#bottom shelf. I may have a problem)))

[spyglassrealms]

I know I joke about hurricanes, because I am a Floridian and that's what we do. But that's because they're Normal, and so all Floridians know the Hurricane Rules. We know how the song and dance goes. West Coasters don't know the Hurricane Rules. You've never needed to know the Hurricane Rules. You guys know the Earthquake Rules, because that's Normal. But because of climate change, Hillary and her cousins are probably going to be a more common occurrence for the southwest. So here are the Hurricane Rules, straight from the Floridian's keyboard.

1: Assume the forecast is going to be wrong, and reality is going to be worse. Get your water jugs and batteries, get your Hurricane Cake, stack the sandbags, board the windows, and put your electronics on a high shelf. And if the NOAA says "category 5" and "landfall" in the same sentence without a "will not" in there, you pack your bags and get the fuck out.

2: Do not fucking go outside. There's surprisingly little lightning in a hurricane, but that's not the problem. It's the wind. The wind will knock you off your feet, either outright or by flinging heavy debris at you. You will not get back up again.

3: If the wind doesn't get you, the water will. Even after the storm has passed, stay the hell away from moving water, both on foot and in a vehicle. When the the flooding has settled down, then you break out the flat bottoms and jet skis and kayaks. Don't fucking swim in it, okay? Don't. The southwest may not have alligators like we do, but all the same you do NOT want to know what's in there. (It's mostly sewage.)

Also, your soil isn't built for inundation, and you've got hills there. Mudslides are going to happen, so be careful of mountain driving in the week or so after the storm comes through.

[roguishcat]

Snippet Sunday

Thank you so much for tagging me @inkymoonbunny! Can't wait for the next chapter of 'Branded Blood'! 💖

I'm currently working on @the-lady-mienshao 's ask (Astarion finds one of fem! Reader’s books (romance about a human and vampire of course) and she’s terrified that he’ll think she’s with him to sate a vampire kink)

I'm very slow, but I do get things done!😊 (eventually), so this is going to be Part 2 of 'What books don't teach you' (18+ MNDI).

Shelves upon shelves of novels. The biggest and most impressive collection in all of Faerûn. You scoured Sharess' Caress, picked up copies during your travels, and traded with other enthusiasts. You collected the books with fervour others reserve for collecting priceless trinkets and hid these away from prying eyes in the basement of your house.

To say that Astarion was impressed would be an understatement.

"And how exactly are these arranged, my sweet? Knowing your penchant for keeping things in order, one might expect to find a system of sorts."

"Thematically, actually. Started out alphabetically, but then it got confusing once I got my hands on tomes in Elvish and other languages."

"Elvish, you say? I didn’t realise that you are a master of tongues."

"I'm not," you admitted readily, the innuendo going completely over your head. "But I love how beautiful they are. And I figured that wanting to read these might be motivation enough for me to learn."

Astarion hummed in appreciation and ran his fingers along the spines. The books were truly a work of art, fine leather and beautiful designs that winked playfully at you when you tilted your head even a little.

"Whilst this is very impressive, I don't understand why you were never tempted to try the real thing."

"Well," you cleared your throat and pretended that you were very busy going through the scrolls on the table, "maybe I was waiting for you. Waiting to be swept off my feet by a charming, dreamy elf."

"And I'm absolutely certain that I was worth the wait. But enough flowery words."

Astarion looked at you intently, making you fidget and drop a couple of scrolls. He didn't look away from your face. You being clumsy was not news to him. However, Astarion seemed to have great interest in your answer.

Although you confessed your feelings - not that it wasn't obvious to everyone who cared to look that you were completely in love with Astarion- actually talking about the said feelings was still difficult. But you didn't want to lie to him either. So, you chose to settle for something as close to the real reason as you were ready to tell him.

"I told you. I don't have that confidence that comes so easily to some. And I did try once, you know."

"Yes, with the man who was lacking in both skill and manners."

The look on Astarion's face became a touch softer. He put his cool hand on top yours, long digits strocking smooth, warm skin. The comforting gesture was sweet, his nearness welcome.

"Well, at the time I thought that I was the problem. And then I was lucky enough to have you teach me." You took a step towards him and tilted your head up. You very much wanted a kiss but did not know if now was the right time. In spite of you 'being well and truly taken', you still felt nervous about asking Astarion for affection.

Fortunately, he did not seem to notice you nervously chewing on your bottom lip as you tried to think of best way to put your wants into words.

"Oh? What's this?" Astarion moved past you and reached for a book. "Caught in the night?" He raised his eyebrows and then started reading the titles of all the books on that shelf. "Blood to remember? The Count's Courtesan? La petite mort? Darling, it seems that you've had a taste for creatures of the night before we met, hm?"

"Pardon?" You said dumbly.

"Well, my sweet. If I may be so bold, by my very rough estimation, you have at least thirty books with damsels of all shapes being kidnapped and devoured by vampires."

"Forty-two, actually."

"And that is why I feel it's safe to assume that you've got a type. Fangs? Crimson eyes? Eternal hunger that can only be sated in one way? And fortunately for yours truly, I just happen to fit that description."

No pressure tags💖 : @obsessedwhyyes, @rahuratna, @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @arzen9, @clazberryk, @khywren, @vixstarria, @hellethil, @nyx-knox, @pursuitseternal, @busy-baker, @deadly-diminuendo, @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @bloodinwine, @xxnashiraxx, @charmandabear, @anacdoce, @larvasmoon, @vividiana, @davenswitcher, @funniestbitchinfaerun, @verbenaa, @pinkberrytea, @dramatiquechipmunk, @nerdallwritey, @marlowethebard, @bardic-inspo, @forget-me-maybe, @whiskeyskin, @lanafofana, @fangbangerghoul, @rivereverie, @starlight-rogue, @bum-dragon, @alwaysmauria, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard, @dez78, @shandoratheexplorer, @ravenswritingroom

[swaps55]

I have never heard of an epithet before! What does it mean?

This is a great question! You have probably seen many of them, and just not heard them referred to as epithets.

An epithet is more or less a descriptive word or phrase that stands in the place of a name or a pronoun, such as, “the taller man,” or “the brown-haired woman.” In my experience, fanfic writers in particular tend to latch onto them, especially when trying to create variety in scenes with two characters who share the same pronouns.

I’ll put my thoughts on them under the cut, because I have Opinions on epithets, but I am not An Authority. I’m not your mom. I’m not here to tell you what to do or how to write, and I’m not here to ruin your fun, but we all have the hills we’ll die on and this one is mine. If you are a fan of epithets, just give this post an eyeroll or the finger and scroll on. If you want to know more about epithets and why I think writers can and should avoid them, read on!

Let me get this out of my system: I loathe epithets. Do whatever you want with your oxford comma, but take your epithets out back and shoot them.

Okay, now that’s out of the way, I’ll be a little more constructive about the purpose epithets serve and why I think they are so frequently used poorly.

In my experience, they’re often used as a tool to avoid pronoun confusion, but it’s an inelegant tool that can become a crutch. You have two characters of the same gender in a scene, you have already used their names in a sentence, but the pronoun antecedent is unclear unless you name the character again. You don’t want to do that because it feels repetitive, so you pick out a physical quality and use that instead. Problem solved! Except instead of solve the problem, you’ve potentially introduced new ones.

Nuance is important, and to talk tools we should be using the same toolbox, so for the sake of this argument I’m going to assume we’re talking about 3rd person limited POV, because that’s what I generally see, read, and write the most of.

Chances are very high that the descriptor you chose for your epithet derived from you the writer’s perception of the character being described and not the POV character. This is important, because if you are writing in 3rd person limited, the way you describe other people is how the POV character sees the person being described.  

Now tell me. Have you ever thought of a close friend, a lover, or someone whose name you know as, “the taller woman,” or “the dark-haired man?” Have you ever thought about YOURSELF in these terms? Probably not. I have never looked at my Real Life Romance Option and thought of him as “the brown-eyed man” or “the taller man.” I’ve also quite frankly never consciously thought of him as “my lover.” Is he all of those things? Yes. But from my POV, those are never descriptors I would use for him. Once you know a person’s name, they tend to become Their Name and not ‘Random Characteristic” in your mental picture of them.

So when you default to Random Characteristic, it’s usually the writer talking, not the character. And chances are high that the characteristic you choose to represent is not something that is important to the POV character or the scene in that moment. Therefore, is it significant enough to the reader that it clearly identifies the character, or does the reader now have to stop and think, ‘wait, which one is taller?’ So instead of eliminate confusion, you may have actually introduced more of it.

