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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 years

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Idk why but seeing Sebek so high on your tier list made me inexplicably happy. He kind of annoyed me when I first started playing, but that was before I read his personal stories. Man I was a fool because he’s now one of my favorites (I’m a first year squad stan and he’s one of my faves of the group). Like he’s so serious as a person but a lot of his moments are actually pretty funny. Anyway this has been Appreciate Sebek Hours and I shall raise a carton of coffee milk to him

[Referencing this post!]

Like coffee, Sebek is kind of a strong and acquired taste.

I totally get why a lot of people are initially turned off by him when he’s so brazen, loud, and obsessive. I know that I personally started TWST not expecting a lot out of Sebek; I couldn’t really take his pastel green Phoenix Wright design that seriously, and I didn’t like his personality since a lot of the early promotional materials marketed Sebek as being defined predominantly by his devotion and worship of Malleus. I’m relieved to see Sebek having character outside of his reverence for his dorm leader and prince.

I feel that since Sebek takes himself so seriously despite basically being a dumb and childish kid himself, it plays off well with other characters that clearly don’t have the same intense viewpoints as he does. That contrast creates a lot of ridiculous and comedic moments like the time Sebek cried because a cookie Malleus gave him got crushed, or the time Sebek threw a tantrum because he didn’t end up on the same team as his lord. He tries so hard to be cool and mature, but it just comes off as either really smug/condescending (ie shouting about how no one can be as majestic as Silver) or weirdly pathetic (ie stumbling over his words when Malleus tells him to be off to his next class instead of standing around and shouting at Ace and Grim) 😹 Sebek really embodies the cringey way real teenagers act sometimes... too much in a rush to grow up and prove himself to those he looks up to, not realizing how his words and actions can come off to others as hurtful or as just plain silly.

I think Sebek’s biggest deterrent is probably his... discrimination against humans (or basically anyone that isn’t fae). I can see why that would make people uncomfortable when they consider his character. Racism is just plain wrong, end of story. However, I believe that Sebek is purposefully written as such so the main story can correct his behavior and show him the error of his ways (similar to how chapter 5 has Vil teaching Epel that his traditional views on masculinity and femininity are outdated).

Actually! What I find really interesting about Sebek is that his situation seems to be poised to address an issue that isn’t often mentioned in popular media, and I think it’s important to discuss it. Soooo, without further ado--

***Content warning: discussion of racism (more specifically, internalized racism) and mentions of war below the cut.*** ***Please note that I am in NO way condoning racism or war; I am speaking on these topics in an analytical manner. My only intentions in writing this post are to theorize and to educate. I am NOT defending Sebek or his actions, but rather critically commenting on how his circumstances may have played into his current characterization.***

We learn that Sebek is half human and half fae from Silver in chapter 5. While Sebek is busy chiding others and (once again) referring to them as “humans” (derogatory), Silver points out that Sebek himself is half human. Then, through Sebek’s Birthday Boy vignettes, we indeed learn that his mother is a nocturnal fairy while his father is a human.

So if Sebek is half human, then it begs the following questions: why does he seem to hate humans so much? Why does he never make mention of his own heritage, and instead chooses to exclusively extol fae?

Two words: internalized racism.

“Hold on!” I hear you saying. “What is internalized racism, and how does it differ from the regular definition of racism?”

Well, according to the Oxford dictionary, racism is “prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed against a person or people on the basis of their membership in a particular racial or ethnic group, typically one that is a minority or marginalized”. Internalized racism is when those minorities or marginalized groups turn the oppression inward, which results in hating their own group. In Sebek’s case, this hatred is directed at humans--the side of himself that he seems to resent and be ashamed of.

It’s completely believable that Sebek would end up the way that he is. From what little we know of the Briar Valley and of fae in Twisted Wonderland, we can make many inferences and come to this conclusion. The population of Sebek’s home country is said to be predominantly fae, and they often use magic rather than technology to complete everyday tasks. (For example, if they want to go somewhere, the preferred “mode of transportation” is flight instead of cars.) The Briar Valley appears to be a very traditional, old-fashioned nation that is set in its ways.

Furthermore, it seems that most fae, as diverse as they are, seem to be exclusionary to other races (though we learn in Fairy Gala and FG: What If that, even among fae, there can be conflicts and discrimination; for example, nocturnal and diurnal fae do not get along). We somewhat observe this in Malleus, as he casually talks about the feats he is able to perform, whether magical or physical. At the same time, the tone he takes when addressing his classmates, even fellow third years and peers, is somewhat haughty (referring to humans as “child”/”children” of man as if to imply they are juvenile and inexperienced, outright saying that everyone is “like a baby” compared to him, and brushing off their magic as though it is nothing to him). These can be perceived as microaggressions, or “commonplace daily verbal, behavioral or environmental slights, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative attitudes towards others of a particular group”. The fairies we see in Fairy Gala and even Vargas CAMP! also reflect this, as they chase out humans from their event and/or territory. In Fairy Gala in particular, it’s implied that the fairies will reject or be hostile towards those not perceived as fairies at their gatherings, which is why the boys have to cover themselves with Fairy Dust to “blend in” and pass as fairies. It wouldn’t be too strange to assume that similar exclusion occurs in the Briar Valley, especially considering that fae are the majority and humans are the minority.

I want to take a brief moment to note that the behavior discussed in the previous paragraph is exclusive to fae. Beastmen and merpeople, two other races, engage with humans in a far less antagonistic ways.

We do sometimes see beastmen talk down to humans, typically on account of believing that humans are weak, but the beastmen we’ve observed so far have never attacked others simply due to not being of the same race as them. It seems that beastmen discriminate based mostly on whether or not they believe another person can hold themselves in a fight--it’s a very “survival of the fittest” viewpoint. Interestingly, Ruggie is said to be lacking in physical strength, but commands respect due to his reputation of being Leona’s (someone who is significantly stronger, and considered the “leader of the pack) right hand man. I wonder if hyenas (who appear to be on the lower social rungs of the Sunset Savanna) are also seen as somehow “weaker” than other beastmen, which may explain their place in the hierarchy (as the beastment we’ve seen so far seem to value physical strength).

Meanwhile, merpeople have arguably been the most amicable with humans and by far the most open to the idea of integrating with human society (though it hasn’t always been this way). This goes back to their history, which tells the tale of a curious Mermaid Princess that made a deal with the Sea Witch to obtain legs and explore the world above. That same Mermaid Princess would go on to establish a program for young merfolk to come to the surface to study and learn about land culture. There’s even a special bureau that hands out free potions that give merpeople human forms (1 potion lasts anywhere from 7 to 10 days), so long as those merpeople wish to migrate and/or establish careers in the world above. However, I do want to point out that merfolk DO seem to discriminate within themselves based on traits such as how fast they can swim (as Azul cites being bullied because he had bulky limbs which made him a slow swimmer). Again, this is a very “survival of the fittest” mindset, which I believe makes sense for both merfolk and beastmen, who are “wild animal” based races subject to the whims of Mother Nature.

It is only fae that appear to discriminate against non-fae (specifically humans) so intensely, and on a basis that extends beyond the “survival of the fittest” belief. They live in their own closed-off circles and believe that their own kind are “better than” those outside of those circles. Living longer, fae have more wisdom. Using magic all the time, fae have more skill. No human could hope to compare.

This part is pure speculation, but there have been mentions of a human-fae war in Twisted Wonderland’s history, and I wonder if the Briar Valley played a significant role in that (seeing as Lilia is described to be a decorated war veteran). If so, this may also be more evidence toward the internalized racism Sebek has developed. Regardless of who won or lost this war, if the Briar Valley took part in it, then its fae residents would definitely hold prejudice toward humans, who were on the opposing side. There might have been intense fear that developed concerning humans who have lived in the valley for generations, simply due to being of the same race as the enemies the fae were fighting. Such paranoia could very well have led into racist legal measures being implemented against humans, or fae turning on their human neighbors and reporting them under suspicion of being spies or traitors. This can go right down to what is taught to children in school: view the enemy and those similar to the enemy as outsiders, even hate them, while building up your own country and your countrymen as shining beacons. As horrible and as scary as all of this is, these are all real things that have happened and are happening during wars in real life--and children, being as pliable as they are, can easily buy into wartime propaganda.

UPDATE: Some of the things I said in the previous paragraph were confirmed in book 7. Briar Valley did, in fact, participate in the war, and they even lost their crown princess (Malleus's mother) in the conflict. The human invaders also ravaged the Land of Briar for its natural resources against the fae’s wishes. Due to how the continent is divided up in modern day Twisted Wonderland, it does appear that they were the losers in the war and had to give up their land to the human nations (though this part is just speculation; more on this theory here). I can easily see why the fae in Briar Valley might harbor and perpetuate disdain toward any non-fae, and humans in particular.

When Sebek tells us about his parents, he mentions that “there were many among [my mother’s] peers who opposed her marriage to a human”. In other words, there was a distinct social push against the union of people from two different races (which isn’t that hard to believe, especially seeing how “old-fashioned” the Briar Valley is implied to be and how fae appear to discriminate against other races in general). As offspring resulting from that union, Sebek may have faced considerable hardships in his childhood. He’s not like the other children (most of which, I’d presume, are either fully fae or fully human), he’s an anomaly. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that Sebek might have been ostracized because of who his parents were. On top of that, he grew up in a society that seems to heavily favor fae and those capable of using magic--traits that don’t apply to his father.

Another detail which may have contributed to Sebek being looked at differently by his peers is that he was a late bloomer with his magic. It’s probable that others looked down on Sebek because he manifested his magical abilities late in life. Imagine years and years of being surrounded by peers that are just more skilled and talented than you, and they often treat you differently because of that. Whether it’s overt bullying (fighting, name calling, taunting) or subtle snubs (ie excluding him or giving strange looks), they would all hurt and deeply wound a growing child like Sebek who is still trying to make sense of the world and his place in it. Let’s also remember that he has an older brother and an older sister that he could easily compare himself to, and a (retired royal guard) grandfather with a great legacy to live up to. (Side note on Sebek’s grandpa: he is described to be very old-fashioned and discriminatory himself, so it’s possible his ideals rubbed off on Sebek, especially seeing as Sebek says he spent a lot of time in his youth at his grandfather’s.)

Of course Sebek would develop great shame for the half that is looked down on by seemingly everyone outside of his immediate family. Of course he would embrace the “superior” side of his heritage, the culture and air of righteousness that pervades his country. Of course he would shun his “inferior” side, going so far as to make no mention of it to others (note that it was Silver, who is fully comfortable being a full-blooded human raised by a fae, who outed Sebek’s half bloodedness, rather than Sebek himself). Of course he would worship Malleus, the epitome of the power and might that fae can wield. He’s seeking validation in his very VERY confused identity, which is a struggle that many teenagers in real life have to deal with.

I propose that this is how Sebek has learned to cope with the struggles of growing up half human, half fae: by rejecting his humanity and aggressively embracing being fae. All his boisterousness and the acting out he gets up to is him denying a part of himself. He’s projecting it to the world to see and hear--because if he says it enough times, and says it loudly enough, then surely he can convince himself that he isn’t somehow “less than” his fellow countrymen, right? (Or so that’s probably what Sebek tells himself.) It might not be the best way to cope, but it was, perhaps, the only way Sebek knew how to cope. When most of your country looks at you like you’re the strange one, how is a child supposed to fight back? He can’t--so with little to no other options, his psyche turned that hatred inward as a defense mechanism to protect himself and his ego.

This internalized racism helps explain why Sebek’s relationship with his dad seem so... strange (well, at least from the kid’s end). Sebek’s grandfather (I believe from his mother’s side) is a retired soldier and war hero serving under General Lilia. His mother is also said to be highly proficient with magic since a very young age, and boasts strong principles and unbending conviction. Sebek is very proud of these parts of his family while expressing confusion at and criticism of his father, who is, by comparison, unremarkable. He notes that his father buys him sweets and snacks unprovoked, and showers the kids with attention and praise. It’s strange; Sebek constantly shouts about humans and how weak and insignificant they are at school, then in the same breath Sebek can communicate that he doesn’t “understand” his father, but he never directly insults him.

I don’t believe that Sebek hates his dad, but that his odd behavior toward him is a result of cognitive dissonance. Sebek (theoretically) resents his human blood because of how it is looked down on in the Briar Valley, but he cannot find it within himself to resent his father for it. How can he, when his dad has been nothing but doting and supportive to his entire family? Yet Sebek’s pride won’t allow him to outright acknowledge his love for his father, won’t let him show weakness or bend a knee to a “mere” human.

There’s also another angle to Sebek’s cognitive dissonance. How can his father—magicless and utterly unremarkable—be so carefree and content when Sebek has been told his entire life that magicless creatures are second class citizens? How can his father be so genuinely supportive of his children, who are capable of magic without becoming jealous? How can his father be so comfortable with himself, despite not being fae, despite not being able to use magic? By all accounts, the way his father lives and is satisfied with what he already has flies in the face of everything Sebek has been taught by the Briar Valley, and this totally baffles him.

In Sebek’s Union Birthday vignettes, we see just how much he really cares for his dad. When asked who he would pick to be with him on a deserted island (and it can’t be anyone from his own dorm), Sebek replies with Trey. Why Trey, even though he doesn’t seem to have any skills for surviving in the wilderness? Because (as Sebek himself states), Trey reminds him of his father. “No matter what I say to him, he would always talk to me without being fazed whatsoever.” Jack, Sebek’s interviewer, points out that his dad must have a big heart, and that he must be someone Sebek can rely on. To this, Sebek reacts with embarrassment and insists that he does NOT rely on his father, then rushes to move on to the next question.

It’s probably very strange to Sebek that his dad loves him so much, as it is likely a strong contrast to how those outside of his immediate family perceive and treat him. Society has taught Sebek that humans are inferior to fae, and yet here is a human that doesn’t care what he or Sebek is or isn’t. He just loves his family, and loves Sebek, regardless of what everyone else says or thinks of them. Sebek doesn’t know how to react to that, and it’s so off-putting. His dad gives him such pure and unconditional love, and I think that Sebek recognizes that, but he feels too ashamed to express his gratitude and reciprocate that unyielding love (which, I suspect, is due in part to all that internalized racism). It only contributes to his ongoing identity crisis--a crisis that, mind you, has him dividing people in "fae" and "humans" rather than "fae", "humans", "merpeople", and "beastmen. Why? Because Sebek is fixating on the two sides of himself, his "fae"-ness and his humanity... and lost in that conflict is himself and the connections he could have made with others. If you think about it that way, Sebek is not only hurting those around him, but he’s also (unintentionally) sabotaging himself and his relationships. It’s proof that racism is terrible for everyone involved, even the people perpetuating it.

