and becomes something that holds you. You feel the imprint like a tide underneath your skin, like the pulse of a drum you both know the rhythm to without talking about it. It isn’t magic you can bottle or explain in neat sentences. It’s Jacob’s warm hand coming to rest on your knee. It’s the easy glide your breath makes when he’s near. It’s the way the whole night feels a half-step closer because he’s here to point it out.
He opens his eyes. “I got you something else,” he says, sudden and a little shy.
You lean back. “You already got me a view and marshmallows.”
“Those were for me.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a small paper bag folded precisely at the top. He hands it to you with the same care he’d use to pass you a newborn kitten.
Inside, cushioned in tissue, is a key ring, hand-worked leather, warm and smooth, the strap stamped with a tiny pattern of waves and, on the reverse, your initials and his, separated by the simplest heart. The metal ring is heavy, solid. The work is meticulous and exactly Jacob. He never gives gifts that are about price. He gives gifts that look like his hands put in time.
“I know you already have keys,” he says, filling the quiet faster than you can stop him. “I just thought… when you go to work early and I’m out late, or when we’re both all over the place, it’d be nice to—”
You lean in and kiss him so he stops explaining.
It’s a soft kiss, almost chaste at first, because the night asks for that kind of reverence. Then his free hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, and the kiss finds a deeper seam. The heat of him is a gentle pressure through the layers of clothes. His mouth is patient, careful, but not uncertain. He kisses like he’s building something, like every brush is a beam holding up something bigger.
When you pull back, you’re smiling, breath shallow in the best way. “I love it,” you say, thumb sweeping the tiny heart on the leather. “I love you.”
He swallows, nods, looking at you like you’re the view he brought you here to see. “Good,” he says, a little hoarse. “I… good.”
You loop the key ring onto your keys, the metal clink bright in the dark. Then you both lie back, shoulders still touching, cups between you, the blanket a small island under the spill of stars. Jacob points with his chin at a cluster above the treeline.
“That one looks like a wrench,” he says.
“It looks like a teapot.”
“A wrench.”
“Teapot.”
“Compromise,” he says. “A wrench pouring tea.”
You snort, which earns you a pleased hum. Your hands find each other again atop the blanket and twine. The breeze combs the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird calls twice. The silence, the kind you wanted, stretches and settles, and you feel yourself exhale into it.
“Tell me a story,” you say, soft.
“About what?”
“About us.”
He’s quiet a moment, tracing circles on your palm. “Okay,” he says. “Once upon a time, there was this girl who never let anyone steal her fries.”
“Good start.”
“And there was this guy who rebuilds engines so he can drive her to the top of the world.”
“Romantic.”
“He’s learning.” Jacob rolls onto his side to face you. “He figures out that quiet isn’t just the absence of noise. It’s something that happens when she lays her head on his shoulder.” He taps your shoulder, a cue, and you scoot closer, fitting your cheek to the warm curve of him. His body is a refuge; it’s always been. “And when the world is loud, he can still hear the quiet as long as he can hear her laugh.”
“Does he get a name?” you ask into his jacket.
“He does,” Jacob says. “But she says it better than anyone, so he makes her promise to say it often.”
“Jacob.” You say it exactly the way he likes, low and sure, the vowels a caress.
He inhales. “Yeah. Like that.”
You fit there for a long while, passing the thermos back and forth, watching the moon climb. The cold brushes your cheeks but never bites, not with Jacob’s heat a steady line touching your side from shoulder to knee. When a stronger gust skims the hilltop, he tucks the edge of the blanket around you and murmurs a small apology to the night for taking some of its air, like he owes it that courtesy.
“Remember the first time we came up somewhere like this?” he asks. “When we were… eighteen? Nineteen?”
You laugh. “We tried to watch a meteor shower and fell asleep after thirty minutes.”
“And woke up at dawn covered in pine needles.”
“And you had one in your hair the whole next day,” you say. “Embry tried to rescue you and almost poked your eye out.”
“True friendship,” Jacob says solemnly. “I keep that pine needle on a shrine.”
“Oh do you?”
“In my heart.”
You look up at him, and he looks back, and a look passes between you that you’ve both learned not to talk through. It’s a look that says: we’ve been building this for years, and every small choice is a brick, and this hill on this night is a roof over our heads we built together.
As if hearing that unspoken thing, Jacob’s voice gentles. “Can I…?” He strokes along your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Can we make this one of those nights we remember later when work is dumb and the pack is loud and everything is messy?”