And even if it is an important detail, stating it as a fact is generally a lot less effective than making it part of the character work being done in the scene. For example:

“Can you help me reach this?” Jed asks the taller man. Leo stops chopping vegetables to oblige, and snags the wine glass the shorter man couldn’t reach off the shelf.

Vs.

Jed sighs as he makes another futile swipe with his fingers and barely grazes the bottom of the shelf. He looks over at Leo, blissfully chopping vegetables in a world where stepstools are for other people. “Can you help me reach this?” Leo sets the knife down and looms behind him, effortlessly snagging the wine glass and handing it to Jed with a grin.   

Hopefully, the second example feels more impactful than the first, because the height difference became part of the scene, and not just a descriptor cosplaying as a pronoun.

Epithets become even more distracting when they become part of a prose style rather than just a means to avoid pronoun confusion or name repetition. I see a lot of writers make the stylistic choice to have a POV character refer to themselves as an epithet right alongside the epithets being thrown around for other characters, and there are so many crammed into a paragraph or two I can’t figure out who is doing what.

At best, epithets are distracting. At their worst, they’re actively confusing when their purpose is to do the opposite.

“But Swaps, if I don’t use an epithet, how do I avoid pronoun confusion without wanting to throw myself out a window?”

This is a problem every writer contends with, whether you’re writing same gender smut, combat, or just have two people of the same gender doing things in a scene together. And unfortunately, this is one of those ways in which writing is hard. When you have some pronoun confusion in a sentence you can’t wriggle your way out of, the answer is probably to try a different sentence. Break the sentence up. Structure it differently. Finding the better sentence is part of becoming a better writer. 

If repetition is what you’re concerned about, know that just saying a character’s name and using their pronoun is okay. It’s like ‘said.’ ‘Said’ isn’t a trendy word that goes in and out of style. It’s a building block word that blends into the background. Can you get fancier than ‘said?’ Sure! But do it with purpose. Don’t be afraid to use a character’s name. It’s their name. It’s what you’re supposed to call them. Why are we fighting so hard to respect people’s names and pronouns if all we’re going to do is replace them with epithets? (Kidding. Mostly.) And if you’re using their name so much it’s interfering with readability…it’s probably time to revisit a few of those sentences and figure out what the better sentence is.

When can you use an epithet?

I joke that there are no exceptions to my There Are No Good Epithets stance, but there are. Sort of. Because rules are made to be broken, though I do believe you should understand why the rule exists before you break it, and you should break it with purpose.

Here’s the easy one.  

Epithets are useful when the POV character doesn’t know a character’s name. Now you have to use something else! And here’s the great thing about that: the epithet is now a vehicle for characterization. What about this stranger stands out enough to get the POV character’s attention? Do they notice a physical characteristic? Clothes? Attitude? What does the thing they notice say about the POV character and the character being observed?

For instance, my POV character is eavesdropping on a conversation between two people in a restaurant. You could grab the low hanging fruit and describe them as, “the brunet woman” and the “older man.” Or you could make your scene work harder. “The man with the punchable face,” or “the woman who makes eye rolling an art form.” Or how about, “the woman wearing fake pearls,” shorthanded to Fake Pearls Woman, and “the man with the name-brand suit that’s seen better days,” shorthanded to Shabby Suit. Now you’ve said something about the characters that place them in a more useful context than their hair color – you’ve said something about them that helps inform the scene, and how your POV character observes the world around them.    

Are there other instances where you can effectively use an epithet? Yes, if you are using them like this: with narrative purpose. And in those cases, is it really just an epithet anymore? It is in that yes, it is a descriptor taking the place of a name or pronoun, but it’s doing a lot more heavy lifting now. Maybe you have a character who chronically can’t remember or can’t be assed to remember people’s names. The epithet is now a means of characterization. Maybe you have a Jekyll and Hyde style character, in which a descriptor of those different personas becomes a means of setting a scene or crafting their relationship with the POV character. These descriptors are narrative vehicles being used with intention. “The other man,” is rarely a tool being used with any real intention. If there is an instance of it, I have never seen it.

Now, if reading this makes you second guess your own work, or to feel like you write wrong, or if the thought of going to painstaking lengths to rewire sentences you would typically use an epithet in gives you hives, there’s an easy solution: forget about this post.

Because fanfic is supposed to be fun. It’s your hobby. You are not getting paid for it. You don’t have to use a specific writing style, or meet anyone else’s expectations. That’s part of what makes fanfic such a beautiful thing. You can do whatever makes you happy. Not me, not anyone else. If you fucking love using epithets, use them. If you think I am made of bullshit, give this post the finger like I initially suggested and write five epithets just to spite me. No one will stop you, certainly not me. Though I will continue hating epithets, because you can’t stop me, either. XD

[inkdemonapologist]

Way back before we got the BatDR trailer I had this wild theory -- basically, that the reason they couldn't show any concept art/trailers/etc was that BatDR was gonna pull a wizard of oz and suddenly be in colour partway through. So then that's why we were getting teasers like "look, its a model of A SHELF," because all the actual interesting stuff would've obviously been in colour and spoiled the surprise.

Part of the reason I thought this would work really well was that I assumed Nathan's acquisition of the Bendy IP and "revival" of the franchise in-world would be thematically relevant, rather than just... an excuse to have a second game. Like, Bendy is in new hands now, the cartoons are essentially being rebooted, and there's a LOT of thematic potential in that concept of Old vs New or the good and bad aspects of Change, and the idea that reviving Bendy in the real world would impact the ink realm was a fascinating concept to me. Now that we know the main thrust of the story........... actually I still think this could've worked with it? The sepia-toned Memory of Joey's Regret and the evil of the Ink Demon lingers over the studio and corrupts this new colourful world, while Wilson, the Man Who Killed The Ink Demon, is the one trying to forcibly extinguish these old stains and make the machine useful again.

Geez, you could tie Wilson's motivation in pretty directly actually if you dropped the ENTIRE thing where he says he's trying to BETTER THE WORLD THRU THE POWER OF THE MACHINE or whatever and instead just make him an actual janitor whose dad just gave him this bottom-tier job at his company. Give Nathan one audiolog about how his son is neglectful at work and its hard to find a job he can actually do or some such, and then you have Wilson as someone desperate to prove he deserves more. He sees his father's idolisation of Joey is naive, is able to realise the memory of Joey may be literally corrupting the business through the machine, and wants to eradicate that -- including Audrey, the most subtle infiltration of Joey Drew's influence. He's essentially the force of the New applied with no respect for the Old -- and then you could still give Wilson ties to that psychedelic neon ink from the Shipahoy battle; in fact, you could probably lean into it more: colour taken to the extreme, colour taken too far, something just as destructive as Joey's monochrome obsession.

(I've always loved the idea that Wilson isn't actually an artist and just stole the Shipahoy design while janitoring, which works great with the Shipahoy Monstrosity at the end being part crab because he couldn't actually create an isolated model to feed the machine... in this current era of The Threat Of AI Generation, the idea of wilson introducing a lot of mechanical innovation and incompetently dumping artwork into the machine to make new, too-colourful horrors in the interest of impressing his father while destroying all the old things these cartoons were first built on feels apropos lmao. obviously AI wasn't a huge talking point while BatDR was in production, but "ppl who assume more technology automatically makes art better while inadvertently destroying its heart" is extremely not new)

So the ink realm could be partially in colour (a world changed by the new cartoons), partially sepia (the infected memories of the old studio), and partially glowy neon (wilson's overzealous renovation). It'd be neat if Audrey became a bit of both -- partially colour, partially sepia -- and represented the new cartoons' ties to the old. Learning about the horrors that befell her father's old studio and the Gent technology that Wilson is now using are both relevant -- Joey's exploitation of actual artists who care was bad, and so is Wilson's complete disregard for the heart of these artists' work. The memory of Joey can't fix it because he is part of the problem -- he and the demon are the source of the monochrome infection -- so you have to be the one to bring heartfelt colour into this world, a power none of the others have; find a way to heal those trapped by old wrongs and restart the cycle in a better direction. Then, when Audrey says she wants to create a kinder cycle at the end, we have an idea of what that means and that she can do it b/c there's simple symbolism associated with it -- the new, colourful world that's neither corrupted by festering wrongs nor torn apart by Wilson's machines.

anyway. thats my half-baked idea. i still think its a shame that there WAS colour in there for like 2 seconds and they did NOTHING WITH IT!!!!