Sebek never feels like he’s enough. He’s always rushing to get somewhere, rushing to prove himself in the eyes of others. He’s the last in the Diasomnia group to go to NRC, he feels the need to compete with and outperform Silver, his magic came to him late… and to top it all off, he’s questioning who he is: fae or human, both or neither? Now he’s overcorrecting, overcompensating, in an effort to be seen as someone worth having around.

So why did I spend several paragraphs detailing Sebek’s internalized racism to you? Because, as I’ve said earlier in this post, this is something that happens in the real world and it is not discussed enough in a lot of the media we consume.

I feel like Sebek’s dilemma can be very relatable, particularly to those struggling with an identity crisis of their own, be it those of mixed race, those hailing from unconventional family structures, or anything else which may make them “different”. Of course, this is NOT a blanket statement. Everyone does not go through the same struggles, and every person’s experiences are unique. I am only presenting my own speculation on how Sebek’s situation relates to the real world.

I know that I’ve personally gone through an identity struggle that looks a lot like how I theorized Sebek’s to be, so his character really hits close to home 💦 Without getting into too many specifics, I’m considered a minority in my country, and I’ve received a lot of ridicule because of it. I cannot count the number of times I’ve seriously been told that my native language sounds “weird”, been made fun of for my appearance (particularly my eye shape), stereotyped as smart just because of my race, or called insensitive nicknames. It got to the point where I started to resent my heritage (refusing to eat our foods, refusing to speak our language, refusing to learn about our history), which I saw as alienating me from my peers--but it seemed that no matter what I did, neither culture that I was a part of fully accepted me. The people I was trying to fit in with never considered me part of their group, and my extended family thought I was “different” from them since I was not born and raised in our home country. I was disconnected from my peers and my relatives. It felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I can really understand what Sebek is probably going through, because I’ve lived it myself.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I look back at that period of my life and realize how toxic it really was. I’m reconnecting with my roots and coming to embrace and love the culture I grew up in, and the culture of the family that I was born into--both sides. But here’s the thing: people don’t always identify internalized racism and recognize it as something that is harmful (both to themselves and to the people around them). That’s why I’m hopeful for Sebek, what chapter 7 can do for him, and the important message it can send to the fandom.

ANOTHER UPDATE: 100 parts (and counting) deep into book 7 and yes, I can confirm now that Sebek's internalized racism is being confronted and he's being forced to reconcile with those difficult feelings. I may make a follow-up post on this topic.

It’s so, so easy to dismiss Sebek as a hypocrite (which, don’t get me wrong, he definitely is), but there is likely so much more nuance to it than just “he hates on humans even though he is half human himself” or just “he’s a racist and that’s all there is to him”.

Obviously, racism is wrong and should be condemned, but I don’t believe simply depicting a character as racist is necessarily promoting racism. As long as media is not outright glorifying it, racism can be used as a literary device to deliver an important message (which is, more often than not, an anti-racism one) to the audience.

It’s made pretty clear that no one takes Sebek seriously when he shouts about humans or acts hateful toward them. Other characters consistently either make fun of Sebek for acting so outrageously, or they outright call him out for his discrimination.

To me, this all reads as very blatantly and purposefully setting Sebek’s racist beliefs up to be shattered and proven wrong later. He’s representative of a social problem, and I hope that TWST will use Sebek to promote a positive message when his time in the spotlight comes around.

What message might that be?

To learn to love and accept yourself, and where you come from, in its entirety.

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carolmunson · 2 years

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starting from zero, got nothing to lose (eddie munson x ofc)

part I Eddie Munson makes it out of the Upside Down, and a year and some change later makes it out of Hawkins. Knee deep in the '89 NYC metal scene and working at a boxing gym in Brooklyn, Eddie wonders if he'll ever find his footing running from Hawkins. With only some phones calls to sustain his friendships back home, will he be able to let go for the long haul? Or will his past in Hawkins eventually catch up with him? AN: Back in June I started writing vignettes of this story as it came to me and am still developing it. I have plot ideas that need refining, but like, at least 20 pages of content for this story already. I've had to do a lot of research to make it as time period accurate as possible. I've lived in NYC for 12 years but wasn't alive in the 80s so I'm doing my best.

This first chapter is mostly exposition and background but our guy is a lil' sassy towards the end. The OFC does have descriptors, but whatever imagine her however you'd like.

I think the only TW is drug use and drug mention in this chapter but I'll be vigilant for any more. Lastly, if you're under 18, please don't read this shit.

New York City December 29th, 1989

It was a cold night. The subways were empty with holiday shopping finally over and the short lull between Christmas and New Years tourists had arrived. Eddie sat with his legs spread out wide on the bench of the train. One hand drummed out the beat of Dr. Feelgood on his knee, the other on the switchblade in his vest pocket. He only had to use it once since he came to the city, but it never hurt to have it ready to go.

He didn’t like the subway. Not because of the graffiti, that was metal. Not because of the homeless sleeping on the train cars or asking him for money. Not because he already had a beat up truck he could drive instead. It was because when it was late at night, and it was just him, the little flicker of the overhead lights made him nervous. Like once they shut off, they’d shut off forever and he’d wake up still stuck in the…

“Hey man, you got a dollar?” a raspy voice asked, holding a hand out. Eddie looked up and gave the guy a quick once over. He looked rough – hunched over and dried out. The dirt caked in his nails looked like it had been there for years.

“Sure man, yeah,” he fumbled a bit for his wallet, pulling at the chain on his pants. He slipped out a couple bills and handed them over, “Be safe tonight, okay?”

“God Bless,” the man murmured while shuffling away, “Happy New Year.”

Eddie looked out the window of the car, they still hadn’t pulled out of York Street. The trip from Gleason’s to Delancey was only a stop across the boroughs, but it sometimes felt like hours to make it into the city from Brooklyn. He caught his reflection in the window, still him – but a couple years weathered. The shine had dulled out of his eyes, only lighting up when the phone in his apartment rang because he knew it would be Dustin and the gang. His hair was the same curly, wavy, frizzy mess it always was. Calluses and scabs on his knuckles contrasted against his gun metal rings.

After leaving Hawkins in the Fall of ‘87, he spent a lot of time sleeping in his Uncle Wayne’s truck while working odd jobs in different Ohio and Pennsylvania towns so he could make enough money to head out to New York. He wanted to go to all the places he read about in Metallix, Rock Scene, and Punk Magazine. Maybe he’d meet the Ramones or something, or THE fucking Ozzy after a show. He wanted to get out of all the small towns so at least he could be a freak in a big city full of other freaks. But if you wanted to be a freak in Ohio and Pennsylvania, you needed to know how to fight.

It took him some time to recover after getting out of the Upside Down, he spent over a year in Hopper’s cabin in a makeshift hospital bed. The only good side about the end of the world in Hawkins is that everyone thought he was dead; so they weren’t looking for a satanic killer on the loose anymore. The downside was trying to figure out where they were going to find him a blood supply. It worked out but just barely. Then there was the whole, learning to be a person again. When he started getting stronger, he told Hopper his plan to leave, and Hopper taught him the basics. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. His stance, how to move, how to breathe, how to block. He was kicking himself for not learning sooner.

The kids were able to snag his school records, Wayne brought all of his cassettes, documents, and his guitar Lucy who survived the trip from another dimension. His uncle gave him $400 dollars, Wayne’s entire savings, and his beat up truck.

“Call when you can,” he said in a firm hug before Eddie left – but Wayne passed away a few months later from a heart attack. It killed him not to go to the funeral.

He ended up in the city around the same time last year, came across Gleason’s Gym during a fight and asked for a job as a janitor the same night. Something about watching boxing matches gave him the same excitement he got whenever he heard a solid guitar solo. He didn’t want to get in the ring or spar or anything, he just wanted to be around some of that chaos…and the girls helped, too. Girls always helped. Bruce, the owner, said he’d only let the manager give him a raise if he got his GED – and so maybe ‘86 wasn’t his year, but ‘88 had shaped up to be.

The pay wasn’t amazing, but he wasn’t sleeping in his car long. Eddie was good at a lot of things, cleaning up blood and spit, fixing cars, he could play guitar, and most importantly, he was really, really good at selling cocaine. He was quick to be picked up for selling, his look helped, but he made sure to find a supplier with quality. It wasn’t Hawkins, so there weren’t many positives in selling shitty drugs in NYC — just a lot of split lips and black eyes. He did his best in metal bars, music venues, and out of Gleason’s. A lot of the guys used it to stay lean and keep their weight class. This came in handy any time he heard a complaint in the men’s locker room. That’s where Tony came in the picture.

The train screeched into Delancey and Essex and he swung himself on the pole off the train, a patched up leather satchel slamming up against his hip as he did. The sound of pills shaking in the bag distracted a few passers by but he shook off the stares, it was nothing at this point. Eddie got out of the subway into the chilled December night, lit a cigarette, and made his way to his next job.

Tony Cardalino, or more affectionately known as Tone, came to Gleason’s a few months ago to train. Tone was like him: shaggy brown hair, bandana in his back pocket, battle jacket – the works. He was about five inches taller than him, built like a tank, a good fighter, and overall a lot more intimidating than Eddie ever was. Chrissy’s ‘ You’re not what I thought you’d be ,’ rang through his head the first time he had a conversation with him.

“Aw nice pin, dude,” Tony said one night in the locker room while Eddie took off his coverall at the end of his shift, “I feel like the new kids don’t give WASP their respect.”

That night they went through a pack of Marlboros together outside, talking about bands and Eddie still finding his footing in the city. He told him about the first time he went to CBGB and L’Amour, Tony told him all the good places to have sex with chicks there. He took the biggest interest in Eddie’s dealing. Tone’s second cousin was connected to the mob, a solid hit man, until he was the hit – so his bar ‘Skid’ on Avenue B needed a new supplier. Eddie wasn’t about to pass up another opportunity to make money, so he took him up on the offer. He’d go to Skid after Gleason’s and bring his inventory with him.

“Just don’t let Ron catch ya,” he confessed, “You’d think those bartenders and bitches are too busy, but they see everything .”

“Is Ron a pig, or a narc or something?” Eddie asked, a little flash of fear striking through his chest.

Tony laughed, “Nah, Ronnie’s just off that shit. Not really into the whole drug thing anymore and when Paulie got put in the river it shook everybody up. But Ron’ll deck ya if you get caught and it's a hell of an uppercut.”

Now, Eddie had heard of Skid, but it had been rumored among some metal heads that it was more of a hard rock bar than a metal bar so he hadn’t visited. There were places closer to his apartment he’d been hanging out at anyway. But ever since Tony’s uncle overdosed and it was left to Tony to run, things had taken a more metal turn… supposedly .

He pulled open the door, covered in stickers aside from the little opening for the ‘Come in! We’re open!’ sign. His hopes dashed a little as Led Zeppelin's ‘Black Dog’ blared through the speakers. In the ‘Is Led a metal band?’ debate, Eddie was staunchly against the idea – but all around Skid seemed like one of the places to be, even if it was a little quiet for a Friday. He guessed people were out of town or maybe still spending time with their families – whatever that means. He scoped the place out and saw Tony’s described ‘bitches’ manning the bar much to his relief. After finding a dark corner to settle in, he took a seat, keeping his bag open discreetly next to him.

All the booths, tables, and the bartop were dark cherry wood that looked black in the low lighting save for a little platform stage in the back, littered with amps and a drum set. Red leather upholstery looked worn and weathered from years of bar fights and the weight girls sitting on laps. Beer stains and cigarette burns. There were signed posters and photos all over the walls, two autographed Gibson’s hung over the bar with fishing wire. Ripped stickers and dollar bills with lipstick marks stuck to the back splash, lacy bras hung from the ceiling over the stage. It felt like a warm hug, he felt more at home than he had in months.

“Okay, well now that that shit’s over we’re gonna play Angel of Death by Suh-layerrrr,” a patron said lazily over the mic on the platform while his band set up. The crowd in the bar rowdily cheered. He had a beautiful Fender, Eddie almost purred in his throat when it glinted in the hazy red stage lights. He couldn’t pay attention long though, because with the band as a distraction, his customers slid by him one right after the other. The swap of baggies and bills felt like a waltz to him now he was so used to it, tucking the money into his sleeve and dropping it in the open satchel. He knew Tony had let word spread on who to look out for, but he wasn’t expecting this much in sales in one night.

To not bring too much attention to himself, he closed his bag up after a few songs from the band and maneuvered over to an empty stool at the end of the bar. He slung the bag on one of the purse hooks under the bar’s lip (which he was surprised they had installed) and turned his attention back towards the stage. Nodding his head in time with the beat, crossing his arms across his chest – he tried to catch a glimpse of Tony just about anywhere, but he hadn’t seen him since he arrived.

“You gonna order something handsome, or do ya just like the view?” he heard a woman’s voice ask over his shoulder. He turned on the stool, face to face with a barmaid who was leaning in close to hear his answer. He looked up at her, taking in her details. Little leather bustier, big denim vest riddled with patches and pins, jeans that were just tight enough. The standard type at bars like this, tits out and everything. She had brown eyes with too much mascara lashes and big brown Farah Fawcett hair. He could smell her cherry flavored Lip Smackers from the stool. Checked all the boxes, down to the Debbie Harry smoky eye.

“Oh,” he started, flashing her a smile and resting his chin on his hand, “Definitely the view.” Eddie had flirted his way into plenty of free shots with girls like her before, it was his favorite sport. She let a little puff of air out of her nose and leaned down onto her forearms.

“What can I get you?” she asked, matching his posture.

“I don’t know, what do you like?” he asked back, making a little show of slipping his eyes to her cleavage and then back up at her. She caught his stare and gave him a wink before slamming two tumblers down in front of them. I’m sure you do that to all the guys, he thought to himself. She poured two generous shots of Jack Daniels, picking up her glass and waiting for him to pick up his.

“I always like to toast before I do a shot with a stranger,” she flirted, “Especially ones like you.” He was so easily intoxicated by women these days and this was no exception, his mouth ran dry at her attention.

“What are we toasting to?” he asked in a low voice one hand on his drink and dropping the other down on the bar. With her free hand she reached slowly toward him, delicately placing his chin in her hand. He could feel the tips of her almond acrylics graze his skin.

She got nose to nose with him, Eddie could smell her perfume mixed with sweat and cigarette smoke. Her lips parted, hovering over his – his heart was thumping in his ears so hard it was drowning out the drums.

“To me never catching you slinging that shit in my bar again. I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you need to get the fuck out of here,” she hissed through gritted teeth. He blanched and sputtered. Was this a set up? Was he not at the right bar? Her nails dug into his chin as she threatened him, “Cause if not, I’ll call the fuckin’ owner out here and he knows the fuckin’ mob. Better yet, I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass myself.”