You sit up with him, drag the blanket with you so it pools around your hips. “We already did,” you say. “But we can keep going.”
You kiss him again, a little deeper, and this time neither of you rushes or jokes. He holds your face like it’s something to be framed. You slip your hands up into the back of his hair, and he makes a sound in his throat that you feel more than hear. He tastes like chocolate and cold air. His pulse jumps under your fingers where they brush his jaw. When your lips part, his breath fills the space between you.
He pulls back only far enough to search your face, and you see the exact second he finds whatever answer he was looking for. His smile is small and certain. He ducks his head to kiss your jaw, the soft skin beneath your ear, the hollow at the base of your throat where your necklace rests. His mouth is reverent there, and you tip your head to make more room for him, your fingers flexing at his shoulders.
The night moves around you, a slow tide. Somewhere below, the river talks to itself, and the grass whispers. Jacob’s hands are sure where they settle, always patient, always checking in with the tiniest pause that lets you nod or breathe a yes. You let the blanket become a tent against the cool air, a pocket of warmth that’s just you and him and breath and soft sounds. His heat soaks through your layers. Your laugh catches once when he murmurs something half-teasing against your collarbone, and he answers it with a kiss like a vow.
When he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead against yours again. “You okay?” he asks, voice roughened.
“More than okay,” you say, and you mean it in all the ways: I’m safe, I’m warm, I’m full, I’m yours.
He nods, hands flexing gently on your back. “Tell me if you get cold,” he says, which is funny because you don’t, not with him radiating heat like a secret furnace. You say so, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.
“Come here,” he says, and you do, and the night holds its breath.
Time goes soft around the edges. The moon slides. Your mugs cool and then go forgotten. You kiss until kissing feels like breathing, and when you draw back it’s to look at him, really look, and to laugh quietly when his hair is a little wild from your hands. He looks back at you like you’ve broken a spell and made a better one in its place.
You don’t need words for the rest. The blanket becomes a cocoon, the sky your ceiling. You keep it tender, slow, a chain of yeses. There’s nothing hurried, nothing hidden. The night is your witness. The ocean is your metronome. And when you press your forehead to his shoulder later and the quiet returns, it’s not empty. It’s full of everything you just said without saying.
Eventually, the air cools enough that even Jacob’s warmth is challenged at the edges. He tucks you close and reaches blindly for the thermos. The hot chocolate is lukewarm now and sweet, and he grimaces and then drinks anyway because you laugh at him when he does.
“Heroic,” you say.
He sighs tragically. “The sacrifices I make.”
You sit together, back to the cab, feet dangling over the tailgate. The land below is a dark promise, the river a ribbon of pewter. Stars crowd closer now that your eyes have adjusted again. The moon’s path across the water has moved to a new angle, a silver thoroughfare leading away to somewhere unknown.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” you ask, not sure why the question chooses this moment. Maybe because you’re at a place in the world that shows you how big it is. “Not forever, just… road trip big. That van you keep threatening to build?”
Jacob hums. “All the time.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “Bring you, obviously. Hit the big tree in California, the desert, the city lights that don’t go out.”
“Eat too many roadside peaches.”
“Learn their names,” he says. “Like, all the peaches. They deserve it.”
You laugh, and then softer: “We could actually do it. A week. Two.” The thought unfurls like a map, marked with places you’ve only ever pointed at on your phone. “We can make the pack cover us. We’ll tell Sam it’s for morale.”
“For research,” Jacob adds solemnly. “I need to know how engines sound in every state.”
“And I need to document your boy band karaoke in every state.”
He pretends to consider. “Worth it.” Then he takes your hand again, his thumb finding that same spot at your wrist. “We’ll go,” he says, simple as that. “We’ll come back. We’ll go again. We’ll make this” he nods at the night, the hill, the truck, you and him “bigger by letting it see more.”
Your throat goes tight in the good way. You turn your hand and lace your fingers with his. “Deal.”
He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Deal.”
You sit until the cold finally tips you back inside. He helps you down, both hands steadying your waist, and you hop to the ground with an exaggerated oof that makes him grin. He stows the blanket, the thermos, checks the corners, then opens your door and waits for you to climb in, like you’re on a date for the first time and he’s determined to do it right. The heater whirs back to life when he turns the key. The cab fills with the soft familiar smells again, now layered with cocoa and him and you.