[windvexer]

Got any super duper cleansing magical tips?

hell yeah I do brother (nongendered)!

this is just kinda how I do things and people definitely have different opinions but here we go, in no particular order:

If at all possible, physical cleaning is going to go a lonnnnng way towards magical cleansing. Even a little cleaning helps. If we're discussing cleansing something big (like, an entire person, a room, or an entire home), there may also be "key points" which deliver the most cleansing returns if physically cleaned. For example, a human person may find that their spiritual cleansing is very much aided by washing of hands, feet, and face - even if they can't fit in a whole body scrub.

Likewise, certain areas within a room may hold more influence than expected. A certain shelf, bookcase, or corner may alleviate the room of much badness if they alone are tidied and dusted.

In the home overall, look for major thoroughfare areas (perhaps near the front door or kitchen) which have little corners that have gone too far untidied, perhaps sticky with dust.

When it comes to objects, even a little wash, rinse under soapy water, wiping down with a damp cloth, and so forth, can go a long way towards magical cleansing. Often I do not magically "cleanse" at all, as a normal clean suffices for me in most situations.

I don't find physical cleaning to be totally necessary for magical cleansing, but it can be very helpful both as a first step, and to tackle stubborn cleansing problems.

Speaking of physical cleaning, home cleaning recipes also tend to work well for magical cleansing. A little vinegar is a very strong cleansing agent. Steep some lemon and rosemary in that vinegar for a few weeks, and forget about it - that's both a general household cleaner, and it'll cleanse the shit out of your magic stuff, too.

Ammonia is regarded to be an immensely powerful magical cleanser - one that must be heavily diluted, and tends to strip not only negative influences, but positive ones too.

Early on in my education, I was advised that a bit of bleach can go a long way towards destroying magical bonds. So, don't discount the household chemical cabinet.

For the own self, applying bleach or ammonia directly to the skin simply doesn't do - but a very gentle shower scrub containing a bit of salt, plus various kitchen herbs (dealer's choice - try sage and rosemary to start with) goes a long way. Wash from top of head to bottom of feet, and don't forget the back of the neck.

Other mundane things, like filling a space with fresh air or good vibes, are useful in cleansing in general, but may not suffice in heavy-duty situations.

A very fine cleansing charm is created with saltwater, this being from Paul Huson's rhyme in Mastering Witchcraft:

Water and Earth Where you are cast Let no spell, nor ill intention last Not in complete accord with me As my word, so shall it be

My personal lazy modification for the use of incense:

Fire and Air Where you flare Let no spell, nor ill intention last Not in complete accord with me As my word, so shall it be

Speak this over a little bit of salt water (after mixing) or incense (after lighting) and then sprinkle/wave it all about the thing to be cleansed. To be done when physically cleaning did not suffice, or when physical cleaning is not possible, or when feeling a bit fancy, or when preferring to just do magic.

In cases of emergency, or when it's desired to strip all magic and influence away from a thing, put it inside a plastic bag and bury it completely in salt. Seal this entire thing up (ziplocks are under the purview of true magicians) and then cover it up in a black cloth (or inside-out black graphic t-shirt, or oatmeal gray pillowcase, or whatever's on hand - doesn't matter really) in the back of the closet for 3 days and 3 nights, or until you feel like dealing with it.

When retrieved, the object should have no magical influence on it whatsoever.

In cases of confusing or unsatisfying results, consider if "cleansing" is really the action you should take. For example, if a tool is acting up and producing bad results, it might not be because it's "dirty." It could be that the tool needs to be fed. It could be interference from an ancestor looking for attention. It could be because your technique needs an adjustment.

Cleansing is a fine first step, and it's probably not going to hurt anything, but it's kind of like the "have you tried turning it off and on again" of magic. A lot of the times it fixes a lot of problems, but it's not going to fix actual issues that require a mechanic. (The good news is, the mechanic is you, so you're going to save a lot on repair fees)

In advanced cases, consider why things cleanse the way they do, and employ this to your advantage. Rosemary and frankincense may be considered to be "cleansing" because they "raise the vibes" and create an atmosphere incompatible with a lot of heavy bullshit. But, neither of these Allies are really attack dogs (at least, not in my experience).

Clove and Jalapeno are "cleansing" in that they will take the offending energy out behind the woodshed and teach it a lesson, and tell it not to come back to town or else. But, in my experience, neither of these allies really elevate a space with the heavenly touch of more celestial Allies.

So while I would say the average "cleansing formula" (whether it be a vinegar, an incense, and so forth) works in most situations, from time to time a more nuanced approach is helpful. Like a stubborn little stain, difficult-to-cleanse energies aren't necessarily powerful or bad - they're just nonreactive with whatever formula you're trying to use.

[preciousmomentsfigurine]

hey, is anyone still here? looks like the last time i was on here was two years ago and change. things are really different now, but i guess then again it would be weird if they were the same

i was thinking of returning to this dead site because for a good fifteen years it was a big part of my life and provided me with a unique way to express my thoughts and ideas and feelings and opinions and musings to an audience of people who can hear me but not truly know me outside of my words that i share on this platform. and on the same coin i enjoy following the lives of people i know nothing about and watching their stories and selves develop and evolve from a complete distance in every sense

i'm five months sober now

i have a hard time pinpointing when exactly i became an alcoholic, but i guess i could say i dealt with it in some degree for about eight years, and progressively, as it always goes

i graduated with my masters last may (2023) in critical media studies where i spent my time writing and researching feminist cultural social and media theory. i produced a great deal of work i was and am very proud of including a thesis that is honestly my life and heart's work but unfortunately over the course of those two years my drinking escalated rapidly and by the end i was manically and drunkenly banging out papers and essays in the dead of night sleepless and naively inspired

somehow i got a 4.0 though despite that. everyone in my life always says i played off my drinking well anyway. beats me how or why

once i graduated i practically immediately began drinking all day every day while somewhat-hardly-kind-of-not-really looking for work which was fruitless and i quickly learned my degree i worked so hard for meant practically nothing to employers who were merely looking for experience i dont have outside of my teaching background in grad school

for almost exactly a year i was drunk 100% of the time i was awake

same old story, at some point i switched to bottom shelf pints of vodka, which constituted my breakfast lunch and dinner. sat on my couch in my filthy apartment occupying my filthy poisoned failing body either watching tv or causing problems somehow

this was when i was twenty-nine. for a while now i had known in my heart of hearts i wasnt someone who would ever be able to handle my liquor or drink like a normal person, whatever that means, and that too much was never enough, and that it was literally impossible to function so long as booze was a part of my life. any attempts to "cut back" or "take breaks", i knew, would end the same way, which was waking up to shots of room temperature vodka and being a prisoner to the worst shame a person can feel

i figured once i turned thirty, which was this march, that would probably be about the time i got sick of my own shit and said goodbye to the bottle. which i undeniably felt a kind of affection toward as if it were a lover. still do in a sense and thats why ill never flirt with it again

my sobriety date is april 16th 2024. my last drink was a shot of vodka at 8:30 am on the 15th after creating massive gashes in my upper arm the previous evening during a blackout fight with my boyfriend

im still unemployed and extremely mentally ill and my bipolar has gotten progressively worse over the past couple of years and will likely continue to according to what the science says and all of that. after my last manic episode last month i adjusted my meds (again) and for now they seem to be working but i don't hold my breath really

i do AA and i like it a lot, i do it my own way, i have a sponsor who approaches the program liberally and progressively and shares many of my comorbidities and has allowed me the freedom to define my relationship to the program and god in a way that works for me and i have made incredible strides through this. i have become a far far far better person.

being sober is easy and i never want to drink. not once not ever

ive never worked so hard on myself in my life because i got as close to death as i ever had and ive been very close at many points in my life for many years. when i was drinking i knew i wouldnt make it to see 35 if i continued as i was

therapy, AA, meds, a whole fucking lot of discipline

ive been with my boyfriend for two years and wed like to get married. thats nothing that will happen anytime soon but it is nice to think about. he has been by my side through unimaginable things that any sane person would not have stuck around for. he is my heart and my soul

im also trying to start applying for jobs again but im genuinely on the fence if i am capable of holding a full time job due to my severe mental illness. im exploring a bunch of options right now as far as that whole thing goes. the future is very uncertain as always

let me know if you see this or remember me or anything.

bye for now

[shmowder]

More Ex-husband Daniil. The day you hand in the divorce papers. how much angst? Yes.

-

The food has long gone cold by now, wax pooling at the bottom of the candles, halfway melted. Their fire flickers against the shadows of the dark room, the sun having bid its goodbyes hours ago.

How unnervingly still the world stood at the clock of midnight.

You blink the sleepiness away, an empty stare landing on the equally empty wine glasses set aside. Meeting your own reflection, distorted against their curved surface.