Eddie panicked, dropping the shot on the bar with a clink! Fuck, shit, shit, shit –

Oh.

Oh!

The ‘fucking owner’ that kne the mob was Tony. Eddie let out a snicker of relief, but it came out snarky. He took her wrist and pulled his face out of her nails, feeling the indents on his skin as he ran his other hand over his chin. He leaned onto his knuckles over the bar, looking down to face her directly,

“You must be Ron.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson au #eddie munson nyc au #eddie munson lives #eddie munson fix it fic #eddie munson x ofc #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eventually #eventual smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things au #stranger things fanfiction

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dotster001 · 1 year

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Hello I haven’t done one of these before but may I request for the 1k event with twisted wonderland please?

When I first started the game I had taken Riddle's hand as my OG because he just had this commanding presence that drew me. For a while he was on my homescreen because I liked how while strict he has his soft moments and due to his background he lived a rather sheltered life which pulled at my heartstrings. Then I did some vignettes and Idia remained on my homescreen after for a while. I still adore Riddle, though Idia’s manner of speech and the fact he was a gamer/dork appealed to me as I consider myself both a gamer and dork as well. Now most recently, though again still love the former two, I have found myself intrigued by Rook and his uniqueness as well as his flowery wording. Honestly I believe part of it is because I have taken French so reading his lines is like testing what I had learned. He’s not everyones cup of tea but he is mine. I still do cherish Riddle and sometimes put him on my homescreen for a little if I get a new card for a day or two.

About me: I’m she/her but I don’t mind if you want to make mc, gn. I’m short like the height of Epel, plus size, and have short curly black hair. Personality wise I can be shy on occasion but if I can find a segue into talking to someone such as an anime pin I can muster up the courage to talk to them. Friendly but have very few actual close friends. I’m a bit of a goofball to those I’m really close with. I don’t like taking risks unless I’m 90% certain it’s in my favor. I dislike when promises are repeatedly broken. I prefer to get college assignments out of the way as soon as possible and make good grades though not complete 100’s. I used to do theatre. I enjoy Games, both video and board, and as I had mentioned earlier I took French but I’m only somewhat decent at it.

The Tale: This is difficult to choose but I will go Harem. I love them all so I would prefer a romance story. I would like romance with a good amount of angst if you could? It’s bad but I eat it up every time.

(So full disclosure, I use Google translate, so if your translation skills are saying something is funky, it's not your fault, it's mine 😂 I hope you enjoy this, I don't like traumatizing Riddle....but it's just so easy)

A Tale Where Riddle's Lover and her Lovers help Him Break Free

You knew that Riddle's mother would be a problem when you started your relationship. Then when Idia and Rook joined the group, you were absolutely certain she would be a problem.

So for a couple months, it was an unspoken rule that the relationship was secret, or at least not outside of your friend group just in case.

But today, you, Idia, and Rook had decided to meet Riddle in his room after you'd all finished your classes and homework for the day (a Riddle imposed rule). His face looked paler than normal, as he held his cellphone to his ear in silence.

He swallowed heavily, and said, "Yes, mother,"

Before hanging up. He jumped a little when he saw the three of you standing together.

"Oh, hello, I didn't see you there." He stood up and gave you a kiss on the cheek. "How are you, my rose?"

"Good," you said quickly. "Riddle, what was she saying to you?"

"Nothing, everything's okay. What can I help you all with?"

The rest of the time with Riddle was awkward that day. You and Rook tried to dig a little, until Idia sent the three of you a discreet text.

Don't push. Give him time to process what the witch was saying to him. We can chat later.

So the three of you said your goodbyes, you giving Riddle what you hoped was a comforting hug, before leaving him be for the day.

….

Idia had been right, Riddle needed time. He had called you all into the kitchen where Trey had baked a strawberry tart that looked more mouthwatering than usual. Trey gave you all a sympathetic smile then left the room as Riddle started cutting slices of the tart for you all.

When you all had your slices, Riddle heaved a heavy sigh.

"So, you know how things are with my mother, right? Well, she wants me to come home and meet the woman she has decided I should marry."

The fork you had been using slipped from your fingers. You opened your mouth to speak, but were interrupted by Rook swearing in french, and Idia's hair growing to a roaring flame.

"Rois de Roses! You cannot do this!"

"Bro! Not Pog!"

"Guys!" You shouted, the room going silent. "Riddle's the victim here, remember?"

You gently grabbed his hand as his eyes started watering.

"What do you want to do, love?"

Riddle stared down at his untouched tart, eyes beginning to overflow.

"I know our relationship is…unconventional, but I love you, my rose. And, in some Stockholm syndrome way I think I'm starting to fall for those two as well."

Idia's hair turned pink, and Rook gasped, about to spill out some kind of love confession, when you covered his mouth with your free hand.

Riddle gave a tired laugh and an eye roll before continuing, "Anyway, my point is, I want to stay with you, but I don't see how. If I tell her the truth, she might finally cut ties with me. Which means I won't be able to pay to stay here, and I'll have to leave you all anyway. And if I don't tell her, I'll have to marry a stranger. Maybe it won't be this girl, but it'll be some other rich girl."

"Dude, not to brag but I'm loaded. Like independently loaded. Like I'm a genius so I have a shit ton of money coming in all the time from my five star inventions," Idia said with a smug smirk.

"Idia, darling, get to the point," you said patiently.

"Oh, yeah. Point is, I can pay for you. As long as you keep my girl happy, I can pay for you to get your degree. Housing wise, I'm pretty sure the school is supposed to pay for housewarden's dorms, we can just ask Azul to find it in the contract to show Crowley."

"Rois de Roses, I first want to tell you how honored I am that I am close to winning ton amour. Secondly, I also have a flourishing business…"

"As an assassin…" you heard Idia mutter under his breath.

"And should Rois de ta chamber have his genius fail him, I would be more than happy to help you remain here," Rook finished, patting the Idia's head happily.

Riddle looked at the three of you softly smiling at him, and started to sniffle.

"I….I don't know what to say."

You wrapped your arms around him and set your head on his shoulder.

"Riddle, I love you so much. Whatever you decide to do in the end, we understand. But just know we can help take care of you."

"Sevens, I love you," he said, burying himself in your hair. You felt him heave a heavy sigh, before he said, "And I guess I love you two as well, again, in some Stockholm syndrome way."

Immediately, Rook was wrapping his arms around both of you, followed by what felt like a reluctant Idia joining the group.

"Okay," Riddle said, muffled by all the bodies around him, "I'm going to tell her. But can you all come with me?"

Three muffled ascensions arose from the hug.

….

It went as poorly as one would expect. The screaming was pretty horrible from "the witch", but pretty soon Rook, was shouting back, and pretty soon even you and Idia, the chronic introverts of the crew, were yelling.

Eventually, Riddle himself stood up, said how he was cutting her off, then told you all it was time to go.

Naturally, once the adrenaline of the moment was gone, Riddle was not super okay. It took a couple weeks of loving care from your harem, which was starting to become more of a poly relationship, before Riddle was able to function again.

But overtime, he healed. And you all got to watch him grow into a more confident, less tense individual.

But it still shocked you all when, after he got his master degree many years later, he got down on one knee and pulled out a box with three rings in it.

"Rois de Roses, mon cœur ne peut contenir la joie qu'il nourrit!" Rook said, sobbing.

"Rook, I had a whole speech planned," Riddle laughed, shaking his head.

"Riddle! Oh my god, yes!" You cried, getting on your own knees and pressing kisses all over his face, feeling joy at seeing his face turn a bright red.

"Guys…" Riddle sighed, his smile growing wider.

"It's your own fault for thinking we'd follow your game plan," Idia said, taking a moment to kiss each of your cheeks.

"You're right. I should have known," Riddle said, starting to reciprocate the kisses you were giving him.

"So I take it we're all in agreement then," you laughed out.

Your three boys wrapped their arms tightly around you and gave a resounding,

"Yes."

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irafuwas · 7 months

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Malleus or Rook for the ask meme, your pick! :>

For this character ask meme!

I’ll do Mallepon for this one!

one aspect about them i love

Honestly, I love that he’s so silly 😭 He’s this big, scary guy - one of the most powerful mages in the world, and yet he loves his Tamagotchi, and he pouts when he’s upset, and he’s so cute and happy when he infodumps about dragons and gargoyles, and he’ll gladly eat ice cream three meals a day. I just love my son so much 😭

one aspect i wish more people understood about them

Ahh, prior to Ch 5 dropping, I’d seen a few posts going around twitter and whatnot that wondered if Mal maybe doesn’t like Silver all that much (like, that maybe he was really jealous of Silver because of how Lilia treats them differently, and he doesn’t like him that much in general). And while I do agree there’s likely a very deeply underlying sense of jealousy in his heart, I never doubted that Malleus loves Silver fiercely. I was very glad that that became much clearer with Ch 5, and I’m seeing a lot more people now realizing just how much Mal loves Silver. So the one aspect I wished more people would understand about him has kind of been resolved now lol.

one (or more) headcanon(s) i have about this character

Autistic king (literally).

2. Judging by how he talks to Gao Gao and how he talked to the gargoyle in GloMas, I like to think he normally just talks to inanimate objects and animals like they’re people. I’m also a firm believer in the HC that he would just talk to baby Silver as though he were a whole adult, and he’d have one-sided convos with him while he played chess with the baby and read really advanced books to him fkjdfhg

3. He doesn’t like having his tail out in his two-legged form at NRC ‘cause he found it scares humans too much. But he leaves it out when he’s in BV since the people there are used to seeing it. He probably mostly wears robes and flowy garments back home since it’d be easier to walk around in with his tail out.

one character i love seeing them interact with

I adore all his interactions with the first years! He’s so cute with them and you can tell he does enjoy talking to them, it’s just that people are usually so afraid of him he doesn’t often get the chance to do so. He was so cute with Epeppy in GloMas, with Ace in his bloom bday vignette, and with Deuce on various occasions. My very favorite is whenever he interacts with Ortho! They’re super cute together in Mal’s Scary Dress vignette, and they mention each other in Ortho’s Union B-day vignette and in Mal’s Bloom broom b-day voice lines. (In the former, Ortho picks Mal to bring to a deserted island so that mal can protect him from lightning, and in the latter mal says ortho gave him some goggles that can “transport him to other worlds” but he wonders if little shroud tricked him ‘cause he doesn’t see anything when he puts them on (so ortho bought him like vr glasses but mal probably didn’t turn them on 😭😭)).

one character i wish they would interact with/interact with more

I’m the number one supporter of Malletouille (platonic malleus draconia x remy ratatouille)!! I know they would be friends, I just know it!!

one (or more) headcanon(s) i have that involve them and one other character

I imagine when Silver was teeny tiny, he obviously wouldn’t have understood the concept of social stratification, so he probably just looked to Malleus as his older brother or an uncle type of figure. And Mal loved that, because there are so few people in his life who just love him for him and who don’t treat him differently due to his great power and his position as crown prince. And so it hurt him deeply when Silver got older and started distancing himself from Mal once Silver realized that he was supposed to be subservient to Mal. But Mal never talks about it though, he just keeps his sadness to himself.

#ask #thank you!!

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laniemae · 6 months

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(I wrote it to the end, but the page was updated and I had to rewrite absolutely everything. Invariably lucky...)

Greetings, I wanted to write, but I don’t know where exactly I can do about this... I hope that in the end I got my bearings correctly. So, while reading your theory about MeMe, I came across the idea that perhaps

1) If there is a stalker, then he is interested in Mikoto for reasons other than the ones you wrote about. The scene at the train station with Mikoto killing someone, accompanied by a vignette shot, gave me the idea that the stalker was watching, looking for dirt on Mikoto. That is, perhaps he suspected his condition and was tracking something down, or the stalker doesn’t know about the split personality and simply doesn’t like Mikoto.

2) Or maybe there is no stalker. The surveillance idea does ring true, but it may not be a stalker. Perhaps Mikoto goes to a psychologist/psychotherapist, who is responsible for monitoring patient. Mikoto is unlikely to have turned to him due to a split personality, but he could have done this because of “memory lapses that have become more frequent lately,” or maybe he has his own life problems. Just the scene where he sits on the couch and talks could be a seance?

In addition, a couple more points: in both cases, cameras may not be taken literally - perhaps there are none in the house at all, and this simply symbolizes surveillance.

And also the broken walls (of the bathroom) in his mind - these same cameras were not necessarily in the bathroom. Perhaps his life is simply so open to the stalker that it is equivalent to a bath without walls. If he has a psychologist, then perhaps this could mean an open mind or something like this. In addition, you can often see Orekoto in the bathroom - again, this may be related.

I think that's it. I wrote this with a translator, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope that I will be interested in something and it was not in vain that I wrote all this.. If this really happens and you decide to share or publish, please tag me. Have a good day.

Ps: God, I wish I wrote it in the right place...

Sorry for not responding earlier because I didn’t get a notification in my inbox.

If the stalker was hunting Mikoto down to try and uncover dirt on him and caught him attacking someone, there’d be something off as he’d have to have a motive in the first place for attacking that person.

About the therapy theory, I’ve seen it mentioned before but I don’t think it’s the case as Mikoto isn’t aware he’s a system and they don’t get along that smoothly. Also it’s DID not split personality. I’m not entirely sure what the talking/singing on the couch could mean but I personally think it’s representative of his carefree approach to everything, and you normally don’t talk to a therapist like that. Also side note it’s probably a typo but I can’t get over how you said seance.

also as I said in my post, because its milgram we can’t take anything at face value but I interpreted the cameras as being literal as it fit up with other things I was suspecting, and either way literal or not it doesn’t really change how he was likely being watched.

And about the bathroom walls thing I think it’d make more sense to make it more of actual walls of a living room rather than a bathroom if it was to symbolise open mindedness or general surveillance. And then the fanservice scenes wouldn’t really fit into the mix.

also I don’t know what you mean by tagging you but I’ll just put your name in the tags

#milgram #mikoto kayano #Taelfrollo

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recurring-polynya · 1 year

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Renruki Week Day 4: Zanpakutou

It took me so long to come up with a workable idea for this one, which made me double-mad because I love writing zanpakutou nonsense. I eventually realized it's because I like writing longform zanpakutou nonsense, slowburn zanpakutou nonsense, if you will. Anyway, here's a vignette set somewhere amidst my Heart is a Muscle series, somewhere around or after Call Me Back When the War is Over, which features Akon discovering that Rukia and Renji's reiatsu is weirdly similar and subsequently trying to study them like a pair of bugs. You shouldn't need to read that to enjoy this, though, just a general appreciation of Rukia being a huge troll.