He rests his hand on the back of your seat as he backs up, eyes flicking between the mirror and you. When the truck dips onto the gravel path, he reaches for your hand without looking, not because he needs to but because he wants to, and you give it.
The drive down feels like rewinding a tape, trees crowding in to hide the sky, the road choosing the path of least resistance, the valley’s dark breath washing up to meet you. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The quiet is a companion now, full of everything you just shared.
At the bottom of the hill, the road gathers itself into asphalt again. Jacob glances at you and then at the horizon where the ocean breathes, an idea occurring to him that is plainly written on his face.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… happy.”
You grin, and your chest feels too full in the best way. “Me too.”
He brings your joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of yours without taking his eyes off the road. You watch the movement, the way the tendons shift in his forearm, the clean strength in his wrist. You think about all the things those hands have done today : turned a wrench, built a gift, held you like you’re the good thing in the center of everything—and you’re struck with a simple, overwhelming gratitude.
“You know,” you say, “for a guy who claims he rebuilt his truck to show off, you’re actually disgustingly thoughtful.”
He makes a scandalized sound. “Don’t spread that around.”
“Too late.” You squeeze his fingers. “It’s my favorite thing about you.”
He feigns a pout. “Not my incredible hair?”
“That too.” You reach up and ruffle it gently at the nape, earning another quiet sound that you file away for future use. “But mostly the thoughtful.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “My favorite thing about you,” he says finally, “is the way you look at me like I’m exactly who you were looking for. That… it keeps me right.”
You swallow. The road straightens. The ocean throws its steady hush at the cliffs. You look at him and make sure he sees the truth of what you say. “You are exactly who I was looking for.”
The rest of the drive is a warm blur. He takes the long way just because, skirting the edge of the surf so you can roll the window down for a minute and let the salt move through the cab, then up past the quiet houses where porch lights mark where other people’s stories tuck in for the night. By the time you pull into the drive, the moon has shifted and your mugs clink faintly in the bag where you stuffed them under the seat.
He kills the engine and the world holds still. In the sudden quiet, you can hear the faint tick of heat leaving metal. He turns to you, his face open.
“Home?” he asks softly.
“Home,” you echo, and you both know you mean the truck and the place you sleep and each other.
Inside, you move through the easy grammar of a long day’s end : shoes off by the door, keys dropped in the little dish (your new key ring sits on top like a crest), lights fanned on low, the soft burr of the bathroom fan as you brush your teeth side by side, shouldering each other like kids. Jacob hums under his breath while he washes his hands, some aimless little tune that you recognize from earlier that afternoon when he was working at the table.
“Don’t even say it,” he warns when you start to grin around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Your boy band anthem,” you garble, and he flicks water at you, laughing.
Later, under a heap of blankets, the world narrows to warmth and breath and the cadence of your names. The windows are cracked just enough for the sea to remind you it’s out there. The moon watches the way the two of you say goodnight like a language it doesn’t speak but understands anyway. Your laughter shows up again when his foot finds yours under the blankets and he yelps because even he can be surprised by cold toes. He retaliates by tucking you fully against him, a smug furnace, and you surrender happily.
You talk in the dark about small things. The road trip. Which snacks qualify as non-negotiable. Whether the desert will forgive you if you don’t immediately love it. You tell him it will. He tells you you will. You drift, and the quiet comes back, full again, no edges.
A while later, somewhere in the place between waking and sleep where you both are honest without effort, Jacob kisses your forehead and says, “Thank you for tonight.”
“For the view?” you ask drowsily.
“For the yes,” he says. “For the quiet. For you.”
You lift your face just enough that he finds your lips in the dark. “Always,” you murmur. “Always, always.”
Outside, the ocean breathes. The stars keep their counsel. Inside, the warmth pools and stays. And if tomorrow is loud and messy and real, as it always is, you already have this night tucked into your pocket, a talisman you can touch with a single thought.
When sleep finally takes you both, it does so gently, like a tide coming in around two rocks that have learned, over years, how to be themselves and still lean.
And on the dresser, your keys and Jacob’s rest side by side, the small leather heart between your initials stamped deep enough to last.
Top 4 Twilight things that I wish I could erase from my memory
WARNING: Spoilers for the Twilight series
So I actually love Stephenie Meyer's twilight series, I love Bella as a character and definitely think these books have some amazing moments. Other things though, no.