He said he'd come home early today.

Daniil gave his word, a promise whispered in the aftermath of the brief kiss atop your cheek as you stood by the front door, watching him put on his coat before heading out to work this very same morning.

His angelic eyes, the same ones you fell in love with years ago. A delicate smile painted on his lips, ones he couldn't keep off of you in between lectures during the long gone university days.

And like a fool you fell for it.

Again.

Fell for the passion in his voice as he spoke about his dreams, his work in Thanatica. His mission a crusade against death itself. All death.

The wooden chair creeks as you adjust your semi-numb legs. You don't dare look at the clock. You don't want to know how many hours have already passed with you sitting here, waiting for him.

Always waiting, staying in place, making yourself smaller to make space for him, pushing your dreams and obligations aside so he may overindulge in his own. Accommodating his self-made circumstances, bending to the whims of the prodigy of your generation.

There once was a day when he spoke about you just as passionately, a day when you still earned the right to his now stolen heart.

That day–like many others–was put on the shelf, collecting dust, reduced to a treasured memory, a security blanket you drape over yourself after every fight. Telling yourself he wasn't always this negligible, he wasn't always this harsh. He's just been cursed with a brilliant mind, you can't possibly understand, so make up a million excuses to justify his change of heart.

He vowed, till death do us apart.

The clicking sound of a key turning through the lock stands out amidst the quiet room. The creeking of the door pushed open follows.

He looks beyond exhausted, like he just escaped from the afterlife.

Pushing his own body to the brink of collapse and work through the long hours of the night. Always the last one to depart and first one to arrive.

Pushing aside your concerns about his health and mind. Saying how he'd know better, he's the doctor after all. Qui non proficit, deficit. His efforts are necessary.

Pushing the last thread of the patient you have until it snaps. Barely glancing your way with a raised eyebrow as the first words of his mouth are, "You should've gone to bed."

Swallowing down the acid in your throat, you give him the benefits of the doubt. Asking what took him so damn long to walk home?

"I had to attend to something important in the labs; a new sample is showing great potential." He hangs his coat, loosens his cravat, and doesn't add anything more.

A growing crack spreads through the walls of your mind. The dam finally breaks down.

An argument giving way into a yelling match, accusations are thrown around, vulnerabilities are targeted under the pretence of self-defence.

His brutal mind, your bruised heart.

It's nothing out of the usual, really. Those fights are becoming the norm as of late. Ones which and up with both of frustrated even more, storming away and slamming the door.

Dankovsky would think he memorised this ugly song and dance. Just like always, your anger would eventually fizzle out, and just like always, his pride would deflate down with time.

It's been done many times. The two of you break out into an argument, hours, days, or even weeks pass with total silence except for the passive-aggressive remarks until the original problem dulls and fades out. Politely swept under the rug so business as usual may resume.

After you're done with that tantrum, maybe the two of you can finally have dinner together like a civilised couple before the untouched food on the table gets more stale than it already is. Then he'll gladly tell you about his day, his annoying coworker who forgot to bring their pen and ended up borrowing his, finally ending his speech by asking about yours.

Dinner quietly passing with time.

As the soft mattress sinks below your weight, he'll close the book in his hand and take off his reading glasses to set them aside.

Looking at your turned back, a sigh leaves him, a semi-apology following close by. Empty promises of doing better easily slip past his lips, and maybe at that moment he spoke them with complete sincerity, maybe he really meant them.

You begrudgingly turn around, and he pulls you into his arms, lets you bury your face into the nook between his neck and shoulder.

And for a moment everything is fine.

Except maybe, not this time.

You never make it past the argument. He never makes it into your shared bed tonight.

No, Instead you're still sitting at that dinner table with him opposite of you. Explaining the documents in your hand, your signature already at the bottom of the divorce papers.

You're drinking in his expression of shock. Barely speaking a word as you talk, eyes wide looking at you in disbelief.

He doesn't put up a fight, he doesn't process his emotions fast enough to, he doesn't fully register the situation to reply back.

You almost feel bad, seeing him taking it lying down.

It didn't feel like winning to you, especially since he wasn't even playing, merely staring at the chessboard with an absent mind.

Until denial comes crashing down.

"Is this a tasteless joke? You can't possibly..."

He prays. He doesn't believe in god, but he prays deep down for it to be an awful dig at him. Please heavens above let it be one of your bluffing insults that was taken too far.

It's not.

He's lost in his own mind, what changed? You always came back so why not this time around?

You always waited for him.

The gold metal band glistens under the candlelight. You slowly slip the ring off. Dropping it into the table's tray, it clinks as it slots against its identical pair, the ring he forgot to put on this morning, the sound echos in the room.

You get up to leave, and he looks ready to drop to his knees. Painfull regret painted across his features.

For a brief moment, you're reminded of a younger Daniil. One who wore a similar anxious expression while studying for the finals, books scattered around, papers covering the floor as the two of you laid atop his dorm room's bed. You remember holding his hand, promising that everything will be fine.

You recall a sweet kiss, one he planted like a seed of hope as he brought your hand up to his lips.

Staring at the shadow of a man you once knew in front of you, a man of many talents and knowledge, a man lost for words, beaten, broken down.

Fists clenching against his coat, lips dry, eyes staring at you, waiting for your next move, begging for a reveal that confirms this is all a facade. For you to turn the lights back on, sit by his side, share dinner and forgive his sins for the night.

You don't wait for him to reply. Swiftly leaving the papers in front of him, you head towards the door.

The locks clicks in place behind you, the night air fresh in your lungs. Not a single star in sight amidst this cloudy night.

[timetraveltasting]

MERSU (MESOPOTAMIAN COOKIES, 1800 BC)

It's been a while since I've made an ancient Mesopotamian recipe, so I thought I would try to make this Tasting History version of Mersu, which is often called history's oldest known dessert. This version of Mersu is, in fact, only one interpretation of what Mersu could be. Because the clay tablet (from about 1800 BC) found in the ancient ruined Mesoptamian city of Mari (in modern-day Syria) did not share a full recipe, but just a short shopping list for making Mersu for the king, we don't know the exact methods for making this or how many extra ingredients were added on top of the dates and pistachios mentioned. In many other online recipes for Mersu, cooks have made versions of Mersu with only dates and pistachios rolled into balls to make sweets. Max is of the opinion, however (and I, too), that for such a shopping list, there would surely be other ingredients involved. Other sources from the time describe the king as having 8 mersu chefs, so it does sound like they might be more complex to make than previously thought. There are also inscriptions from the time implying there may be flour and liquid involved in making Mersu, and hence, this interpretation of making Mersu is more complex, but still uses basic ingredients available at the time. I was very curious to make these, wondering if they would come out sweet, plain, chewy, or crunchy. What was served to the Mesopotamian kings? Let's find out! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I decided to halve the recipe for this one, since I am not the biggest fan of dates, and I was also worried these Mersu would come out a little plain due to the basic ingredients. I was planning to bring these to a picnic with friends, if they tasted nice enough. Instead of emmer flour, I used all-purpose flour, and I did opt to use honey in the dough. Since I couldn't find un-shelled, un-roasted, un-salted pistachios, I just used shelled, roasted, salted pistachios - a bit more work, but hopefully it wouldn't change the flavour too much.

To start off, I measured out the ingredients for the dough. I added the flour to a large bowl and whisked in the ground coriander seed. The ghee I had was on the top shelf of the fridge, and as a result was very solid, perhaps approaching frozen! Due to this, when I added it to the flour, it took quite a long time to work in with my hands. Max says the dough should take about five minutes to 'come together' if using emmer flour or less than that if using bread flour. Mine, unfortunately, never quite came together. It stuck more together at some points, but there was always some soft flour at the bottom that just would not integrate. After eight minutes or so, I decided to add in the honey to see if that would help everything stick together. It did at first, but then crumbles began falling off, and it was clear there was still not enough liquid in the mixture. So, I added some water little by little, and ended up using much more than Max recommends. Regardless, adding the water really did fix the problem, and the dough was super cooperative going forward! Forming the dough into a ball, I left it in the large bowl and covered it with some cling wrap to sit for an hour. I was on a bit of a time crunch, so unfortunately, I couldn't let it sit for longer.