Edit: Forgot to say earlier, but this was somewhat inspired by an interview with Kubo, where he was asked if Zangetsu (OG big-knife Zangetsu) is heavy, and he replied that you swing a zanpakutou with your reiatsu, not your muscles, and that Renji and Ichigo would each find each other's swords to be heavy. So that part, at least, is semi-canon.

| ao3 | ff.net |

🐍 🐒 💪

The second Rukia saw Renji whip his arm back, she hit the dirt in a forward somersault, and then twisted onto her back.

“Bakudou Number Four! Hainawa!” she barked, just as Zabimaru’s lead segment hit the apogee of its arc. The crackling yellow rope of reishi lashed securely around their spiky bits and then, instead of pulling it towards her, Rukia threw.

All manner of colorful language poured out of Renji as he went hurtling through the air after his hapless sword. Rukia gave a quick, vindictive jerk on her spell. Zabimaru did a quick mid-air about-face, abruptly retracting when Renji lost his grip on the hilt. The weapon hit the ground, embedding themself halfway up their picks into the soft dirt of the training field. A few seconds later, Renji hit the ground fifty yards away with a loud grunt and a small cloud of dust.

Rukia stood up and brushed off her hakama feeling very proud of herself.

“That was so uncalled for,” Renji groaned.

“I have observed,” Rukia announced, striding across the field, “that happen to you in actual fights. I wondered how it was accomplished, since my experience is that Zabimaru is outrageously heavy and difficult to deflect.”

Renji sat up and flopped his forearms on top of his knees. There was dirt smeared across his face. “Yes?” he frowned. “And?”

Rukia stopped next to Renji’s blade, standing up in the ground like a flagpole.

“But that’s the nature of a melee-type zanpakutou, isn’t it? It’s heavy, but not to you, because you wield it with your own reiatsu. So I simply had to wait until you threw them in the direction I wanted, and I gave ‘em a little extra push. Just like a hakuda throw!”

Renji attempted to rub the dirt off of his face and only managed to smear it cutely across his nose. “I can ground myself with my reiatsu before I extend Zabimaru, but I lose a lot of mobility that way.” He sighed. “Chalk up one more thing I have to watch out for when I’m fighting you.”

“What kind of fighting partner would I be, if I didn’t spot your weaknesses and help you overcome them?” Rukia teased.

“You could have just mentioned it. You didn’t have to throw me headfirst into the ground to prove your point.”

“I didn’t do it to prove a point. I did it because it was fun.” Rukia glanced over at Zabimaru. “I bet I could pick them up.”

Renji cocked one eyebrow skeptically. “Yeah, I’m sure you could. They’re not too heavy to lift, they’re just too heavy to use. Hisagi and I used to try to fight with each other’s zanpaktou for a lark sometimes. And you know. Resistance training. The zanpakutou hated it and we always ended up injuring ourselves.”

“You kept trying, though?”

“You know how we are.”

“I do.” Rukia made an expression of mock-hurt. “You let Hisagi hold Zabimaru?”

Renji shrugged. “Look. Go ahead and pick ‘em up. I can tell you want to.”

In fact, she did. Rukia stood up a little straighter, and squared her shoulders. She shifted Sode no Shirayuki to her left hand, and took a good grip on Zabimaru’s hilt. It would have been easier to do with two hands, but that wasn’t the point. She gave a strong jerk. The dirt around the base buckled a little. Rukia wrinkled her nose and tried again. This time, the sword shifted significantly, but still stuck in the ground.

Renji watched all this with calmly lidded eyes, not saying a word.

Rukia gave one more strong wrench, forcing a little extra reiatsu down her arm, and Zabimaru finally broke free.

“Nice job!” Renji announced, making no motion to get up.

Now that she had Zabimaru in hand, Rukia realized that carrying them presented its own problem. Rukia was too short to hold them vertically, but if she held it horizontally, the moment-arm of the heavy end segments was agonizing on her forearm muscles.

Renji continued to watch her in silent amusement. Bastard.

Rukia took a deep breath, and swung, heaving Zabimaru up onto her shoulder, the way she’d seen Renji carry them many times. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was at least bearable. “There we go!” she declared cheerfully.

Renji let out a loud laugh. “You’ve proved your point, you menace, now give me back my sword before they bite you.”

“You’re such a worrywart!” Rukia chided, walking over to him anyway. “Zabimaru loves me!”

“The only thing Zabimaru loves is causing me grief,” Renji replied, holding out his hand.

“Here, give her some attention before she starts getting jealous,” Rukia said, pressing Sode no Shirayuki into his hand instead.

“Rukia!” Renji yelped. “Eep, she’s cold!” He quickly rearranged his legs so he could set Shirayuki across his knees. “There you go, beautiful,” he said gently to the sword. “I’m so sorry about her, but I’m sure you already know.” He glared up at Rukia. “You can’t just go around handing your unsealed zanpakutou to people!”

Rukia snorted. “She only pretends not to like you to piss me off.” She swung Zabimaru down into a two-handed grip she could just barely manage. “Now let’s see how much you like me.”

“Rukia, you can’t,” Renji warned, although the seriousness in his voice was belied by the fact that he was trying to arrange Sode no Shirayuki’s ribbon artistically across his lap. “Extending the segments is 100% reiatsu-based. They won’t do it for anyone but me.”

“We have pretty similar reiatsu, though,” Rukia reminded him. “And Akon said it would probably continue to get more similar, because of the power of our phenomenal friendship.”

“Akon said it would take a decade at least,” Renji reminded her.

“He said it usually does. He also said that we’re freaks. I’m gonna try to synch our reiatsu.”

“That only works when we’re not actually trying to do it,” Renji pointed out.

Rukia cleared her mind and tried to think Very Renji Thoughts. Tall, she thought. Immovable. A heart of iron, the depth of the sea.

To her side, she heard Renji sigh, and felt his reiatsu come in underneath hers, a perfect two-part harmony.

Lend me your strength, Zabimaru, Rukia thought to herself. This isn’t actually important, but I know you love a bit.

It wasn’t exactly a voice, but something hummed back, two more parts to the harmony, one even deeper than Renji’s register, and one above him, but below Rukia.

Rukia drew her arms back and slung them forward. “Howl, Zabimaru!” she yelled, for good luck.

The huge sword swung down, nearly taking Rukia’s rotator cuff with it. Time seemed to slow down to molasses. Ponderously, the sword lengthened, like a Kuchiki aunt trying to to touch her toes. From the tip, propagating back to the tsuba, each segment stretched, reached, managing to pull a full millimeter apart from its neighbor. It hung in the air for the briefest of moments, and then, with an absolutely pathetic CHNK-CHNK-CHNK-CHNK, snapped back into place.

Somehow, the sword seemed to have gotten a little lighter.

“I told you I could do it,” Rukia proclaimed triumphantly. “You saw it. You witnessed it.”

“I don’t believe it,” Renji gawped. “I cannot-- Rukia, that was amazing!”

“Thank you,” she preened. “To be fair, I had the advantage of having seen it done before.” With great care (and great difficulty, as well), she managed to get Zabimaru turned around so she could present them back to their owner hilt-first. “Thank you, sir, for the loan.”

“Yeah,” he snorted,” accepting his blade as easily as if they were made of paste and paperboard. “Any time. I guess.” He passed Sode no Shirayuki back, before hefting himself to his feet. “I hope you don’t expect to see me do a Hakuren soon. I’m still in charge of piggyback rides, but the miracles are your department.” He shook his head as he sealed his sword and sheathed it. “Fucking unbelievable, as usual, Kuchiki. Please don’t tell Akon you did that.”

“Oh, your poor ego is in no danger, I shall keep it a secret for now,” Rukia announced primly, putting her sword away as well. “How’s your hand?”

Renji frowned and looked down, stretching his fingers open. “My hand? Nothing happened to my hand. I landed on my head when you threw me.”

“No, when I handed Sode no Shirayuki to you. You said she was cold?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I was just surprised!” He flexed his hand at her. “See? No harm done.”

“Mm,” Rukia nodded thoughtfully. “Kaien tried to pick her up once, you know. I had to take him to the Coordinated Relief Station. Third degree ice burns all the way up his arm. Happened in less than a second.” She shot him her sauciest wink. “I told you she liked you.”

Renji’s mouth fell open. Rukia loved it when he made that face. He looked so stupid but also so very, very cute.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go get lunch. After all that hard work, I’m starving.”

#renrukiweek #renrukiweek2023 #renruki #my writing #2023 is the year i stop caring and just setting everything within my own dumb continuity

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wowbright · 1 year

Text

Fic: Philosophies of Men

Klaine Valentine’s Challenge 2023: “If” by Bread (Day 13 prompt)

Words: ~1,700 words

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Kurt is changing.

I’m back with more vignettes from my Mormon!Klaine universe for Klaine Valentines 2023! This vignette takes place after the mission conference and before Don’t Be a Dumbass.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost. (Klaine Valentines 2023 posts are bold and italicized.)

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Some days after the mission conference, they came home after a long day to find letters for both of them in their mailbox—one from Mercedes for Kurt, and Blaine's long-awaited letter from Cooper.

“Aren't you going to read that?” Kurt said a few minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of milk, a plate of cookies, and his unopened envelope from Mercedes.

Blaine had deposited his own letter on the bookshelf next to the Books of Mormon and various pamphlets they hadn't managed to give away that day. It seemed the only thing to do for now, since he certainly wasn't going to read it in front of Kurt. Who knew what Cooper had blurted out in its pages? Blaine didn't want any chance of Kurt catching the words over his shoulder.

Blaine shoved a cookie in his mouth to give himself time to think. “Maybe. I want to clean up first.”

“OK. But if you keep taking so many showers, I might have to mention it to the mission president.” Kurt gave a one-shouldered shrug, a coy smile spreading across his face.

Blaine’s stomach fluttered. OK, maybe it wasn't his stomach. Maybe it was something lower. Maybe it was a blood vessel that fed the snake between his legs.

He hadn't thought about showering for that reason, but now he was. “Come on, Kurt,” he said in half-hearted protest. “It's been so warm lately. And we bike everywhere. I sweat so much. You don't want me stinking up the bedroom.”

"Oh, I’m just teasing.” Kurt pushed the plate toward Blaine, encouraging him to take another cookie. “It's none of the mission president's business what you get up to in the shower, as long as you don't use up too much hot water.”

Well. That was new—Kurt thinking that not everything they did was the mission president's business. Not that he'd ever been the type to go running to the mission president every time his companion hit a note off-key. He’d never threatened to tattle on Blaine’s more serious indiscretions, like jerking off in their shared bedroom while Kurt was in it (seriously, what had Blaine been thinking? and how had he not realized he had feelings for Kurt?) or surprising Kurt with an unwanted kiss after the concert (ditto).

Still, Kurt’s silence on those matters had always seemed like exceptions—Kurt didn't mention them to President Steele, but it wasn’t because they were none of his business. They were his business. But as a senior companion and zone leader, Kurt was responsible for practicing judgment in what he reported to the mission president and what he dealt with himself. President Steele always had a bazillion pressing issues to deal with; it wasn't necessary to burden him with things that the missionaries could resolve themselves.

Still, something had changed in Kurt since the mission conference. Elder St. James had apparently set a fire under him.

“What are thinking about?” Kurt said, setting down his glass of milk. “That shower in your future?”

Blaine’s face heated. “No. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“I was wondering what exactly Elder St. James said to you at the mission conference. You've been different.”

“Well,” Kurt sighed, “he said a lot of things. And that got me thinking about my baptism.”

Blaine pulled out a chair and sat next to Kurt, to indicate he was really listening.

“Okay. So I was eight years old, like you were, presumably.”

Blaine nodded. Eight was the age of accountability, when people began to accrue guilt for their sins. Before that age, children were automatically covered by Christ’s atonement. But after the age of eight, the atonement could only redeem those who were baptized.

“And obviously, when I was eight, I wanted to get baptized,” Kurt said. “I wanted to be with my family forever. I loved God and I wanted to follow the commandments, as I understood them then. And what I understood was that we were supposed to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those in need of comfort, keep the Word of Wisdom, tithe on our income, and give fast offerings. But because I was eight years old, I wasn't thinking about the fact that leaders are always putting new commandments on you. Cut your hair, wear a tie but not that tie, don't dress like a pansy, don't be a pansy, pay tithing on any gifts you receive—”

“Kurt, wait. I don't like hearing you use slurs to refer to yourself.”

“Well, I like saying them.” Kurt arched an eyebrow, daring Blaine to contradict them. “Because I’ve come to realize that I actually like pansies. They’re one of the few colorful flowers that can survive a frost. I can identify with that. And they have a sort of masculine build, don't you think?”

“I don't think I know what a pansy looks like.”

“Desert boy,” Kurt said fondly. “Here, I’ll draw a picture for you. I’m sure you’ve seen them here in Germany. They’re called Stiefmütterchen—little stepmothers. Oh! I should plant a bunch for Carole when I get back to Ohio.” Kurt leaned over and pulled his pencil case out of his bag, which was sitting on the floor next to him. He quickly sketched a flower with purple and yellow petals. “See? They kind of look like butterflies.”

“Oh!” Blaine squealed in recognition. “I love those! I thought those were violets, though.”

“They’re related. I suppose I could call myself a violet. But I like the idea of reclaiming ‘pansy’ better,” Kurt said decisively, his whole body emanating a sense of pride that Blaine rarely got to see—not the defensive kind, but a confidence in his own worth. “Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—”

“I didn’t mean—” Blaine started, but stopped himself when he realized: (1) he was interrupting Kurt again and (2) Kurt was just teasing, anyway. “Sorry.”

Kurt smiled sweetly. Blaine’s heart melted. “Don’t be. I enjoyed the detour. But did your bishop tell you to pay tithing on presents?”

“Yeah. Gifts of money, at least.”

“Did you?”

“No. My parents told me it wasn't necessary, because anyone giving me money had already paid tithing on their income.”

“Well,” Kurt sighed, “I put my middle school bishop above my dad when it came to church rules. And if you think I worry too much about rules now, you should've seen me then. If my dad bought me a candy bar or took me to a movie, I paid tithing on it out of my allowance—which, of course, I also paid tithing on. My dad didn't catch on to what I was doing until I spent all Christmas afternoon nagging him to tell me how much each of my presents cost. The next week, the bishop called me in to tell me I had misunderstood him, and I only needed to pay tithing on cash gifts. But I know that's not what he said the first time, and it still didn't solve the problem. Because my grandparents put money into my college fund every month, and I’d get a statement from the bank and get mad at Dad for not letting me take out ten percent to pay tithing on it. Which I think is probably illegal, anyway, but still, my dad had to keep going around with the bishop about making up extra rules for things that should be matters of conscience—until we got a new bishop, who told me unequivocally not to pay tithing on presents. And my point in even bring it up is, well, when I got baptized, I was agreeing to the things I knew about. And ever since, leaders have told me I was also agreeing to everything else. That at eight years old, I signed away my right to fall in love or wear organic cotton underwear or watch an unedited version the The King’s Speech or, heaven forbid, just lie in the grass and do nothing without worrying I should be striving and progressing instead. And somehow I’ve gone thirteen years without it ever occurring to me that I wasn’t agreeing, because I couldn’t agree—because it’s impossible to agree to things you haven’t been informed about or you don’t have the capacity to imagine. And then Elder St. James gave me a monologue about what the ‘consent’ in ‘common consent’ is actually supposed to mean, and I have to reconsider everything.” Kurt took a deep breath. “Speaking of monologues.”