1.) Imprinting
So the concept in general would be fine, these guys sometimes get super strong crushes, so what? EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THEY ARE ATTRACTED TO CHILDREN. So the way I see it there are two explanations for this option a.) the wolves are on some level in control of who they imprint on and are just attracting to children. Ew. But I don't think this can be the right answer because Edward can read Jacob's mind and would probably have more of a problem if Jacob was having inappropriate thoughts about his young daughter. So option b.) they actually have no control over this. This must be so awkward for everyone, first of all imagine being a wolf and suddenly you're attracted to this young child. I personally would feel absolutely disgusted by this and probably move countries. This also works in reverse, and the child is going to grow up in this super weird environment, I mean can you imagine growing up with this guy you see as an older brother and knowing you're probably going to end up with him. The series actually talks about them giving Renesmee a promise ring, which is kind of really gross. Also is Jacob sexually attracted to Renesmee? Or is it more like the potential to be sexually attracted to her? I'm not sure how that would work but either way it is very inappropriate and I'm not entirely sure why S Meyer would write something like this.
2.) Stalking
WHY WAS EDWARD WATCHING BELLA WHILE SHE SLEPT. That is extremely creepy and the fact that Edward's feelings for Bella were reciprocated does not ok this behavior. When I read Midnight Sun I thought it would give some insight into Edward's behavior and maybe make it more understandable. No, the way Midnight Sun showed it Edward just enjoyed watching her sleep. This really annoys me because Edward for most of the book seems to genuinely care about Bella and is very understanding and sweet. And then he goes and does stuff like this.
3.) There are literally no female characters who are not in some way motivated by the man she was, is, or wants to be dating.
I've gone through every female character I can think of and, with the possible exception of Alice, I can find pretty much none who are not driven by a male figure. Even some of the stronger characters everything seems to come back to a man. Rosalie - her entire ambition is to get married (also this is by no means hating on Rosalie I love her). Victoria - she's attacking Bella and Edward because they killed her boy friend, and while he was alive she is portrayed as much more submissive and doesn't really have her own role. Irene - makes stupid choices because she loses her boyfriend of like 6 months and who probably only liked her because she was blonde. Leah - portrayed as bitter and jealous because her high school boyfriend broke up with her. Bella - while I love her she has like no ambitions before meeting Edward and once she meets him her whole life revolves around him. I also cannot find one female character who actually has any sort of ambition beyond marriage.
4.) Female characters boundaries being made to seem stupid.
Never does the series actually call out a male character on his behavior towards any female character, and incidents like these are normally brushed off and forgotten in a few chapters. This seems to happen most for Bela and Leah. Jacob describes Leah as being jealous and bitter in eclipse and while she is shown in a slightly better light in breaking dawn a huge part of why she was portrayed negatively in eclipse is she gets angry at any of the boys for thinking of what they saw during the brief moments she was phasing. Nobody ever points out that it is actually really creepy for a male character to be thinking about her naked, and I think that entire wolf pack needs to go on the sex offenders register. Edward's stalking is never addressed, and neither is other things male characters do to her, like Jacob guilt tripping her into kissing her in Eclipse even though Edward specifically says Jacob was going to kiss her even if she refused. Gross. Bella also says she is uncomfortable with Jacob imprinting on her daughter, rightly so she;s a new born baby and he's 16. Guess what, no one seems to stand up for her on this and in the end she ends up changing her mind because everyone else has gaslighted her into thinking 16 x 0.5 is an acceptable age gap.
Hi! I have a pet pigeon who was found as a baby with one eye. I have always pet her correctly, just the head and neck. When she was 11mo she laid eggs and since then she has laid 2 every month. I think I am treating her like a flock mate but she is obviously getting mate mate vibes. she gets pelleted diet and wears diapers. is there some petting I am doing wrong? Or something else that is obvious? Thank you!
No, you are not doing anything wrong.
Modification to your own behavior only prevents mate bonding in pigeons who are not imprinted on humans.
Unfortunately, there are not always foster pairs available to tuck rescued babies under, so it probably wasn't an avoidable circumstance for your baby.
Imprinting doesn't just make the human care taker "Mommy."
It tells the baby bird what species it is: Sets a mental template for what individual to watch and mimic to learn from, and, from that, ingrains what will make the best mate.
Because it is the first and most fundamental stage of a bird's mental development, that Species Template can't be changed once set.
This is what prevents, say, a baby cardinal from trying to follow, beg food from, and later court a sparrow, titmouse, jay, crow, or hawk.
A pigeon raised by a human will never be convinced that they aren't a human.
Or that a pigeon is their actual species.