I had intended to use the hour the dough was sitting to quickly prepare the filling and then relax for a bit, but the filling actually took me longer to make than I expected, and by the time I had finished making it, I only had about ten minutes to relax before assembling the Mersu! I began by de-shelling the pistachios and crushing them with a mortar and pestle. Next, I de-pitted and chopped the dates into small pieces, by which I hoped it would make it easier to crush and turn them into a paste. In a medium-sized mixing bowl, I crushed the dates with my pestle and added the pistachios, continuing to use the pestle to mix them into the date paste. This part was easier than expected, and the mixture became fairly uniform fairly quickly. I pre-heated the oven, then got to work forming the filling of the Mersu. I divided the filling mixture into nine equal pieces, then rolled each one into a ball and pressed lightly to turn them into thick discs. With ten minutes to spare before it was time to assemble the Mersu, I did the dishes and chilled out for my few precious minutes of rest. Next, I removed the dough ball from it's cling wrap shelter and divided it into 9 equal parts, rolling them with my hands into balls. At the start, I flattened the dough ball with my hand alone, and couldn't get it very thin. So, I tried rolling them out with a rolling pin, and that worked much better. For each Mersu, I rolled out the dough ball, placed the filling disc inside, then gently wrapped the dough over the disc until well covered, removing any excess dough to make sure my Mersu wouldn't have thick dough where it had overlapped. I barely had any pistachios left, so I just pressed one into the top of each Mersu. I wish I had had more so I could create a cute design! I placed all of the Mersu on one baking sheet with some space between them and baked for 15 minutes. I checked them at this point, poking them with my finger to find that the dough was not cooked through yet, so I decided to leave them in for another three minutes. When I checked them again, they were finally hardened a bit, but they were not yet browning, so I left them in another couple minutes. Then, they were ready! So overall, about 20 minutes in the oven. I let them cool for 20 minutes, then placed them on a plate. They looked quite nice, I thought: they had browned well, the dough cooked in place and looked, for the most part, uniform, and the pistachios on top looked pretty cute. Before packing them up into a container to bring to the picnic, I tried a fresh one - for quality control, of course!

My experience tasting it:

Biting into the Mersu, I was immediately impressed by the texture. I've made many a dough from various time periods, and usually the texture of the baked crust is quite poor, crumbly, and tasteless, especially for the older recipes. In contrast, the Mersu dough had baked into a lovely, shortbread-like texture with some moreish depth from the coriander seed, and it had a very light sweetness to it, undoubtedly from the honey. The real star, however, was the filling! The dates lended a stronger sweetness and an ooey-gooey texture that was given complexity by the crumbly bits of pistachio inside. I figured I may have made a mistake by using roasted, salted pistachios instead of plain ones, but upon tasting, it was very clear it was a good idea. A sweet and salty dessert is absolutely stellar! The Mersu only had a hint of salt, and were sweet on the whole: a good ratio, I think. Overall, I would describe these Mersu to the modern palate as an ancient Fig Newton, except with more Middle Eastern flavours. I brought the Mersu to a picnic with friends, and they were gone within the first ten minutes - I regretted not making the full batch for this recipe! While these are very tasty and did not require too many ingredients, I would only hesitate to make them again due to the work and time it takes to carefully wrap each disc of filling with the dough. While it didn't take too long for me to wrap nine of them, a half-batch of this recipe, I can see how this could be pain-staking and tiring to do an entire batch or a double batch. While no one is quite sure how Mersu actually looked and tasted for lack of evidence, if they were anything like the ones in this interpretation of the recipe, I can see why the Mesopotamian kings needed so many chefs making them. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Mersu (Mesopotamian Cookies) original recipe (1800 BC)

Sourced from the list of ingredients from the a clay tablet cuneiform receipt from Mari, Mesopotamia (1800 BC) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

1 gur of dates And 10 sila of pistachios For making mersu Meal of the king

Modern Recipe

Based on the list of ingredients from the a clay tablet cuneiform receipt from Mari, Mesopotamia (1800 BC) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Dough

1 1/2 tsp ground coriander seed

2 1/2 cups (300 g) emmer flour, or bread flour

2/3 cup (150 g) ghee or clarified butter that’s been allowed to solidify

1/2 cup (170 g) date syrup or honey, optional

Filling

1/2 cup (75 g) shelled pistachios

1 cup (150 g) pitted dates

Decoration

Whole pistachios, optional

Method:

For the dough: In a large bowl, whisk the ground coriander seed and flour together until combined.

Add the ghee and and mix until it comes together to form a dough. I used my hands for this. With emmer flour, it took about 5 minutes for it to come together. If you use bread flour, this process will probably be easier.

Mix in the date syrup or honey if you’re using it. If the dough isn’t coming together, you can mix in cold water a teaspoon or so at a time until it does. Cover and set the dough aside to rest while you make the filing.

For the filling: Crush the pistachios in a mortar or a food processor. You want there to be mostly coarse pieces of broken pistachio, there’s no need to grind it down into a powder.

Mash the dates in a mortar or grind them up in a food processor until you get a paste.

Combine the crushed pistachios and date paste in a bowl and mash them together until the mixture is fairly uniform.

To assemble: Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C).

Divide the filling into 18 pieces and roll them into balls or form them into patties.

Divide the rested dough into 18 pieces. Flatten the pieces out into rough circles. It might be a little crumbly, but that’s okay. Place a piece of the filling into the center of each round and wrap the dough around it. You may need to add a bit of dough in patches to cover the filling completely. Try to get the dough as thin as possible while still covering the filling; it will be more pleasant to eat this way.

Flatten the formed mersu into hockey puck-like rounds. Place the mersu about 2 inches (5 cm) apart on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. If you’d like, you can decorate them by gently pressing a few whole pistachios into the tops.

Bake for 15 to 18 minutes, or until they’re lightly browned on top.

Let them cool completely before serving them forth.

[come-on-shitty-boys]

// Kuroo Tetsurou: Deforestation Enthusiast. inked 04. //

prev << 04 >> next

*The nature of this series may be not be appropriate for all readers. Content warnings include: vulgarity, heavy swearing, and implications of adult relations.  Due to these themes, this series may not be suitable for readers under the age of 16.  Reader discretion is advised.*

Afternoons were Kuroo’s favorite part of the work day.  With the day’s routine settled into place, it gave him the perfect opportunity to zone out. Just him, the hum of the machine, and whatever the hell his client was droning on about now. One final wipe and- 

“Alright. You’re all done,” Kuroo smiled, wheeling his stool away from his client. “Go check it out and let me-”

“Hey, Kuroo? I finished your list.”

Heads snapped towards the swinging door separating Kuroo’s space from the rest of the shop. Fuck… He had forgotten about you. You had walked in the shop that morning and Kuroo hadn’t even bothered to greet you. He had left a piece of paper, outlining all of the chores he needed you to do for the day on the front counter with Akaashi. ‘DO NOT BOTHER ME’ had been written across the bottom of the page, underlined three times just to get it through your head.

It obviously didn’t get through your head.

“Was there a question in there?” Kuroo drawled, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees in the pure picture of annoyance. You begin to open your mouth to retort but he puts his hand up to stop you. “What part of ‘Leave me alone’ did you not comprehend?” He shakes his head, black hair falling into his eyes as he turns back to his client, a smile back on his face.

“Sorry about that! My new apprentice still needs some house training. So, what do you think?”

“It’s as perfect as always, Kuroo. Thank you,” his client smiles, sitting back in the chair.

“Perfect! I’m going to get a couple shots of it for my portfolio and then we can get you finished up, cool?” The client nods, settling back as Kuroo finishes up the final steps, repeating the care instructions that he’s prattled off so many times that it’s become as natural as brushing his teeth. “But you already know all of that shit, so just keep doing what you’ve always done. You have my number, so if it gives you any problems, just shoot me a text or come on in. I’m going to get cleaned up back here, so Akaashi can take your payment and you’re set.”

The thick silence was only interrupted by the quiet spritzing of the cleaning bottle as Kuroo wiped down the chair. He crumpled up the rag, tossing it in the trash as he stripped off his gloves, yellow eyes turning to meet yours. “What did I tell you, kid? If you’re going to work with me, you gotta learn to move those legs. Quit standing there and help me get this cleared out so I can set up for my next appointment.”

You’re barely at his side when he’s already handing you his ink cups. “Dump that ink out and sterilize them. They go back over in that cabinet when you’re done.”

“Are you ever going to teach me how to tattoo or am I just going to be your housekeeper until I’m done with your shit?” 

“Are you ever going to clean those like I asked or are you just going to keep running your mouth until I kick you out of my shop?” Kuroo smiles up at you with a look that’s more sinister than kind, watching as you roll your eyes before traipsing off towards the sink in the corner to clean the ink.  “You have a good eye for composition and you obviously understand color theory, but your technical drawing skills are shit.”

You pause in your task to look over at him. “You know, that was almost a compliment.”