Blaine patted Kurt’s knee. “It was a good monologue.”

“So yeah. That’s what’s different about me. I’ve come to know something I never knew before, and it’s very inconvenient, considering I’m a missionary. But I can’t unknow it, either.”

Blaine considered this. “I wouldn’t say it’s inconvenient. I’d say the timing is perfect.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Missions are a time to deepen your understanding of the gospel. And that's what's happening. God’s teaching you how to sort the essentials from the ‘philosophies of man, mingled with scripture.’”

Kurt stared at Blaine, as if trying to solve a secret code. “You are so inscrutably positive.”

“I know,” Blaine said. “It gets irritating sometimes, doesn't it?”

“Sometimes, maybe. But not right now. And when it does irritate me, it's only because I'm a curmudgeon. So don't change, okay?” Kurt squeezed Blaine’s hand. “I love that aspect of you.”

Blaine’s heart did a somersault, and the fluttering sensation returned. Love. Kurt loved Blaine not just because he was a child of God, but because of all his individual quirks and foibles. Maybe not in the way that Blaine loved him. But it still felt incredible.

It made Blaine feel so incredible he ended up having to do the thing that was none of the mission president’s business in the hot steam of the shower. Ugh. Living with Kurt was going to be the ruin of Blaine. And it was going to be absolutely exquisite.

#klainevalentines2023 #wowbright writes fic #mormon!klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #i’ve come to know #that's the line I used #also beware the long paragraph

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whitmerule · 5 months

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a tale of two hairstyles (1/5)

(until I find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex. Same AU as this ficlet.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Tugger’s hair. How do I even begin to explain Tugger’s hair?

Effervescent, one girlfriend had said, scrunching it into ringlets between her fingers.

Like a golden retriever had sex with a lion and gave birth to a My Little Pony, someone else had called it.

A vanity, but a strategic one, his father had said—smiling that sly, distant smile that might have been mockery or approval.

Long luxurious waves of chestnut and gold, bouncing and curling in unruly waves around his shoulders and throat, highlighting the gleam of bronze eyeliner or the glitter of his grin. Recognisable from the far side of a crowded dance floor, or in the dark lights of a noisy club.

(Being recognisable, being loud, that was part of Tugger’s thing, while his father stayed shadowy and unknown.)

And then there was Skimbleshanks—Skimbleshanks, who looked at him sideways, exasperated at the playboy trying to seduce him to the wrong side of the tracks but with a heat in his eyes that Tugger knew how to use. Call him sir—call him daddy, oh yes, that worked—use his eyes and his voice and his mouth and every line of his body and every brattish trick he’d ever learned and Tugger could make that irritable condescension shatter into pieces; or better still, surge forward into controlled aggression, into hard dom mode.

Skimbleshanks, just for a few weeks, like nobody Tugger had ever had before. Dragging helpless mewling noises out of him with nothing more than a finger drawn slowly up the line of his throat, and the hot slow considering expression in half-lidded eyes. Making him beg for every slap across bruised and heated buttocks as Tugger squirmed his face desperately against the silk sheets of his own bed, aching for more. His voice in Tugger’s ear, natural tenor dropped to a rasping baritone with lust but still controlled, still firm.

Stroking fingers down his trembling sides, and telling him he was a good boy.

Those rare moments, delicious in some way Tugger couldn’t explain, when something Tugger said or did tickled his sense of the ridiculous and startled out Skimbleshanks’ real laugh, bright and warm, eyes crinkling up instead of hooded.

Skimbleshanks’ fingers in Tugger’s hair, winding and strong. Tugger nuzzling at Skimbleshanks’ lap when the old tease was pretending to read a book or something, goading him until he grabbed at the hair and yanked him into position to take what he was given.

Skimbleshanks’ own hair (and that ridiculous moustache!), perfectly rigid and sleek, some stiff pomade so it looked like it was moulded from plastic into a style at least thirty years out of date, so that when Tugger got his fingers into it, it stood up in ruffled little spikes like an angry cat.

Yes, there was Skimbleshanks. For a few weeks. That was all.

(part 2)

#tale of two hairstyles #until i find a better title #tuggershanks #rum tum tugger #skimbleshanks #cats the musical #whitmerule fic

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snellyboi · 5 months

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Today's the Day

A tiny vignette about David. When he's 16. I just wanted to write something sappy and a bit cliche. I PROMISE I will write a more in depth hilda thing soon because I have IDEAS

But for now a sappy schmaltzy story about David and Louise.

Today was the day. It HAD to be! I mean, c'mon, it had been a year since they'd met, and David was INFATUATED with Louise. He couldn't stop thinking about her - his bluesy rock band was getting tired of him writing songs about her and unrequited love. He HAD to do this now. It had to be today. The weather said it would be cloudy, but otherwise alright - chilly, but not too bad - Maybe a flurry or two of snow.

It was not that.

He'd read TOMORROW'S weather report. Not today's. Today? Raining sideways, chilly, roads freezing over, an insane amount of bad driving and bad decisions being made. His umbrella was so soaked water was getting through it. He grumbled a bit as he walked into class, sitting next to Frida.

"David!"

"Hi, Frida."

"Did you ask her yet?"

"Shh!" He whispered. "I'm going to..."

"After the test?"

"...after the what?"

Test? As in next week's test? He shivered with fear. He was doomed - doomed! He could barely remember his own name as the paper was slid in front of him. He wasn't...awful at Math. But sometimes he was. And man, was he awful at it today or what!?

He sighed as he turned it in. He sat back, and read a bit - A redwall book. He at least found some solace in that...

He walked to lunch, and tried to listen to some music, but saw-

HER.

He KNEW he would see her, she ate at the same time he did. Of course she would be there. And every day, he normally walked up to her and said hi just fine - but when you have something to tell someone, it's always harder to talk to them.

He sheepishly walked up, carrying his food with him. "Louise - hey, I-"

"David! I'm SO sorry but I need to work on a project with Hilda and Frida."

"...that is due next week, isn't it?"

"Heh, yeah...how's it with Trevor?"

"Ugh," David groaned, "he makes me do all the work!"

"Figures...I'll see you!"

David sighed as she walked away. He ate alone. Well, save for Trevor, who gave him more 'notes' (read as - stuff Trevor was supposed to do.)

Band class wasn't much better. He was lucky - he got to be in Jazz band - and things went pretty well! There was a long stretch where nothing happened, but it seemed alright with-

"David."

"...Mr. Thorne?"

"That last bit seemed a bit...empty, didn't it?"

"...well now that you mention it-"

"You're supposed to *solo* there, David."

Aww shit.

"...oh-"

"David, this is in two weeks! TWO! And you're still not even getting the changes right!"

"I'm sorry, I-"

"We have to practice."

David thought about practice with his band, and the project, and the chores he had, and the other homework he had, and-

"Right. Sorry."

He huffed as he trudged to his next class. The last of the day - and thank GOD, nothing went wrong.

Well.

Until Hilda accidentally justted a chair out, and he managed to get water all. Over. his uniform.

"Agh! Sorry, David, are you alright?"

David looked out for a moment, giving off that silly, vacant stare he sometimes had. He shook his head.

"Oh, I'm alright." He said.

He brushed it off, but on the inside, he was seething. Everything was conspiring against him today - he looked outside as the weather got rainier. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked to the courtyard, music on, avoiding everything, until-

He saw her again.

"David!" She waved, from under an umbrella.

"Hey, Louise." He pulled his headphones off, around his neck. The rain was pelting so hard he felt like the umbrella he had wasn't doing anything.

And it wasn't. Because it turned inside out, and flew away from him.

Louise hissed in a breath through her teeth. "Yeesh, David...good day otherwise?"

"...no." David wasn't normally that transparent. Truth is, this wasn't even the worst day this week.

"Oh." Louise nodded. "Well, I had a good day. Frida and Hilda and I finished up that thing for history, and I managed to get tickets to that show on Saturday, AND I picked up a few days to walk twig, which...I mean. He's Twig. Who doesn't like walking him?"

"Well, that's good." David nodded, sheepishly. He smiled a little.

"There's that smile." She said, winking. "You and that smile...always on when a certain person's around, eh?"

...WAIT WHAT? WAS IT THAT OBVIOUS? HE THOUGHT HE WAS BEING VAGUE THERE-

"We all know how you feel about Frida."

HUH!?!

"It's alright! Must be awful, though, what with her being so into Hilda and-"

"It's you."

David wanted to jump into the sea when he saw the look on her face. He knew it shouldn't've been today. Why did he commit to today!? Why oh WHY did he-

"...me?"

"..." He nodded. "Yes." He shook his head. "I...ever since we met, but...I, uhm...I really think..." He scoffed. "Iiiit's melodramatic, but-"

"I like melodramatic." Louise crossed her arms. "Don't hold back." She added. "I can take it."

"...You...you make me feel..." He fought for the words. "you make me feel like a million suns are shining down at once. You make me feel like a wolf looking out at open ground to run on. You make me feel-"

She kissed him, once. Quickly.

"...Musicians. So good at saying, not doing. Just...do."

He hugged her and kissed her as she held the umbrella...

"Have a good day at School, David?" David's mother asked, as she heard the door.

David beamed when he got back. "The best."

#snelly writes #fanfiction #hilda the series #david hilda #louise hilda

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felix-the-lemon-king · 5 months

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Omg duo bingo for YOU!!! Lilia and each of his three beloved dorm sons,, that’s already three duos LOL but also. Malleus and silver.. and UMM let’s throw Kalim and ruggie duo in here just to mix it up LOL

Oh dear. Oh god. Well lets get started BDHJSKSHDJDHJSJSBDJJDJ

HELL YEA FOREVER I LOVE THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!! They are the father and son duo forever to me. I don't know what it is about it but I have NEVER been all that interested in parent & child dynamics in different shows and stuff? Maybe because it tends to fall very quickly into strict tropes that the characters predictably follow without breaking out of them much 🤔 like even with spyxfamily there are long portions of the fanily dynamic specific stuff that I just find myself getting tired and looking away from. I am always just waiting for content on Everyone Having To Hide Their True Identity From Each Other LOL that stuff makes it super fun and enjoyable to follow even with the bits I'm not very into 😌 but with Lilia and Silver omg has anyone ever done it like them???? What is going on. I love them. Has there ever been a teenage son who not only loves their dad So Much but will talk at length, a little obsessively, about how cool he is and all the adventures he has gone on and how proud he is to be his son and So On And So Forth. Like he talks about Lilia SO OFTEN everyone on campus has heard about Silver's cool dad at this point. And Lilia himself is such a weird creature, you cannot throw him into any trope and expect him to behave and follow it in a predictable way. Do I even have to explain myself. Look at him. And I have not even MENTIONED the stuff we're getting into in book 7 like spoilers start now I have ALWAYS thought that Lilia seems weirdly reserved about his affection for Silver compared to how Silver shows his affection and I am VINDICATED that it is being thoroughly addressed. Silver LOVES HIS DAD SO MUCH his heart is full of love and he is STUFFED WITH IT!!!!!!!!!!! Halloween part 2 haunts me forever and the fairy gala if event and all of silver's vignettes and his voice lines and the MELTDOWN he has first realizing that he could one day never see his father again and then realizing that he's the son of his father's enemy and his father must have had such a hard time looking at him the same way he looks back I'm so I'm so Im leave me be leave me to my trenches I cannot handle it silver is so full of love. And yet Lilia has thought for so long thay he is incapable of love. Oh my DAYS. I am waiting with the biggest eyes ever for more unraveling of Lilia's psyche in the next update. I could keep going forever and ever but YOU GET IT‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

I am SCARED malmal you're SCARING ME!!!!!!!!!!! Silver is full of the most love forever for Lilia and yet it would appear IN COMES MALLEUS WITH A STEEL CHAIR. Malleus is also full of love and he is NOT taking it well. I'm so excited to see his mind unravel as well 👀

Something absurd is always happening between these two, they're so silly 😌 love that Sebek literally has his own parents and they are nice parents and they love each other and they love him and it is a very nice situation to be in but alas. Sebek has decided to fuck off into the woods and become parented by Lilia instead LOL I've read several fics now where he is super jealous that Silver gets to have coolest guy alive Lilia to be his dad and I think that's a funny dynamic 😌 also Lilia gaslighting Sebek into making horrible decisions is RIDICULOUS every single time and it is the reason why I have only circled They Can Make Each Other Worse bxbsjsnsnsbjsBDHDBJSJSB

I have not skipped anyone from the order that you gave me the duos, what are you talking about. Anyway. THESE TWO ARE FUN!!!!!!!! Kalim is so excited to give gifts and food and money and Ruggie is so down to receive gifts and food and money but ALAS Ruggie cannot stand his good boy behavior 😔 the sugar daddy and sugar baby dynamic was inches away LOL I just think they are goofy 😌 I could also see Ruggie taking it into his own hands to make Kalim see the world for what it is & the POTENTIAL for a very tiana & prince naveen dynamic. I loved the princess and the frog a lot and their dynamic was my favorite part of it so I would like that for kalim and ruggie a bunch 😌

Ummmmmmmm........... I am so sorry for this. Avert your eyes 🙈

SO...... Saved this one for last because As You Can See I Am Swinging The Bat At The Wasp Nest. I actually have an absurd amount of ships in twisted wonderland and I think most of the ones I REALLY like are pretty unsavory ones 🙈 I'm selective about the people I talk to about what ships because I get it!!!!!!!!! Some ships are not for everyone and that's great!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I just like it when horrible things happen!!!!! I've seen a lot of hate for it mostly because people see them as siblings and I get that!!!! I enjoy that interpretation as well sometimes!!!!!!!!! But that is not the only way that people can interpret their dynamic and I have also chosen other ways to interpret it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm not sure if that aspect alone makes it much worse from how I interpret them actually xbbdjdjndbxbxjekndbx this ship is one that I just could not go up on stand for and say that I do not ship. I am unfortunately deranged about it 😔 I have been chin deep in this swamp since before the beginning. I have been in the wattpad circles for maleficent/aurora since I knew what a fanfic was. This was never going to go any other way and I have no defenses for myself. I can just show you images of them and say I am an enjoyer TO A FAULT. They gave me a sweet innocent character with white hair and a bright theme and a heart full of love and then they gave me a mysterious and dastardly character with black hair and a dark theme and a heart full of evil and I just don't know I had to take the shot I have been in the trenches from the start 😔 their showdown where Silver begged Malleus to come to his senses and Malleus said he would not give even Silver mercy if he kept defying him was very thrilling and I am excited to see more of the tension between them that's all also I like that they have coffee in the morning together that's all that's everything I have to say I'm getting off the stand now

#twst #🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️

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marahuyos · 2 years

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Adobong Pusit

adobong pusit (squid adobo) - a dish comprised of squid that is marinated heavily in sauces for a long time. while the ink of the squid is separated from the main body, it is often included in order to give it that inky black color and that nostalgic flavor.

in other words: you were craving for adobong pusit and for some reason, twisted wonderland sold squid ink separately, so you had to go through alternative means.

azul ashengrotto x gn!reader

mara’s words: was craving for adobong pusit and then i read azul’s ceremonial robes vignette and i was like “ok, well it’s fair game if i do it to you, right?”

tw: food tw (squid), usage of twstEN translations, reader is prefect, possible ooc for azul, azul and reader are in an established relationship, this is mostly crack with a squint of angst lol

With your hands on your hips, you assessed them all. Tomatoes, some garlic, onion, soy sauce...