To further compound matters, pigeons don't have a breeding season. Flock mates live and nest together year round.
And individual pigeons never do anything alone!
Her mate is not just her sexual partner.
He isn't even primarily her sexual partner!
He's mostly her look out!
While one scans the ground for food in flight, stoops to peck up seed, or navigates home, the other is always watching for predators, and they switch who does which every few minutes so that both can safely get enough to survive and make it back to the safety of their colony.
An established pair may divorce, but neither will ever live single! Both will find a new mate as soon as possible, because their life fundamentally depends on maintaining that kind of a cooperative partnership.
Because imprinting set her Species Template to Human, your pigeon has no viable partner option other than you.
Even if you were to get her a male pigeon, that miss-set template means she would just respond to his advances the way a human would to being asked out by a talking chimp.
There will never really be any way to break her from trying to get you to accept her as a mate, but it's not about wanting sex.
It's about needing the security of a look out.
As you have seen, she'll lay eggs, sex or no sex. She doesn't need it for the hormones to activate.
They just do at sexual maturity, in the presence of enough food not to starve.
Pigeons are not parrots. They are not the same kind of opportunistic breeder, and cannot be safely deterred from laying the way parrots can.
To prevent the risk of egg binding or calcium deficiency, you have to support a pigeon hen.
Pigeon hens have a predator theft override that triggers the production of a new clutch as soon as they lose the previous one.
If you take the eggs away immediately, her body will suck the calcium out of her bones and everything else out of her organs and muscle to make new ones.
She needs a nest, calcium supplements, trace mineral supplements, and she needs to be allowed to sit her clutch or a fake egg for the full 18 days it would take a fertile egg to hatch, so that her body has the chance to recover what was lost to egg production.
You will see egg production slow after a few rounds, if she is supported this way.
A clutch a month is normal for young hens, so it sounds like you are already providing most, if not all of that support.
I'm sorry if any of this has been a repetition of information you already had, but I hope it helps to know that you are not at fault for your baby girl's condition.
Friends to Lover / Fluff / Light Angst / No imprint
MASTERLIST
〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰 〰
You could always tell summer had truly arrived when the bonfire pit in the clearing behind the community center lit up with glowing embers and the kids started asking for marshmallows before noon.
This morning, however, it was the screech of the storage shed door that woke the forest.
"Need some help there, chief?" you called, stepping into the clearing with a water cooler slung over one shoulder and a plastic tub of art supplies in the other. The sun hadn’t even broken through the trees yet, but the smell of pine and saltwater filled the air like it already knew what kind of day it would be.
Quil Ateara, standing halfway inside the crooked shed, turned his head and grinned. “Only if you wanna wrestle this spider the size of my face.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”
“Only if you want it to be.”
You walked over, dropped the tub on the bench, and shoved the cooler down onto the ground. “Move over. I’m not afraid of your little woodland roommates.”
The inside of the shed was more cramped than you remembered—partly because Quil took up more space than he used to, and partly because there were at least three summers’ worth of camping gear, rope, boxes, and sports equipment shoved inside without order.
“This place is a disaster,” you muttered, brushing off a sleeping bag with one hand. “Why do we never clean it at the end of the summer?”
“Tradition,” Quil said with a smirk, handing you a half-deflated basketball. “Also, because I’m lazy.”
You snorted. “At least you’re honest about it.”
Truthfully, you didn’t mind the mess. You’d been running the camp with Quil for five summers now, ever since you both graduated high school. It had started off small—just a few kids from the reservation who needed somewhere to go during the day. Now it was a full program: crafts, sports, games, storytelling nights, hikes, and a giant slip-n-slide that Quil insisted on building every year, even though it always tore halfway through.
The best part? You and Quil did it all together.
“I found the kickball,” he called triumphantly. “But it’s covered in glitter. Your fault?”
“Art time got intense last year,” you replied innocently.
By the time you finished hauling the supplies out into the sunlight, the clearing was beginning to warm. You could already hear the first of the kids arriving—small sneakers stomping down the gravel path, the high-pitched chatter of excited voices.
You turned to Quil, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Ready?”
He looked at you for a beat longer than necessary. Then nodded. “Always.”
~~~~~~~~~
You always knew when something was bothering Quil.
Not because he said anything—he never did. He was good at hiding it behind crooked grins and sarcastic remarks. But you’d known him long enough to spot the shift. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The way he suddenly had to "check on something" whenever the group laughter got too loud. Or how he’d go quiet when everyone was packing up, like he didn’t want the day to end because silence meant thinking.