Kuroo stands from his stool, long legs carrying him across his work area to where you stand. The little space by the sink is cramped, his body pressing up against yours as he mutters a quiet, “Excuse me,” replacing bottles of ink on the shelf. “It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. It was just a fact. I’m not teaching you how to tattoo until you can draw.”

“But I can draw. Isn’t that why you took me on?”

He barks a laugh at you. “If you think that being able to draw is all this job fucking takes, then you might as well leave now, kid. You can make sick art, but believe me when I tell you that you can’t draw. You’re covering sloppy linework and bad anatomy with good color saturation and dynamic poses. I’m not letting you anywhere near a tattoo machine until you fix that shit.”

And just like that, he’s pushing back past you, leaving you to trail after him like a lost puppy, breaking into a near jog just to catch up with him. “So that’s it? I’m just not going to get to tattoo?”

Those black boots halt and you can’t stop before you awkwardly bump into him. “What was rule number four, kid?”  He watches your face as you wrack your brain, scoffing at your silence. “Listen, kid. I will teach you how to tattoo when you can show me that you have the fundamentals down. But until then, welcome to the reality of apprenticeship. It’s not all fun and getting to make art all the time. You can’t expect someone to let you permanently alter their body if your lines are shaky.”

“My lines aren’t-”

“Don’t argue with me, kid. You’re the one who came to me. You’re the one who came in here and annoyed me into taking you on. I don’t have to do this, you know. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re here or if you find some other artist to take you on. So if you don’t like how I’m doing things, by all means, get out of my shop,” Kuroo sneered, towering over you. He didn’t miss the way you instinctively ducked away from his looming form, looking up at him with something that might be read as timidness.  “Akaashi just got some new jewelry in. Go help him with the display case.”

And without another word, he stalks away from you, saying nothing as he slides into the chair at his desk and opens his sketchbook to a new page.

“He’s always that much of an asshole,” Akaashi’s voice comes from behind you. “Come on. Up front.”

The desk clerk slides a stool over for you to sit on and you didn’t realize just how much your feet were killing you until you were able to sink down, doing your best not to immediately lay down against the display counter to relish in the much-needed break. This was nowhere near what you had anticipated your apprenticeship would be… Sure, you knew that it wasn’t going to be all rainbows and butterflies, but this kind of menial labor all day? You didn’t realize that becoming an apprentice meant also becoming the shop housemaid.  Fuck, maybe you should’ve just listened when he told you to go. In the first week, you hadn’t even so much as touched a pen, let alone gotten an opportunity to show off your skillset. You had been stuck cleaning ink stains from the tile floor, polishing every damn piece of jewelry until it shined brighter than the fucking sun, sent on meaningless errands that did nothing to help you learn about tattooing. 

And now look at you, sorting individually bagged pieces of jewelry to be ready to sell. At this rate, you were closer to becoming a piercer than a damn tattoo artist.

Akaashi clears his throat, securing a golden hoop to a fake ear to display the latest jewelry selections. “I’m sorry, you know. About him.”

You just shake your head, trying to focus on your task. “It’s fine. I was warned… I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I mean, I had heard that he could be a little rough around the edges, but I didn’t expect him to be that much of an asshole. And don’t get me wrong, I can put up with a lot, but this isn’t the fun playful shit talk that I’m used to.”

“I know. This is all new to him too, not that that’s an excuse for how he’s treating you, but just give him some time. Kuroo has never been the warmest guy around. He’s just playing a part right now, trying to be the big bad mentor that he thinks he should be,” Akaashi says, turning his finished curation towards you. “What do you think?”

Stunning. That’s all there was to say about it. The soft whites of the opal stones that he had used to create a small constellation in the flat of the ear contrasted beautifully with that gold hoop he had placed through the conch. Triple lobe and an anti-tragus to bring the star motif back to the bottom with some added dangling elements to pull the eye to all of the points of his masterpiece.

“Are you a piercer?”

Akaashi huffed a quiet laugh at your question. “No. Needles aren’t really my thing.”

“Akaashi, I think you need to find a new place to work.”

He grinned at you, eyes crinkling ever so slightly beneath his glasses. “Believe me, I know. But, in all seriousness,” he starts, placing his curation into the display case alongside the others, “I spend a lot of time researching jewelry and what stones go with what metals, what’s ‘in’ when it comes to styles and what no one is buying anymore. They try to stay up with what’s popular so they can learn what they need to in order to best advise their clients. Being able to take care of this one small thing takes some of the weight off their shoulders.  That’s all I’m really here for - just to help out where I can.”

You’re about to respond, to commend him, but the printer begins whirring, spitting out page after page after page. It’s not long after that the sound of Kuroo’s chair being rolled away from his desk and the steady beat of his footsteps enter your ears. 

Akaashi scowls as the printer continues to spill out sheets of paper, burning through the ream of paper. “What? You printing out a damn manuscript or something? What is all this?” He asks.

Kuroo says nothing, just taking the already unnecessarily large stack of paper and sliding open a filing cabinet. He thumps a binder down in front of you followed only by that freshly printed stack of pages. “Hole punch… Where the hell did I put the hole punch,” he grumbles to himself, pushing his fingers through his hair, yanking open drawers, bending down to look under desks, standing on his toes as if he needed to be any taller to see on top of the shelves.

“You going to tell me why you just became the leading cause of deforestation or are you just going to keep looking around like a meerkat?” You retort, thumbing through the stack. “Jesus, what is this shit?!”

“You’re homework for the next few months,” he mutters, finally rifling through the right drawer to pull out the 3-hole punch that he’d been searching for. “I spent the past few nights coming up with a lesson plan that we’re going to follow to get your technique up to where it needs to be.”

“Lines? Basic shapes? Kuroo, this shit is insulting. I know how to make a fucking circle!”

Kuroo simply cocks his head at you before grabbing a pen and a sticky note, holding them out to you. “Okay, then show me. Show me that you can make a circle in a single pass.”

Wordlessly, you take them from him. You can feel your hand shaking. Stupid fucking-

“Breath.”

You look up at Kuroo, his yellow eyes unusually soft as he watches you. Fixing your grip on the pen, you quickly draw your circle. 

“Fuck.”

It’s lopsided. More egg-shaped than circular. Kuroo takes the pen from you, flipping over the sticky note and you’re just left to watch as he slowly drags the pen across the yellow paper. His circle isn’t perfect either, but it’s damn near close. He tuts his tongue. “I locked my wrist on the upstroke,” he mutters to himself, examining his handiwork before crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash.

“I know that you can make all these perfect shapes digitally, but there’s no holding down the pen to create a perfect circle while you’re tattooing. Do that and you’re going to have one pissed off client. You have to nail these fundamentals now or you’re going to be paying the price for it later. So here’s how this is going to work,” Kuroo pauses, picking up part of the stack. “This week, you’re going to make 100 vertical lines, 100 horizontal lines, and 100 diagonal lines every day. Take it nice and slow and get used to the pulling motion. Try not to rotate the page, because you can’t rotate a client’s arm a thousand different directions to get the right angle. You need to switch the way you’re seeing something? You’re the one who has to move.”

“So I’m going to spend all week just making lines? You’re joking, right?”

“I wouldn’t have printed all these pages if I was fucking joking. Give me your lines by the end of the day so I can look over them. I need 90% of your lines to be damn near perfect before we can move on to the next lesson. If you fail, you’re doing this again next week.”

You stare at him, absolutely baffled. 300 lines a day? He has to have fucking lost his mind to think that you can’t even make a simple line without screwing up. “Did you have to do this as an apprentice?”

Kuroo laughed. “Dude, hell no. I was lucky to get through that apprenticeship without contracting some bloodborne illness. But, I had to pick up what my mentor didn’t teach me somewhere. Believe it or not, I’m trying to make you successful, kid” He props his elbows on the counter, pushing the three-hole punch towards you. “Now, you can either get all those pages in that binder, or you can just carry that stack around like an idiot, but I’ll be honest with you, I don’t accept crumpled assignments.”

“Kuroo, this is like 300 pages!”

He smirks at you, pushing himself away. “Closer to 500, but you get the idea. Have fun!” And he’s about to walk off, about to retreat back to his space to put his headphones on and not speak to another soul for the rest of the day.

The bell jingles as the door to the shop opens.

“Well, well, well. Looks like the rumors were true, huh, alley cat?”