“... sugar, vinegar, and squid?” Grim finished. “What are you gonna make with all of this?”

You grinned at him. “Adobong Pusit, or marinated squid. I’ve been craving for seafood for so long that when Sam mentioned he had seafood in stock, I had to jump in.”

“Eh? If you were craving for seafood, you should’ve just asked from me.”

“You and I both know that’s the biggest lie you’ve said.”

He let out a smug laugh. “Glad you understand!”

“But my problem is...” You trailed off, looking downtrodden. “Sam doesn’t sell whole squid, only prepared squid and no ink. He said that the ink was only used for alchemy reasons and never for cooking reasons so I’m stumped on what to do.”

Grim crossed his arms. “Is the squid ink really necessary? I mean, all of these other stuff can definitely make the squid flavorful.”

You shook your head. “The squid ink is what makes it great. I can’t not just omit the ink.”

“Well, I don’t know how to help you. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to wish him some ink?”

Grim meant that as a joke but clearly you didn’t match his feelings. With glee, you rubbed Grim’s ears affectionately. “Great idea, Grim! I won’t be gone for long, so you better hold down the fort!”

Before he could say anything, you quickly ran towards the main foyer, bidding Grim a hasty goodbye as he hears your retreating footsteps. Blinking, he let out a tired groan before he placed his paws on his hips. “Geez, and they say I’m the impatient one.”

“Oh yeah, and Grim?” You called out, making him jump slightly. “You better cook some rice in the cooker, okay? I’ll be expecting cooked rice when I get back!”

It was scary how the twins seem to just know when you’re visiting.

Not even a few steps inside the lounge, Floyd quickly went to your side, slapping a hand on your back as you staggered. “Shrimpy! Boss is looking for you!”

You raised a brow. “Did Azul nab a contract for someone’s omniscience?”

“Who knows?” He said dubiously before practically shoving you to the VIP room. “Azul is such a sap for you that it’s cringe as heck. I just want to stop him from being too cheesy before I keel over from it.”

You huffed, giving a nod towards Jade when you passed him by as he gave you a small, but knowing, smirk. “Glad to know.”

When you two stood in front of the door, Floyd “Well, have fun in there, Shrimpy!”

Bidding Floyd goodbye, you opened the door yourself, peeking inside the lavish room. You spotted the towering stack of contracts first before spotting your boyfriend being buried underneath all of those paperwork. A shiver went down your spine; you definitely felt that feeling.

Immediately, Azul’s head snapped upwards, eyes flitting to yours and you could see the fatigue in them disappear into delight. “Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you would drop by.”

Entering the room and closing the door, you went towards him, stood by his chair and slightly leaned on the side. Grasping his hand, your fingers smoothed underneath the glove as you massaged over his pulse point. Azul immediately let out a content hum, leaning back against his chair as he leaned against your side. With that silent consent, you let yourself sit down on the arm of the chair as you leaned against him as well.

“... What do you want, my pearl?” He asked blankly, still snuggling to your side.

With an offended gasp, you looked down at Azul with an astonished look. “Azul, love of my life! How dare you insinuate that I would want anything from you?”

“You don’t saddle up to me like this even though I’m stressed. You would do more than that.” He answered, smirking smugly as he didn’t even look at you underneath his hat. “So out with it.”

Letting out a groan, you kneeled down to his side and placed your hands on the armrest and placing your chin on them, akin to a puppy. “Can I ask for a huge favor, darling?”

Although the pet name made his ears redden, he still looked down on you with nonchalance. “A favor? Of what kind?”

“Is it possible to get squid ink from you?”

It was impossible to freeze the entirety of Octavinelle Dorm, but at this moment, it was possible, as Azul was frozen in his seat. His quill snapping in half and his hat magically sliding off of his head. You still knelt beside him, counting the seconds in your head when you realize you had to do something to wake him up.

“I mean octopus ink might make my dish taste different but I’m sure it would taste the same.”

It was at that moment that he snapped out of his stupor, fully turning his body towards you with his complexion paling steadily. “Y-You-I mean-but out of the-why!?”

“I was craving for something that involves ink but Sam sells squid ink for alchemy purposes.” You explained, ignoring the sweat pouring down Azul’s face. “But then I figured that you could solve my problem without me paying anything!”

“Do you take me for a bumbling fool!?” He near-screeched, hitching his knees up to his chest as he assumed a defensive position. “How dare you insinuate that I could ink whenever I want for your insane whims!”

You stood up, grabbing his hands no matter how tightly he wound themselves around him. “Please, darling? I swear I won’t make fun of you and I’ll even let you sample what I’m making so you won’t feel bad!”

“Are you insinuating that I eat my own ink!?”

You shrugged. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t think that through.”

He let out a strangled whine, ducking his head in his knees. You sat back down on the armrest, wrapping your arms around him as your hands flitted towards the undercut of his hair, making him shiver. “I’m sorry. If it really makes you uncomfortable, I won’t push you.”

You then thought back to the promised dish, eyes softening in nostalgia when you remember your parents always adding more of the sauce on your rice. “It’s just that special dish is part of my childhood. If I could just make it then maybe I wouldn’t feel so... homesick here.”

Azul lifted his head slightly so he could see your face. He sees the longing in your face and he can’t help but slowly brought his knees down. Thinking back to his days as a chubby octopus, he pinched his nose and sent a quick prayer to the Sea Witch for what he was about to do.

“I’ll do it.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. It would be remiss of me to leave you unsatisfied while you’re still in the lounge.” He explained but he ducked his head so that you wouldn’t see the blush on his face. “In exchange... I want to sample that dish of yours.”

You gasped before hugging Azul tightly and planting kisses all over his face, ignoring the rapidly heating octomer as you squealed multiple ‘thank you’s’ over and over until—

You felt liquid pour down into your mouth and down to your clothes. With a startled scream, you staggered back and stood up, looking down and gasping out loud at the sight of black ink staining your body. Looking over to Azul, you gasped out even louder when you see the same ink dripping down from Azul’s mouth.

“I uh...”

“D-DON’T LOOK AT MEEEEE!”

Outside the VIP Room, Jade rolled his eyes as he handed Floyd some Thaumarks.

extra:

“Grim? I’m back! And I brought Azul with me!” You yelled across the room, carrying a canister full of ink as Azul stiffly walked alongside you. The Octavinelle dorm uniform suited you well as Azul had to change his own uniform to his school uniform from the, ah, accident.

Hearing his groggy yawn, he stretched himself across the sofa. “Took you long enough. I was starvin’ so much but I didn’t wanna eat my tuna!”

Grim then sat up straight, pointing a paw at you. “You better be thankful, henchman!”

“Oh, I am.” You said dismissively, setting down the canister as Azul sat himself on the sofa. “Anyway, did you cook the rice like I told you to?”

“The what?”

You paused, slowly turning around to Grim and Azul had to bite back a shiver on the murderous aura you were emanating. “I told you to cook rice.”

“Oh, well, it kinda slipped my mind. Besides, I’m sure you can make some no problem!”

Setting down the canister on the countertop, you reached down to your house slipper and spun it around your hand. Immediately Azul sprang up, briskly speed-walking towards an empty room when he realizes your intent.

And as Grim lets out his yowls of pain and whimpers when he was left out to eat your leftovers, Azul had to admit that your nostalgic dish was definitely delicious. He makes a note to ask you the recipe so he could do some revisions to the Mostro Lounge menu...

After all, it’s proper compensation when you thoroughly embarrassed him far enough.

#mara.works #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto imagines #twst imagines #twst x reader #like no lie i am craaaaavingg for some adobong pusit rn #esp the super spicy one where they add labuyo mmmmmm

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ashtrayfloors · 1 year

Text

I’m not obsessively tagging this one, so just a few content warnings: there’s nothing graphic, but there’s some TMI stuff about sex and masturbation; talk of food and alcohol; discussion of grief, death, and illness; and a brief mention of transphobic/transmedicalist stuff. Also it might come across like I’m bragging about some compliments I’ve gotten for my writing recently. Also it’s long.

This is a really long entry, because I started writing it like, ten days ago, but then more stuff happened. This is a common thing for me, with letters and journal entries; I start writing them but don’t have time to finish, then more stuff happens, and I start adding the new stuff, but don’t have time to finish, and then more stuff happens and…you get the idea.

Anyway, these past two weeks have been jam-packed. There’s been a lot of luck & magic & beauty, with some hard stuff mixed in. (That’s life, that’s what all the people say…)

…

The evening of Thursday the 16th, I sent the ‘Mats-inspired vignettes to the editor of a zine I thought it’d be perfect for. Friday morning, I opened my email, and read his response. He loves it, and wants to run it in the next issue. He said I “perfectly captured that lonely midwestern feeling that certain Replacements songs have,” and that my writing is “romantic, but also real, like Kerouac mixed with Cometbus.” And if you know me at all, you know why I practically swooned over those particular compliments.

I also got an email saying our local library’s free seed library was newly restocked for the year, and I wanted to get there before it was all picked over. So, C. and I went to the library and picked up seeds for this year’s garden, along with an info packet on where and when to plant everything. We got seeds for: cayenne and poblano peppers; pickling cucumbers; spinach, mustard greens, collard greens, and kale; eggplant, squash, broccoli; Roma and Wisconsin organic (heirloom) tomatoes; carrots, and radishes. I’m so excited. Last year’s garden was our most successful ever, but we also made a couple mistakes which we learned from, so I’m thinking this year’s garden might be even better.

After that, C. and I popped over to my friend D.’s house. We got to meet his new pitbull-mix, Leonard, who is less than a year old and is therefore super high-energy, but so sweet. And we got to see their two-week-old foster kittens (and their mama), and C. even got to pet one! D. also gave me some cayenne and habanero, which he grew in his garden last year, then dried and ground—he’s been giving it to anyone who wants some, as he grew so many peppers that he can’t possibly use it all. (He also offered me some Carolina Reaper, but I passed on that.) I told him if there was ever anything I could give him in trade, to let me know, and he said: “Just listening to your spoken world album is trade enough,” and went on to say that he’s in awe of my poetic abilities.

All these compliments, a guy could get a big head! Except, I often think my writing is okay at best and I should just quit; when I get compliments like those it just offsets that and makes me realize that if other people are getting something from what I write, I should keep going.

Our last stop was the grocery store, where I got the rest of what I needed for the Dublin coddle, and got my flirt on with a beautiful redhead girl.

I had thought about putting green dye in my hair and painting my nails green for St. Paddy’s Day, but after all that running about town, I didn’t have time. I did, however, put my hair in braids (it’s long enough to braid now!), and put on green eyeliner.

I spent the next while putting together the Dublin coddle and getting it into the oven. I listened to the St. Patrick’s Day mix I listen to every year, then I listened to Hozier’s new EP, which holy fuck, I am trying so hard to be normal about, but it’s difficult. I truly wish I had a close friend who was into Hozier that I could nerd out about it with. Then I made a cup of tea and sat out in the backyard for a bit. One of the neighborhood crows came and lit on the fence, and it was cawing loudly about something. I asked it what was wrong, and we had a little ‘conversation.’

Me: “What is it, what’s wrong?” Crow: *cocks its head from side to side* caw caw. Me: “I’m sorry, I can’t help you with that.” Crow: squirrr-wakkk. Me: “I’m sure it will turn out fine.”

Funnily enough, the crow quieted down after that, stayed there for a while looking at me, then flew off.

It was really windy that day. To paraphrase myself: the wind, my lover, had returned, so I flirted with him a bit.

In the evening, I drank a pint of Guinness and a small glass of Jameson. In the old days, I would have easily downed three pints of stout and at least half a bottle of whiskey, not even because it was St. Patrick’s Day, but because it was a day, and to paraphrase myself, again—if you’re really Irish, you don’t need an excuse to get drunk. But I don’t do that anymore. The thing I do still do is get nostalgically sad (sadly nostalgic?) about old flames, and I had a few moments of that on St. Paddy’s Night. I found myself missing Ruby, and Jack of Spades, who I always miss most at this time of year; and Derry, whom I miss all the time, but always hardest in the spring and fall.

And then I emailed Derry. When I saw him back in October, I told him why I never respond to his periodic emails. And since then, he hasn’t emailed me; we left each other with the ball in my court, with it being up to me if I wanted to ever be in contact with him again. I probably shouldn’t have. I wasn’t even drunk, so I didn’t have that as an excuse. My only excuses are that I miss him so, so, so much, and I’m addicted to bad ideas.

Then P. and the kiddos and I watched Darby O’Gill and the Little People, which I hadn’t seen since I was a child. The movie left an indelible impression on me when I was a kid, though—I was deeply, deeply terrified of the banshee. Watching it the other night, I was no longer afraid, but I do understand why it scared me so back then. The sound she makes is absolutely bone-chilling.

…

Saturday, the temperature dropped, drastically—it was the coldest day we’ve had in weeks, felt more like midwinter again—but we braved the cold to go downtown and see the St. Paddy’s Day parade. It’s a small parade, even smaller this year because some people dropped out due to the weather, but it was still nice. A marching band started it off with a rendition of “Whiskey in the Jar.” One of the bars on Main Street was selling drinks, both alcoholic and non, in to-go cups, so you could grab one and take it outside while you watched the parade. P. and I both got Irish coffees, the kids got hot chocolate. The kids grabbed handfuls of candy and green plastic beads that some of the floats were tossing to the crowd. I sipped from my drink, and half-watched the parade, half-watched the other spectators.