It had been three days since camp started, and he was doing it again.
You noticed it as you sat on a faded picnic blanket with the kids during story time. Embry had volunteered to be the dramatic reader for the day (he was surprisingly good at voices), and the kids were clinging to every word. You laughed with them, leaning back on your hands in the grass, but your eyes kept drifting to the edge of the clearing.
Quil stood just outside the ring of light, arms crossed over his chest, staring into the trees.
You made an excuse to get up and wandered over. “You got beef with that pine tree or something?”
Quil blinked, then glanced down at you with a small smile. “Just thinking.”
“That’s usually my job. You’re the brawn. I’m the brains.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Sorry. I’m kind of off this week.”
You nudged him with your shoulder. “Wanna talk about it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really.”
You didn’t push. You knew better than to dig when he shut down like that. Instead, you nodded, then tilted your head toward the campfire pit. “Help me start the fire? The kids are gonna want s’mores soon, and I’m not burning my eyebrows off for their sugar cravings.”
That earned you a real laugh, and you felt something ease between you.
The fire crackled to life, orange flames licking the edge of the kindling as you stepped back, brushing ash from your hands. Quil stood beside you, poking the logs with a long stick like it owed him money.
“You know,” you said casually, “normal people would just talk to someone if something was eating them alive.”
“I’m not normal, remember?” he replied, eyes fixed on the fire. “Big furry secret and all.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’ve been acting weird since Monday. Weirder than usual. That’s saying something.”
He didn’t respond.
The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of kids chasing each other with marshmallow sticks and the quiet hum of the forest. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
“It's because you haven't imprinted yet?” you asked, your voice soft, careful.
Quil’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might’ve hurt something.
You shrugged, looking at the fire. “You never talked to me about this. I figured… I don’t know—”
“I haven't.”
The words were sweeter than you expected in your ears.
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t—” he stopped, jaw tight.
You turned to look at him. “Don’t what?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t love you.”
Your heart stalled.
He said it like it hurt.
Like it was some truth he’d buried a hundred times and just now let surface.
You wanted to say something. Anything. But the words lodged somewhere behind your ribs, tangled in surprise and the way the firelight danced across Quil’s face like it was trying to paint a softer version of the boy you grew up with.
You reached out and took the stick from his hand, tossing it into the fire.
“We should check on the kids,” you said quietly.
He nodded, but neither of you moved.
~~~~~~~~~
The next day, Quil went back to acting normal.
Which, for Quil, meant chasing a ten-year-old across the clearing with a water balloon, pretending to trip into the mud pit someone had accidentally created at the bottom of the hill, and laughing so hard he fell over for real.
You played along. You smiled. You ran the craft table like usual and helped patch up skinned knees, but the conversation from last night clung to your thoughts like pine sap.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
It wasn’t the imprint. It wasn’t fate or destiny or cosmic magic.
It was real. Chosen. Painfully human.
And that made it worse somehow.
You hadn’t expected it—not really. Quil was your person, sure, but you thought that was just childhood friendship turned into adult loyalty. You’d been there when he first phased, when he first told you what he was. You were the one who found him behind the gym, shaking and steaming and terrified, the day he changed. You hadn’t flinched. You stayed. Of course you did.
But maybe he thought that meant something else.
Maybe you wanted it to.
You were still thinking about it that afternoon while watching Quil and Embry drag out the plastic tarp for the infamous slip-n-slide. It was a mess of duct tape and garden hose contraptions, and it never lasted more than a day, but it always brought the kids joy.
Quil caught you watching him and grinned, flashing his teeth. “What?” he called.
You shook your head. “You’re doing it wrong.”
He squinted. “You wanna come show me how it’s done?”
“Absolutely not.”
He looked mock-offended. “Coward.”
You smirked. “I just don’t feel like breaking my tailbone today.”
He paused. “I’ll catch you.”
It came out quieter, like it meant more than it should.
You looked away. “I’ll hold you to that.”
~~~~~~~~~
The last kid drifted off to sleep around 9:30, bundled in a sleeping bag under the stars. Some parents would pick them up by midnight; others let their kids stay for the full overnight camp-out. You stayed behind to help Quil clean up marshmallow sticks and rogue flip-flops, your hoodie pulled tight around your shoulders against the night air.
The fire had burned low, but still glowed orange, little sparks fluttering upward like fireflies.