{Taglist: @boosyboo9206 @universal-s1ut @zamorazz // never miss an update! send an ask or a dm to be added to the inked taglist!}

[helplesslypurple77]

Day 2-Atsushi/Fyodor w/ Crossdressing and Breathplay(yes, i know rarepare)

Notes: Just pretend they’ve met in canon, also don't ask me how so much talking can happen in a three minute song, just don't. Also the waltz is Shostokovich Waltz no 2(because obvi)

This is partly inspired by this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803525/chapters/57187927 but also just my imagination

“Excuse me, pretty miss.” This was so humiliating. “May I have your number?” Atsushi forced a smile and pitched his voice a little higher, just like Yosano had instructed. “I'm sorry sir, but I'm on a work trip. I'm afraid I can't accept any numbers or invitations.” The man slinked away sadly and Atsushi breathed a sigh of relief, carefully taking a sip of the drink in his hand. How had he gotten here, in the fancy ballroom surrounded by a bunch of drooling men. And most importantly, why was he dressed as a girl?

☠☠☠

“Dont worry Atsushi, you're going to look great!” Atsushi frowned, eyeing the hot iron Naomi was brandishing with apprehension. “Are you sure that's safe?” Naomi giggled, putting it down and picking up some silver hair extensions instead, talking with the other two over his head.

“Cute or sexy?” Naomi sounded way too excited. Yosano responded from her place across the room, looking through a rack of dresses. “Let's go with the unattainable sexy vibe. Maybe a slit dress and a fur?” Kyouka, the quietest, responded from her place beside Atsushi, filing his nails to even little rounds. “Black. He looks good in black.” She put down the filler, and picked up a small bottle of clear liquid, which she started spreading it on his nails. Yosano yanked a dress from the rack, and Atsushi could feel himself blushing all the way across the room. “This one?”

Naomi nodded, her hands pinning fake hair on Atsushi’s head. “Yeah that's perfect. Definitely going to attract a lot of attention. Should we go with pin straight or waves?”

“Waves I think, we're going for that sultry vibe.” Yosano responded. Kyouka was blowing on his nails now, finished with the first layer of gooey clear and moving on to a bottle of black paint. Two other bottles rested near her on the table, another clear and a shiny silver that sparkled in the light.

Yosano had hung the mortifying dress on a chair, and was pulling from a shelf of fur ruffs. She held up a tiger striped one, laughter in her eyes. “What do you guys think? Too obvious?” Naomi laughed, and even Kyouka giggled a bit. “Nah, it's perfect. Atsushi?” Atsushi startled, so used to them talking over him. He had to admit the ruff was funny, and if it could hide some skin he was all for it. “It's good Doctor Yosano.” She smiled, plucking the dress off the chair and tossing the entire thing at him. “Great, now go change please.”

The dress was as mortifying as he had expected it to be. It was a chinese design, with little clasps running along his collarbone, and short sleeves. It fit him like a glove, hugging his waist and hips snugly. The problem was the bottom half of the dress. It was divided in half, with two slits big enough for both his legs to show through falling all the way down the dress. He had to admit, it was a pretty easy outfit to run in, but the idea of showing so much skin in such a way was mortifying. The ruff was cute however, covering his shoulders and a bit of his arms. He slipped the small heals the girls had given him on and exited the room, and back into their clutches. Yosano whistles jokingly, while Naomi and Kyouka clapped enthusiastically. Atsushi blushed. Naomi was waving that weapon she called a hair curler around dangerously, and Atsushi spotted the cosmetics resting on the table. He sat on the chair they guided him to, surrendering to his fate. His eyes were closed, and the tap of brushed on his face was the only thing he felt for some time. As well as a concerning heat near his head but he was sure Naomi knew what she was doing.(He dearly hoped she did.)

The girls were talking over him again, but nothing of any importance, mostly chatting about different brands of makeup, and what perfume to use on him. And it was calming, at least until they informed him he was done, and he opened his eyes. He had to admit, he really did look like a girl. Or maybe a girl version of himself. They hadn't really transformed his features, just made his eyes appear bigger, the lashes longer. His lips were covered in a thin red glossy thing, and slightly sticky. They shone in the mirror, looking delicate and strange, but at the same time very beautiful. His hair was long and curled in big waves around his shoulders. The dress looked as mortifying as it felt, but the ruff helped hide the fact that he clearly didn't have any boobs.

Atsushi could recognize himself, but at the same time he could not at all. It was still embarrassing though. Three giggling women stood behind him, smirking. Yosano’s hand lands on his shoulder, gaining his attention.

“Now, it's time to test this baby out.” Atsushi feels a strong pulse of dread, as he's gripped tightly and dragged out of the room and towards the AdA office.

☠☠☠

One of the many reasons Yosano volaintered Atsushi for this job was the look on Dazai’s face, and hoo boy, he didn't disappoint. Shock, dead fucking shock with hints of arousal greated her as she and the girls dragged a dolled up Atsushi back into the front office. Kunikida’s expression was a treat too. More shock and arousal, mixed with cheeks the color of a tomato. Even Ranpo, sitting by the window as usual with a still wrapped lollipop in his hand, was so surprised an actual flicker of it showed on his face. Yosano was enjoying herself very much right now, and she knew the other girls were two. The only two men in the room who weren't a little turned on were the president and Kenji, and the pure shock on their faces made up for it. Yosano practically flew across the room, yanking the lollipop out of Ranpo’s hand, and unwrapping it, shoving it into Atsushi’s protesting mouth. He sent her a tiny little glare, but seemed to enjoy the lollipop, taking it out and licking it and definitely doing a number on the men in the room. Yosano was having a hard time holding back her laughter, Naomi as well, but Atsushi looked oblivious, going at his lollipop happily and oblivious to the state the room had been reduced to. Even if she had used up a good portion of the Agency’s budget on high quality hair extensions, she didn't regret a thing.

☠☠☠

And so here Atsushi was, dolled up and standing against the back wall of the grand ballroom, scanning the room for their target. He was supposedly a middle aged man with brown hair and green eyes, and apparently a total womanizer. That was why Atsushi was dolled up in the first place, the Agency had decided that it was safer to send Atsushi in than one of the women. And not safer for the women, no for the target. They were supposed to take him in, not kill him. Yosano had been the first option, but Kunikida had decided against it, because they all knew the moment the creep came close Yosano would(rightly) inflict some permanent damage. The same could be said for Kyouka, and anyway Atsushi didn't feel safe leaving here with some middle aged creep, and Naomi wasn't an option, because she didn't have a way to protect herself. So Yosano had joyfully suggested Atsushi, and here he was, at a grand ball, a living honey trap.

He sighed, leaning against the wall. At least it was pretty. The ballroom was gilded in gold, and the dancefloor was a whirl of skirts of different collars. The orchestra was raised on the side of the room, their instruments boosted with some kind of magic so the waltzes being played echoed loud enough for the entire room. The only odd thing about the picture was the strange ratio of men to women. The majority of the large crowd were men, and besides the seven or eight on the dancefloor, Atsushi spotted about twelve women in total. He suspected it had to do with the reputation of the host, and target of tonight's mission. John Remy was a businessman and a major creep, now also suspected of killing three women. And of course these missing women had been last spotted at these parties, so it wasn't a surprise that not many women were jumping at the chance to be a guest at said party.

The consequence of this decision was that Atsushi, one of the few ‘women’ not already with a partner, was subject to many requests to dance, lecherous stares, and bad pickup lines from a bunch of thirsty men. He could see the next one approaching now. Ice shot down his spine as he recognized the familiar face of Ango. Ango would totally recognize him, and then what? He needed to get away. He booked it away from the corner, as gracefully as he could while still trying to hurry, and towards the large crowd near the refreshment table.

In his hurry to get away, and in consequence that he was wearing heels, he smacked nose first into someone's shoulder. Temporarily blinded by white and fur, it took him a moment to realize exactly who it was he had bumped into. His heart leaped and fell at the same time as he took in that familiar grinning face surrounded by that familiar purple black hair and pale skin.

“My, what are you doing here little weretiger?” Fyodor’s accent was unmistakable, and erased any doubt that Atsushi might have had left that maybe this was actually Mori, or Yosano’s secret long lost twin brother. But no, it was definitely him, and Ango was closing in, and he would never live down the humiliation, and the undercover operation would be ruined. He steeled himself, and took a slightly less humiliating leap of desperation.

“Yes! I would love to dance!” Gripping one of Fyodor’s gloved hands tightly, he all but dragged him onto the dance floor, just as a waltz started. Fyodor seemed to catch on quickly, and Atsushi blushed as he felt his hand gripping his waist, the other one still clasped in his own. The waltz started, and Fyodor whirled him around, across the floor and away from Ango.