There was a super sexy man standing near us. He was fat and also just big, like over six feet tall. He had a long, gray beard, but it was a very well-kept long beard, not ratty or dirty in any way. He was wearing a black beanie, a black leather jacket, an Irish kilt (with the tartan for County Derry; yes, I looked it up when I got home), and these tall, intricately patterned leather boots. I guess he caught me lookin’, cuz he fucking winked at me, and then I blushed so hard that my face felt hot despite the cold. Jaysis.

The best parts of the parade were the Root River Rollers (our local roller derby team; they looked hella cute in their green plaid skirts and black leggings and derby gear; I have a major thing for derby girls and have for a very long time); the float from McAuliffe’s Pub (they had someone on fiddle and someone on bodhrán, playing a reel); the pirates of Will’s Revenge (they’re a local group who cosplay as pirates for various events, I always love them, but this time they’d added little Irish touches for St. Paddy’s; of course I thought of B. saying of me all those years ago: …you’re and Irish pirate, that’s the best kind); and the girls from a local dance school (they were wearing black hoodies and black leggings and sparkly green tutus; they did a wildly impressive hiphopjazz dance routine).

Later that day, I made some minor edits on my ‘Mats vignettes (at the editor’s suggestion), while listening to The ‘Mats, and “Treatment Bound” came on and for the first time it hit me how much it sounded like some of my old friend L.’s music. I mean, I knew he was a Replacements fan, but it had honestly never hit me until then how much his sound was influenced by some of their stuff. Particularly the stuff off Hootenanny. And then I sat around missing L. for a while. I’ve written about him a lot before. He was one of those friends I had an intense crush on, and I thought I wanted to smooch him or maybe even bone him, but the most we ever did was cuddle/spoon. And then I realized it was better that way; I could get really close to him without worrying about sex making it weird. And then years later, I realized I never had actually wanted to fuck him, I had wanted to be him (or, well, be more like him, anyway). He had such a huge impact on my writing, my music, my life. We never had a falling out, just lost touch, got busy with our separate lives, never ran into each other anymore. The usual. I think of him often, though, and decided to web-search him the other day just so see what he’s up to. I found out that all his albums are now up on Bandcamp, and I’m so excited, because I lost my copies of them ages ago, and I love his music so much.

…

The next day was warmer again, though still windy. I took a long walk by myself. I trysted with the wind, again; he yanked my hair and slapped my cheeks pink. I walked down to the Little Free Library that’s in my neighborhood; I’ve found some great stuff in it before, and it had been months since I’d checked it. This time, I found nothing. I did, however, spot a tow truck with the words Anywhere and Anytime on it, and I snapped a picture. It seemed like a good sign, as the title of my ‘Mats memoir series is Anyplace or Anywhere or Anytime.

When I got home from the walk, I spent the rest of the afternoon writing.

…

Monday, I woke up and got the bullshit stuff I had to do but had been dreading/putting off out of the way first. I am not always able to do that, but the Executive Function fairy truly blessed me that day. Then I did school stuff with the kids. It was warm enough that we could do a (partially) outdoor science experiment. First, the kids designed protective casing for eggs, then we took them out in the backyard and dropped them from various heights to see how far they could drop without breaking. We even recorded our results! It was a lot of fun.

After that, I did some witchy stuff to celebrate the first day of spring. I redecorated my altar, lit some incense, did a little spell/ritual. Then I did a Spring Equinox tarot reading for myself, and it was so clear and right-on that I reached out to Emchy and was like: “Hey, the cards are really talking to me today, want me to pull a few for you?” She said yes, so I did.

Later in the afternoon, I took another solo walk. This time I took photos of some of the sidewalk date stamps in my neighborhood. I also spotted the first crocus of the season, and snapped photos of those. Trysted with the wind again. Sang (quietly, but out loud) as I walked—first Jolie Holland’s “Springtime Can Kill You” (because it is one of my all-time favorite songs), then the Counting Crows’ “Sullivan Street” (because I’d thought of something ‘hanging on the air,’ and it made me think of that song).

When I got home, I wrote a short poem, and then I started working on translating it into Gaeilge. I find that when I’m learning a new language, translating my words/thoughts from English into said language helps.

After that, I checked my email. There was one from Derry; his response to the email I’d sent on St. Patrick’s Day. I am not going to quote from it directly, not here; some things have to be kept just for me. Suffice it to say: we’re not trying to hook up or get together or start things all over again, but we’re mutually unsure where that leaves us; he misses and loves me just as much as I do him.

P. and I made dinner together that night. He made the sides and I made the main dish. We’d already planned on making roasted potatoes with dijon and rosemary (because we already had all the ingredients) and green beans with onions and bacon (because we already had the bacon and onions); we’d already decided to have pork chops as the main dish. But the night before I got a craving for French food, so that morning I looked up “French pork chops,” and found a recipe for pan-cooked pork chops with paprika, in an onion-dijon cream sauce. It was amazing.

We finished off the night by having passionate sex. It was a perfect ending to the first day of spring.

…

Tuesday was kinda crappy. The kids were cranky, and I had some unspecified physical yuck happening; my stomach hurt and I was just exhausted the whole day. But I managed to take another walk, this time with C. And it was World Poetry Day, so I read some poetry and worked more on my translation.

…

Wednesday was a happysad day. It was the ten year anniversary of my grandma’s death, so of course I was thinking about her. I was also thinking about Jason Molina. The 18th had been the ten year anniversary of his death, and my grief over losing my grandma is inextricably bound up with my grief over Jason Molina’s death. When my grandma got seriously ill, and we knew she wasn’t going to live much longer, I was deeply depressed, and I was listening to a lot of Songs: Ohia and Magnolia Electric Co. at the time, and then Jason died, and four days later my grandma died, so yeah, they’re always linked in my mind.

Wednesday was also my dad’s birthday. I wrote a birthday poem for him, and collaged a card to put it in. In the afternoon, P. and I went to a local job fair and found out about some potential employment opportunities for him. Fingers crossed that one of them pans out, because they’re pretty good ones. As we were leaving the job fair, we saw a seagull and a hawk fighting. Then we and the kiddos went to my folks’ house to celebrate my dad’s birthday. We had a nice dinner and some cake, and I gave my dad the card I’d made.

My mom and I reminisced about my grandma (her mom). Then she told me about an old friend of the family who is battling a serious illness. Later, Joni Mitchell came up in conversation, and my mom and I were talking about Joni and her music, and the memories we have attached to it—for both of us, Joni’s songs specifically remind us of being in our twenties. So we were both in our feelings about my grandma and the old family friend and our own pasts and Joni’s music, and we listened to “River” and cried a little together, and it was probably the closest I’ve felt to my mom in a long while.

Later that night, as I lay in the dark trying to fall asleep, I heard coyotes yipping as they wandered through the neighborhood.

…

Thursday, the kids were in bad moods again, and I was feeling anxious about various stuff. But I managed to get past it. I read some, made a collage, drank some tea. I signed up for a temporary money-making side gig. I finished writing/editing the poem about the time Ali and I visited Nancy Spungen’s grave; I have been working on it on-and-off for years, and I’m glad to finally have it in a place where I feel like it’s ready to be out in the world.

Then I watched the crows in the yard. That crow I talked to on St. Patrick’s Day? It returned, and brought its mate, and they are building a nest in the tree that hangs partially over our yard! Maybe that’s what it was making a racket about the first time; maybe it was scouting locations for a nest and was trying to get its mate to come see? In any case, we’re gonna have crow neighbors, and they’re gonna start a family! Oh my god, there are gonna be baby crows! The crows in the area are probably already familiar with me, because I have left out food for them before, and said hello when I’ve been near them; and I’m very glad that my talking to one of them the other day did not deter them from building their nest in/near our yard. (I’ve now started leaving peanuts for them in the backyard, since at least this pair has been coming around that side more often, and they’ve been back every day, but more about that later.)

Thursday night, I had a dream about my old friend J.C. I’ve known him since I was in the sixth grade, and we’ve been in and out of each other’s lives since (again, no falling out, just life drifting us apart), but I haven’t seen him in almost fourteen years now. It was good to see him in the dream, though, and I hope he’s doing well.

…

Friday, I spent most of the day getting ready for that evening’s spoken word gig. I collated zines, gathered together all the merch I wanted to take with me. I gathered together the poems I might want to read; timed a few newer ones/ones I’d never performed at a reading before. I drove to the bank downtown; to get some cash in various smaller denominations of bills, so I’d have change to give when people bought my merch. At one point on the drive, I was behind a car, and I noticed one of their bumper stickers: the background was the pride flag, and the text over it read Make America Gay Again. Awesome. Back at home, I started enacting even more pre-event rituals. (I say ‘event’ because I have long enacted some or all of these rituals whether it’s a spoken word gig, a music gig, a zine fest, an art show, a burlesque performance, a circus performance, etc. etc. Basically, I enact some or all of these rituals, or other, similar ones, whenever I have any kind of event where I’m performing and/or selling stuff, whether it’s in-person or online.) I cut the sleeves off my Keep Books Dangerous tee (a sure sign of spring for me, cutting the sleeves off a t-shirt), and changed out/added to the pins on my leather jacket. I freshened the color in my hair. I did all this while summoning the Undying Spirit of Punk Rock, by blasting the Daycare Swindlers.

Listening to the DC Swindlers of course made me think of N., as he was the lead singer of that band. I know I’ve written about him before, but I was hit with a wave of missing him so hard on Friday. We were platonic soulmates. I was never sexually or romantically attracted to him; as far as I know he was never into me that way either. (In fact I had a huge crush on his girlfriend!) But we just clicked; from the first time we met we had people saying we were like twins. We didn’t look anything alike, but there was just something about us. The way we dressed, our predilections, obviously our taste in women; just our general vibes. Twins. Soulmates. Because not all soulmates are romantic or sexual in nature; in fact, for as many romantic/sexual partners as I’ve had, I’ve had far more platonic soulmates.

Other rituals I enacted pre-gig were putting on my necklace of charms and dabbing a bit of the “Follow Me, Boy” scent on my pulse points.

P. actually got to come with me for once, which was amazing. I’ve said before that my parents are real weird about watching the kids, but this time they offered so P. could go with me, and of course I jumped at the chance.

At about five, we dropped the kiddos at my parents house, then headed north/west, to the far west side of Milwaukee, right on the border of Wauwatosa. Drove up on old familiar roads, saw some excellent graffiti. Parked near the gallery where my reading was, in front of a beautiful soft-yellow house with a pride flag hung from their porch, and a sign in the yard: We Back the Vag. Again, awesome.

The gallery was great, full of funky-cool art. Everyone that worked there was super friendly, so were all the other performers (both featured and open mic). At least half the people there, performers and audience, were some flavor of queer, and there were also several POC and several Jewish people! (I know that last part for a fact because a few of the poets read pieces that mentioned Judaism/being Jewish.) I felt so comfortable and happy. Like, obviously, as a queer person, I get tired of being around only cishets; but even as a white goy, I also get tired of being around only white, (culturally) Christian folks. I guess I just spent enough of my life in big cities and other diverse spaces that I am actually less at ease when everyone looks like me and/or has a similar cultural background. And it’s just fucking boring, ya know? Why would I only wanna be around people who look and act like me?!

Soon after we arrived at the gallery, I was setting up my merch, and the queer kid (I say ‘kid’ because they were in their early 20s, which, now that I’m in my 40s, is definitely in ‘kid’ territory for me) who was the musician for the evening saw my spoken word album—Self Portrait with Ghosts & Trains. “That’s definitely something I would listen to,” they said. “I like ghosts, I like trains.” Pause. “Damn, too bad I only know one train song. I mean, I only know how to play one train song. I know lots of train songs in general.” I told them that I’d made a playlist of train songs a few years ago, and that even though I’d spent time narrowing it down from the original list, it still had 50+ songs on it. “Have you ever seen Metalocalypse?” They asked. “How come all they sings about is trains?” I replied. “That is actually the name of my train song playlist, no kidding.” They laughed, said, “What else is there, really?,” and then we fist bumped.

Then it was time for the open mic part of the evening, and the other featured poet-performers. All of the other poet-performers were really good, in their own ways. Some of them were just good all around, both poetry-wise and performance-wise. Others were not my jam, poetry-wise, but performed their stuff really well. And still others were people whose poems were fantastic but who were fairly new to performing; I know that if they keep at it they will be absolute fire in the not-too-distant future.

Then it was my turn. I opened my set with a poem that is not my own. See, it would have been Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 104th birthday that day, so I opened with “See, it was like this, when…” Then I did a bit of improv. What I mean by that is—I had brought way more poems with me than I could feasibly read, and I had a couple I knew I for sure wanted to read but for the rest it was like, I’ll just go with what I’m vibing with at the time. And some of the other performers inspired some of my choices. One of the poets read some of their sonnets, so I read two of my sonnets; one of the performers opened with an a capella rendition of “Cabaret,” so I read my Cabaret-inspired poem. I also read two of my Wisconsin poems—a Milwaukee one, and my Beast of Bray Road poem; an excerpt from The Loneliest Show On Earth; and the poem about visiting Nancy’s grave. The crowd was so, so attentive and responsive. Like, they were there to hear poetry. I heard some laughter during parts of some of my poems (not laughing at, laughing with), and also some gasps and ohs. Afterward, I got so many compliments. I mean, people were telling me my stuff was funny but also moving, or saying it was like I cast a spell, saying they got chills at certain points; someone noticed the Diane Di Prima influence on my work, someone else noticed the Lynda Hull influence…god damn. I sold some stuff and got a cut of the door, and it was enough to cover my gas money to and from the gig and still have like thirty bucks left over; gotta love that sweet, sweet poetry money. (To quote myself: How no one warned you it’s hard to make a living writing about your heart. How you don’t make a living, but you sometimes make enough money for wine.) I also got approached by the guy who runs the weekly Poetry Nights at Linneman’s River West Inn, and he wants me to be the featured poet there sometime in July or August. I’m so excited! I haven’t been to Linneman’s since early 2009, but back when I lived in MKE I used to perform there all the time—though back then, I performed on the music open mic nights, as that’s when I was more focused on music than poetry. Speaking of music—when the kid I’d talked to earlier in the evening got up for their set, they played the one train song they knew how to play—“Freight Train,” by Elizabeth Cotten—and dedicated it to me. My heart.

P. and I left, then crossed the border into ‘Tosa, and got a round at a beer & whiskey bar called Draft & Vessel. I had an imperial stout that had chai spices in it, and it was so fuckin’ good.