Quil dropped onto the log beside you with a dramatic sigh. “I smell like smoke and sweat and whatever’s stuck in the mud pit.”
You didn’t look at him. “So, same as usual.”
He nudged you with his knee. “You’re mean when you’re tired.”
You smiled faintly, watching the fire crackle. “I’m always mean to you. That’s our thing.”
A pause.
Then, softer: “Is it?”
You turned your head, startled by the shift in tone.
He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring into the fire again, jaw tense, like the words were scraping against something raw.
“Is that really all we are?” he asked. “Just… kids who grew up together and roast each other and run camp?”
You swallowed. “You said it yourself. I’m not your imprint.”
“I know. But—” he broke off, frustrated. “That doesn’t cancel out everything else. I’m still me. I still feel things. Want things.”
Your heart beat louder than the fire. “You want me?”
His laugh was soft, almost sad. “I’ve always wanted you.”
He finally turned to look at you, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. Not desperation. Not pleading. Just truth. Quiet, steady, undeniable.
You’d seen that face a thousand times, across playgrounds and porches and summer bonfires. You never realized what it meant until now.
“I didn’t know,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t want to mess anything up,” he replied. “You’re not my imprint. I thought… maybe it wasn’t enough.”
You looked at him fully now, heart thudding in your chest. “But what if it is?”
You weren’t sure who moved first.
Maybe it was you, leaning slightly forward, just to see if he would lean back. Maybe it was Quil, shifting closer, drawn like a moth to the flame he’d carried for so long. Either way, when your knees touched, neither of you moved away.
The fire’s glow lit the underside of his jaw, casting warm shadows across his cheek. You noticed the little things you’d never let yourself dwell on before—how his lashes curled just slightly at the tips, how the slope of his nose dipped near the bridge, how his lips parted when he looked at you like this.
“You’ve really felt like this all this time?” you asked.
Quil nodded, quiet. “At first I thought it’d pass. That it was just… some mix of habit and hormones and loyalty, you know? You were always there. You saw me at my worst—hell, you saw me turn.”
You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah, that was a fun day.”
He smiled, but it faded quickly. “But then it didn’t pass. I started noticing things I shouldn’t. Like how your laugh changes when you’re trying to hold it in, or how you tuck your left foot under your right leg when you’re sitting in the grass.”
You blinked. “You notice that?”
“Every time.”
You looked down, and yeah—your foot was tucked under, exactly like he said.
“I didn’t say anything,” he continued, voice rough, “because I didn’t want to make it weird. Because I thought maybe I was being selfish. Hoping for something that wasn’t meant to happen.”
“But you did tell me,” you whispered. “Last night.”
He nodded. “Because I couldn’t not anymore. It was driving me insane.”
The fire cracked again, louder this time, but neither of you flinched. You were still watching him. Really watching him. Seeing everything that had been there all along.
“I don’t know what this means,” you said honestly. “I don’t know what happens next.”
His eyes met yours. “It doesn’t have to mean anything yet. We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
“But we do have time?”
He smiled, soft and tired and filled with hope. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
And for once, you believed him
The last of the embers cast flickering shadows over the grass as you and Quil sat shoulder to shoulder, the air between you warm from more than just the flames. The kids were asleep. Embry and the others had gone home. It was just you two now, tucked into a sliver of the world where nothing else mattered.
You didn’t speak for a long time.
It wasn’t awkward. It felt like the kind of silence people wrote poems about—shared, intentional, heavy in the best way. You could feel his heartbeat even without touching him. You swore it matched yours.
Eventually, he shifted, just enough for your arms to brush.
“I don’t want you to feel pressure,” he said. “About any of this.”
He gave a soft huff. “Twelve years of friendship and I still manage to catch you off guard.”
You smiled. “Only because you’re sneakier than you look.”
He turned his head toward you, and your noses were nearly touching now. “So where does this leave us?”
You thought about it. Really thought. About the years of inside jokes and late-night text messages and how every person you dated never quite felt like home. About how Quil had always been there—steady, ridiculous, loyal to a fault. How this didn’t feel like a beginning so much as a realization.
“It leaves us here,” you said finally, lifting your eyes to meet his. “In this moment. With maybe more than what we thought we had… and nowhere to be but next to each other.”
His smile bloomed like sunrise.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Here’s good.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, your hand finding his in the dark, fingers tangling like they’d been waiting to. He didn’t pull away. Of course he didn’t.
For now, it didn’t need to be more than that.