On the drive home, I got to experience that magical thing that happens on the road at night. You know, where you look down at your lap, and the lights coming in through the windshield from above have striated your skin and clothing, and as you move the stripes move, moving stripes of light/shadow/light/shadow. I wish I could think of a better way to describe it; if I can, I’m going to put it in a poem.

…

Saturday we got a bunch of snow. Early spring snow is not uncommon in the upper midwest—in the immortal words of Prince: sometimes it snows in April. And anyway, we had nowhere we needed to be that day, so we just had a cozy-at-home, creative day. P. and I made meal plans for the coming week. I wrote a bit. I made a necklace, inspired by some I’d seen at the gallery and couldn’t afford. I took some knolling photos of my bottlecap, key, and souvenir penny collections; for no other reason than that I felt like it. I recorded an audio version of my VU-inspired poem from Left of the Dial.

My knee and ankle were hurting all day. The poetry reading had been packed full and there were only about eight chairs available, and there were people in their sixties and seventies there, and I never think of my disabilities as real enough, so I gave the chairs to those I thought needed them more, and I stood the whole time. And yeah, I paid for it, bodily. It sucked to be in pain all the next day, but I did kind of chuckle at the “I’m getting old”-ness of it all. Like, I used to go wild in the pit at punk shows and maybe I’d get banged up and sore but I’d be mostly okay (with the notable exception being that time I broke my ankle in the pit), and now I stand for a couple hours at a poetry reading and I’m in pain for days.

I thought of Sinclair, another old flame, that day; possibly because of that kid playing “Freight Train” the night before, as that was a staple of Sinclair’s repertoire. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in somewhere close to 14 years now, and I haven’t even web-searched him in a decade. Unlike with some of my other exes, it’s not that I fear I’ll decide to contact him and open everything up again, it’s that— Well, I’ve worried that he might be dead or in prison. He was a sweetheart, genuinely one of the best, kindest people I’ve ever known—but he was also an outlaw, and he lived a rough life. He was a queer train-hopping hobo/crusty/circus performer/musician; he was often homeless, and had bouts of trouble with the law and various addictions. Saturday, I decided to look him up to see what I could find…and I was relieved to know that he’s not just living but seemingly thriving, back in his hometown of New Orleans, where he just had a music gig on March 23rd. I’m so relieved. Just knowing that he’s out there, still doin’ his thing, is enough for me.

That night, P. and I had hot, wild, rough sex, and I fell asleep more easily than I normally do. Unfortunately, I did have a terrible dream that woke me up in the middle of the night, and then it took me hours to get back to sleep. I don’t even want to go into detail about it because it was so gruesome and bloody and involved terrible bodily harm being visited on some of my loved ones, including one of my kids. I actually had to go into D.’s room and make sure he was okay, and sit watching him breathe for a while, before I could calm down at all. I don’t have vivid, horrific dreams as much now as I did when I was in my teens and twenties, but when they come? They’re fucking doozies. A lot of horror doesn’t even scare me because I’ve had dreams that were just as graphic, but even worse, because the harm was being visited on me and/or people I love.

…

Sunday, I woke up to the notification that someone had bought some stuff from my online shop, which is always a nice thing to wake up to.

Later in the morning, it snowed a little more, and I saw the crows again. And this time, they’d brought a friend. My first thought was: “They’re a polycule!” Which, okay, I know crows don’t work that way, but I recently read something that said crows are ‘socially monogamous but genetically promiscuous’ so maybe? In any case, they were with a third crow; probably another member of their murder. And they were playing! I watched them leap down from the tree to the top of the neighbors’ garage roof, then slide to the bottom edge near the eaves, from which they’d fly back up to the tree and do it all over again. I was so fucking thrilled; I’ve seen videos of crows playing before, but I’ve never seen it so clearly in person. I wanted to get my own video, but of course by the time I got my phone and got ready to record, they’d stopped. I know, pics or it didn’t happen, but this has just been one of the many amazing things I’ve witnessed or experienced in my life where I do not have any ‘factual’ documentation, and it doesn’t even matter because I know it happened and it lives inside me, now.

In the late afternoon, D. had the worst meltdown he’s had in a while. His anger is getting worse as he edges towards adolescence, but at least now he has a therapist that can help us through it.

For dinner, P. made shrimp, pork, and andouille jambalaya, with a side of greens. We had sex again that night; this time, it was slow, lazy, and deeply sensual.

…

Monday morning, D. had his therapy appointment, then I did schoolwork with the kiddos. Then I got dinner going in the crockpot (one of my favorite go-to meals: Moroccan chicken tagine with chickpeas and apricots) while listening to my favorite radio station; they played banger after banger after banger, and I discovered a bunch of new (to me) favorite songs.

Monday evening, before dinner, we filed our taxes. We’re not getting back as much as I’d hoped (because the fucking Republicans decided to axe the expanded Child Tax Credit), but we’re still getting enough that it will make a positive difference in our lives over the next couple months.

That night, we had sex; wild and hot and fast again, that time.

…

Despite all the sex we’ve been having, I woke up ridiculously horny on Tuesday. I was also really restless and a little bit anxious, but I had to do all this sitting-at-my-desk bullshit like attending the Zoom training session for my new side gig, and applying for energy assistance. In between sit-down tasks, I worked through my restless, horny energy by either pacing around or jacking off. Seriously, it was like, bullshit task, walk up and down the stairs a few times; bullshit task, lock myself in the bathroom to jack off; and so on. I ended up jacking off three times that day. (Twice during the day, once at night in bed after P. had fallen asleep; his chronic back pain was acting up so we couldn’t mess around that night, alas.)

The best things of that day were: 1. Finding out I was such a hit at the gallery on Friday that they want me to be one of their features again in May. Like, according to the person who is my point of contact there, even after I left, people were coming up to her saying: “Wow, Jessie was amazing; when can I see them again?!” 2. The burgers we made for dinner that night: blue cheese, bacon, Buffalo sauce, and tomato burgers.

…

Yesterday I clocked a couple hours for my new side gig. It’s kinda tedious, but at least I can do it on my own time, and I need the money.

After that, I did school stuff with the kiddos, including some art time. They both painted, and I sat down to draw something that I thought was kind of inspired by Paradise Lost (cuz I’m on a Milton kick lately) and Nick Cave, but which turned out to be a figure straight out of that horrifying dream I had on Saturday. And I am actually entirely freaked out by the drawing; I had to hide it so I won’t see it.

I spent most of the afternoon laying in bed, drinking tea and reading, as my sinuses were acting up and I couldn’t do much else.

Fortunately, I felt better by evening. For dinner, I made fish tacos (with shredded lettuce, pico de gallo, fresh avocado, and lime wedges for garnish) with beans and rice on the side.

And P. and I got to have sex last night, and it was great, again, as it has been lately.

…

Today I woke up restless, horny, and anxious, again. Mostly the anxiety stemmed from a phone call I had to make. Before I made the call, I did yoga, ate a small breakfast, and took my ashwagandha and magnesium supplements, which helped ease my anxiety a little. Then I made the call, and it sucked, but not as bad as I had feared it would, and hey, at least then it was done.

Late morning, I took the kids to the library. They got to play in the play area for a while; I talked with a mom who was there with her three kiddos (all of them true gingers!). We checked out a bunch of books, as per usual. Then came home to make lunch—mini quesadillas, plus avocado & pico de gallo & beans & rice left over from last night.

After lunch, I decided to take a walk. It’s chilly and a bit windy today, but it had been over a week since I took a walk, and I get even antsier/more restless without them. So I bundled up, and took some hot coffee in my travel mug to keep me warm.

When I stepped out the back door, my crow friend was in the tree where it’s building its nest. It saw me and cawed, then went flying toward the front yard, like it wanted me to follow. I was like: “Oooh, side quest!” When I got out to the sidewalk, I saw the crow in the front yard a few houses down, pulling at something in the mud. I got to the crow just as it pulled the object free, and I saw it was this long, silvery piece of something—like maybe tinsel, or part of a mylar balloon. I said: “Oh, good for you, you found a shiny for your mate!” The crow then flew back towards our backyard.

As I said above, I’ve been feeding the crows in this neighborhood on and off for years, and occasionally saying hello to them, but I do not understand why this particular crow (and by extension, its mate and family/friends) has decided we’re besties. I do not understand, but I am fucking delighted.

I took my walk around the block, got home, promptly locked myself in the bathroom and jacked off.

Tonight, for dinner, P. made chicken cacciatore. The recipe he uses has a white (white wine, lemon juice, olive oil) sauce as opposed to the usual tomato-based chicken cacciatore, and it’s so good. And I’m hoping we get to fuck again tonight, cuz like I said, I’m wildly, insatiably horny these days.

…

This weekend is looking like it will be another jam-packed one. I have to meet up with K. to pick up the Joe Strummer piece I commissioned for Ali’s birthday. There’s a couple activist things I’m participating in; tomorrow’s rally for queer youth, plus some voter outreach stuff I signed up to do prior to next Tuesday’s very important election.

Saturday is the start of National Poetry Month/NaPoWriMo. I plan to attempt a 30/30, because I generated so much work last April (and had fun doing it). I’m also working up some curriculum to teach both the kids about reading and writing poetry, at age-appropriate levels.

One of my first projects for NaPoWriMo is gonna be trying to finish translating that poem I wrote last week from English to Gaeilge. It’s been tricky because, though it’s a short poem, it has an odd structure that does not lend itself easily to Gaeilge. Also, my grasp on Gaeilge is rudimentary at best. But then, that’s why I’m doing this, to help me learn.

Next week, I’m hoping to finish getting the New Wave anthology ready for print.

…

Other than all that? Well, there have been more realizations and epiphanies.

I’ve been getting braver, again. Doing things even if I’m scared to; because I remembered that most of the best things in my life have come from moments of “Am I scared? Yeah, but fuck it, I’ll do it anyway.”

I’ve been reincorporating elements of my old life, my old personality. From things as simple as drinking lapsang souchong again, taking walks whenever I can, rereading old favorite books, rediscovering old favorite albums; to things more esoteric. For so long I’d been lamenting the days when I was a mystical romantic lovesick dork, wishing I could be that way again but thinking I was too old. But now I’m allowing myself to behave that way again. I’m romanticizing my daily life, singing as I walk down the street, talking with the crows, cavorting with the wind.

A lot of those things (the tea, the walks, the mystical romantic lovesick dorkiness) sort of rhyme with a very specific time in my life, namely 2006-2008, and it’s funny that I’ve been asked to do a reading at Linneman’s, which was a place I frequented in those years. I know, you can’t go home again—except, sometimes you can.

And I’m also glad that I’m managing to reintegrate the positive aspects of those days without the self-destructive ones (i.e., drinking to excess and hooking up with people I didn’t even really like very much).

Another thing I’m reincorporating into my life is the DIY? Because I Gotta attitude. It’s not that I’ve ever fully lost it, but I’ve been doing a lot of it lately: things like making that necklace for myself, writing the poem and making the collage-card for my dad, etc. I used to get down on myself because I’ve never had enough money to buy gifts for all my loved ones for every occasion, but now I’m like, wait, this is actually a good thing about me. Not the lack-of-money part, but… I might not have money to buy people gifts all the time, but I do things like make them art, write them poems, make them personalized zines, make them mix tapes or playlists, bake them bread or cookies, give them veggies from my garden, give them tarot readings, etc. That’s actually pretty fucking cool.

I’ve been re-redefining success re: my writing career. Once again reminding myself that as long as my words get out in the world and the people who need them find them, that’s the most important thing—doesn’t so much matter what route those words take to get there. Reminding myself that I can look for agents for certain projects, submit to the more established lit journals, enter big name contests, etc., but that I can also continue to publish my own zines and chapbooks, and send stuff out to indie mags and presses. I don’t have to choose! I can try it all!

Speaking of not having to choose—I’ve been re-embracing the fluid nature of both my gender/gender expression and my sexuality.

For a while I was reading too much of that baeddelism stuff, and even though I objectively know it’s bullshit, it kinda got to me. I started thinking to myself: “You’re not currently pursuing medical transition, you have long hair, and you still wear skirts and makeup sometimes. Those people are right—you’re just a penis-obsessed cis woman LARPing as nonbinary.” And then I was like, wait. First of all, though medical transition is an important part of transitioning for many trans people, it is not the only valid way to transition. Second of all, plenty of men, trans and cis, have long hair or wear skirts or makeup; why am I letting a handful of people who are basically TIRFs (trans-inclusive radical feminists) dictate how I present and what that means about my gender? My gender and sexuality have always been fluid, that’s just who and how I am; that’s why I have always preferred the term queer—because it states that I am not cishet, but doesn’t box me into some narrow definition of gender or sexuality that might change the next moment, anyway. So, once again: I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. And: You cannot misgender me in a way that matters.

Speaking of fluid sexuality—the way my desires are changing lately is fascinating. Some things that used to turn me on no longer do it for me; other things that I was never into are now super hot.

These past two weeks have made me think of that Aaron Cometbus quote, about the kind of days I’ve been having: Simple days but with little surprises and long walks and good luck.

And it’s spring, it’s spring! Still chilly, but it stays lighter later every night, and the birds are out squawking and singing at all hours, and of course I’m restless and horny, it’s spring!

Overall, I’ve been full of gratitude and joy. I have amazing friends, all over the world. I get so overwhelmed with love for my kids, and for P. Seriously, every day I look at P. and think how lucky I am to have him as my partner in life; as the person I get to raise kids with and have hot sex with and cook good food with and wake up to every morning. And every day, I get to read books and listen to music and make art and write.

Of course things aren’t perfect, with the kids or with P., and I’m tired of being broke, and there’s the anxiety and executive dysfunction, and there’s a lot of bad shit in the world. But I have plans to make my and my family’s future better. And I’m getting more involved with activism again—apparently, when I allow myself to do things that bring me joy, I have more spoons for helping other people! Shocking, I know.

And I cry a lot, and I get nostalgically sad and long for old faces and places I once knew, and I get restless and long for new faces and places and adventures. And my heart breaks every day, from the beauty of the world, and the pain. But if that’s the tax for being a poet, for being a mystical romantic lovesick dork; if that’s the tax for not being closed off to any part of life—then I will gladly, gladly pay it.

#ashtrayfloors #dear livejournal #haha #this post is so long #and it's actually SHORTER than initially planned #because #well for one i'd started writing about a few things that had happened over the past two weeks that were kinda bad/annoying #but then partway through just got bored of writing about them #so i took those paragraphs out #and for two #i wrote this several-paragraph long backstory #about my old friend j.c. who i had the dream about #like the history of our friendship/how i first knew him #and realized that it didn't really belong in a journal entry #but in fact should be expanded as a story for my zine eventually

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