~~~~~~~~~
You woke up with your head on Quil’s shoulder and the sound of birdsong in your ears.
The fire had long since died, reduced to cool ash and half-burnt logs. Dew clung to the grass, glinting like glass under the pale morning light. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called once and then fell silent.
Quil was still asleep.
His arm had settled around your waist sometime in the night, loose but certain. He breathed slowly, chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his warmth a barrier against the early chill.
You stayed there for a minute, just breathing with him.
It would’ve been so easy to overthink it. To unravel every thread, pick apart every second—What did last night mean? What happens now? What if things change?
But then Quil stirred.
His eyes blinked open, hazy and golden in the morning light. For a second, he looked confused—then he saw you, and his whole face softened.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough.
“Hey.”
A pause.
“I didn’t dream it, did I?”
You smiled. “Not unless we had the same one.”
His grin was slow and sleepy. “Good.”
He didn’t move, and neither did you.
“I like waking up like this,” he said eventually, voice barely above a whisper.
“You say that now,” you teased, “wait until my arm falls asleep and I start drooling.”
He laughed. “Still worth it.”
You looked up at him. “I meant what I said. Last night.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t know where this goes, Quil.”
“Then we’ll figure it out. One day at a time.”
You breathed in slowly, taking him in—the easy smile, the sincerity behind it, the quiet strength he always carried like it weighed nothing.
Then you nodded. “Okay. One day at a time.”
~~~~~~~~~
The final day of camp always hit a little harder than you expected.
The slip-n-slide was rolled up and retired, the craft table cleared of glitter glue and half-dried paintbrushes. Kids clung to each other, trading numbers and promises to “totally hang out again” that everyone knew might fade by fall.
You stood at the edge of the clearing, watching it all happen like a movie you’d seen before. Same end, different year.
But this time, something felt different.
This time, Quil stood beside you—not just your co-leader, not just your best friend, but something new. Something unspoken, still unlabelled, but warm and grounding and real.
He was laughing with a little boy who wouldn’t stop re-enacting a water balloon ambush from three days ago. You smiled, watching him crouch to high-five the kid, his dimples deepening, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
And your chest ached in the best way.
He caught your gaze and straightened up, jogging over to you. “We survived another year.”
“Barely. I think we lost at least three water bottles and maybe one child.”
He smirked. “We found the kid.”
“Still can’t find the water bottles.”
He leaned his shoulder against yours. “We’ll put out a missing persons report.”
You laughed, then glanced sideways at him. “Quil?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitated. “Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if you had imprinted on me?”
He went quiet.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But not in the way you think. Not like I missed out.”
You frowned. “No?”
He turned to face you fully. “Imprinting doesn’t guarantee love. It guarantees connection. A pull. But love? Real love—you choose that. You show up for it. You build it.”
He paused, voice softening. “And I’d choose you. Over and over. Even if fate didn’t write it that way.”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t want what’s written in stone,” you whispered. “I want what’s real.”
He reached for your hand.
“Then take it.”
~~~~~~~~~
The sun dipped below the tree line, casting the sky in gold and rose. The last of the kids had been picked up. The camp was quiet now, filled only with the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant crash of waves against the rocks below.
You sat on the wooden bench at the edge of the clearing, legs tucked under you, watching the horizon melt into dusk.
Quil joined you a moment later, arms bare, hoodie tied around his waist, carrying two plastic cups of lemonade.
He handed one to you without a word.
You sipped in silence.
This was your tradition—watching the final sunset of camp together, side by side, not quite ready to let it end.
“Do you remember,” he said eventually, “the first summer we did this? Just the two of us and like five kids?”
You snorted. “Yeah. You got heatstroke and threw up behind the shed.”
He grinned. “Legendary.”
You leaned into him. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“How we didn’t see it before. You and me.”
He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I think part of me always saw it. I just didn’t want to risk losing you.”
“But you didn’t,” you whispered.
He shook his head. “No. I think I finally found you.”
You sat there as the light faded, your head resting against his shoulder, your fingers tangled between his. You could feel his pulse, steady and real, a quiet beat to match your own.
The world felt simple in that moment. Honest.
You weren’t imprinted. You weren’t pulled by some invisible string. You weren’t swept into a fairytale you didn’t ask for.
You were here. With him.
By choice.
“I used to think we were just best friends” you murmured.
Quil squeezed your hand. “Maybe we were.”
“And now?”
He looked out at the horizon, at the fire-colored sky and the future behind it.