Fyodor chuckled lowly, even as they moved across the floor with the other dancers. “Im flattered weretiger.” A tap on Atsushi’s waist urged him into a turn. “To think you wanted to dance with little old me.” Atsushi flushed. “I was trying to escape certain humiliation and defeat.” Fyodor lets out a small laugh, as the music crescendos slightly. “But really, what are you doing here, looking like…that.” He pauses slightly, and the last word is laced with something Atsushi can't really decipher. He hopes the taller man isn't laughing at him. “I'm looking for the host, John Remy.” Another tap, another spin. He's glad Yosano taught him the basics before this mission. “Oh my.” Fyodor deftly avoids another couple, pulling him close for a second too long before they spin away. “Is he your type?” Atsushi coughs. “No! He's suspected of murder.”

“I see. Well, unfortunately he's not here today, I asked around.” Atsushi sighs. “Well, all this makeup and hair and dress for nothing then, Yosano is going to be disappointed.” Another tap, another spin, another graceful fall into Fyodor’s arms. “I wouldn't say it's for nothing.” Atsushi hates how attractive he finds this man, truly. “You have gained more than a few admirers.”

Atsushi has to laugh a little. “What? They only want to dance because there aren't that many women here in the first place.” The curls in Atsushi’s hair tickle his cheeks as he spins once again, as Fyodor pulls him close for the next part of the dance. Fyodor is taller than him, but only by a little, so as the song slows and Fyodor pulls him close, all Atsushi can see is the man in front of him.

Their noses are inches apart, their chests so close, one hand linked, the other still a hot brand on his waist, lulling him into a hazy state. Fyodor’s voice has gotten softer, and if Atsushi didn't know better he would almost call it sultry. A smirk still curves his mouth as he speaks. “Look around you Weretiger. They're all jealous. Jealous that you chose to dance with me, and not them. Jealous that I can touch you like this, have you this close, while they can only dream.” They get closer, and Atsushi cant breath, he can feel his heart beating through his chest. “You do look very pretty, although I prefer you in your normal state.” It almost sounds like Fyodor is complimenting him. His shock must show on his face, because Fyodor lets out a pleased little laugh. “I'll give you some free information, Weretiger.” Fyodor’s voice is a pur, and Atsushi is losing his mind. “Your target is currently stalking a young lady undercover policeman. They’ll have him in custody soon.” Relief floods Atsushi’s mind, temporarily distracting him from the fact that Fyodor is literally almost on top of him, so close they could kiss in the middle of this ballroom(and truthfully, he kinda hopes it would happen). And maybe he said that out loud, because as the song crescendos, Fyodor dips him, and presses the slightest little kiss to his cherry stained lips. And with that, the song ends and he turns to leave.

Atsushi’s hand moves of its own accord, catching the tail of Fyodor’s white coat and pulling the man to a stop. He feels a bit like he’s been caught in a trap, especially when Fyodor turns, his lips, stained with Atsushi’s gloss, curved into a smirk. But truthfully, as Fyodor leads him off the dance floor he can't bring himself to mind.

☠☠☠

It's cramped in the closet they’ve found themselves in, a little stuffy and full of coats, but as Fyodor’s mouth sucks little hickeys into his neck, his body pressing Atsushi against the wall he can't really bring himself to mind. The closet is a little off the main hall, down a small side passage and, in this den of rich people, virtually impossible to find. Atsushi thinks it's a coat closet, but he doesn't really have the brain power to think at all right now, not with a mouth on his neck and a hot dick pressed against his butt.

He’s pressed against the wall, fur ruff discarded somewhere on the floor, still clothed in the dress. Fyodor’s mouth is ruining him, leaving little hickeys all over his neck and shoulders, probably too many but Atsushi can't bring himself to care.

The demon behind him chuckles, as Atsushi grinds back desperately. “My, aren't you an impatient little one.” His voice is teasing, his accent is slightly thicker, the only sign of his slipping composure . Atsushi grumbles, his voice slightly too breathy to be convincing. “We need to hurry before someone discovers us.”

Fyodor's mouth leaves his neck, and Atsushi feels hands pulling his dress up, hitching it over his butt, and cold hands at the hem of his underwear, pulling them down. He's not even fully undressed, but the whole idea just feels so dirty, that Atsushi shivers. Then, a cold hand wraps around his dick.

Atsushi moans far too loud and Fyodor’s other hand comes around, sticking two fingers unceremoniously in his mouth to shut him up.

“Quiet little kitty, we wouldn't want to be discovered.” Atsushi does his best, sucking on the fingers in his mouth to keep quiet, but at some point he just gives up, and the fingers leave his mouth and prod at his lower hole. Fyodor’s mouth nips at his ear, voice throaty. “Have you ever been with a man, kitten.” Atsushi shakes his head, biting his lips to keep the whimpers in as a finger penetrates him, wiggling around a little, but stilling for Atsushi to adjust. “I see.” Fyodor chuckles, all rough and low. “I'm honored to be your first. Man, that is.”

It feels strange, but not uncomfortable to have a finger penetrating him and Atsushi finds his hips canting back a bit, urging the man behind him to move. The only sounds that penetrate the thick air in the coat closet or painted breaths and the occasional small grunt, as Fyodor begins to move his finger, setting a slow, deep pace. Atsushi lets his head fall back, his eyes falling closed. He would never have expected the evening to end like this, pressed up against the wall by a known enemy, still dressed as a girl, and having his insides pried open by one, no two(Atsushi lets a little moan escape his lips, still red with lip gloss as Fyodor adds another finger.)long fingers. He doubts even Ranpo could have predicted this, god he hopes Ranpo never finds out what’s happening, that would be mortifying.

Fyodor bends the fingers lodged inside of him, and presses against the side of his walls, trying to find something. Atsushi turns his head, about to ask what he's doing when Fyodor’s fingers press against something that makes his brain blank, and little stars float across his vision. He can't help the loud moan that escapes his lips, even as Fyodor levels a teasing smirk his way. “Careful little kitten, don't let anyone hear you.” He's mocking him, and Atsushi doesn't even care.

He does start to care when Fyodor removes his fingers. Atsushi suddenly feels all empty and cold, and he turns again, leveling Fyodor with an(admittedly pathetic) glare. “Why’d you stop?” The clink of a belt and the rustle of fabric greet his ears as Fyodor chuckles.

“Stop? My, we are just getting started.” And then something big and hot is pressing at his entrance. “Ready, kitten?” Faintly, Atsushi feels the slightest prick of apprehension, but it's far overwhelmed by the hot need in his gut, and his throbbing dick. So, Atsushi nods as best he can, canting his hips back against Fyodor’s cock.

The sting is slight, but mostly Atsushi simply feels full as he's penetrated, his poor neglected dick throbbing heavily. His back arches and Atsushi moans against the wall as Fyodor bottoms out, not even giving him a second to adjust. The pace he sets is brutal and oh, so good, and Atsushi starts to seriously wonder if he has a bit of a masochistic streak or something, as Fyodor does his best to bruise his insides. His thrusts are long and deep, he pulls almost all the way before slamming back in, one of his hands caging Atsushi against the wall, little grunts escaping his mouth. Atsushi knows he's moaning up a storm, but he can't really bring himself to care, even if someone may discover them. It's obvious that's the last thing on Fyodor’s mind as well.

“Feel good?” Fyodor is practically puring in his ear, his voice full of pride at the state he’s reduced Atsushi too, and honestly, it's pretty sexy. He nods his accent, his cheek scraping against the wall.

“And you sound so good, so pretty.” Fyodor continues, his voice throaty. Atsushi keens at the praise.“Such a pretty, obedient kitten. It's a wonder Dazai has not done you like this.”

“Dazai doesn't like men.” Atsushi’s voice is embarrassing, his sentences interrupted by moans. Fyodor seems to find his sentence slightly funny. But a simple, “is that so?” is his only reply. Another deep stroke, and a husky moan by his ear. “Well, he's certainly missing out.”

One of Fyodor's hands is still on the wall by his head, but the other makes its way up, carefully pressing Atsushi against the wall, curled around his neck. Atsushi’s moans as his airway is slightly cut off. He can still breathe the slightest bit, but it takes deep heaves, in between the moans of pleasure. Atsushi wonders if he’s crazy, because he feels his dick twitch, and the heat in his gut doubles. Fyodor chuckles as his moans double. “How dirty, you like being choked, little kitten?”

It's an entirely rhetorical question, but Atsushi doesnt think he could answer anyway. Fyodor doesn't seem to mind. Atsushi can feel himself nearing his peak, he's most certainly dripping precome all over the floor, and his heart pounds insistently in his chest, his moans more and more frequent.

He can tell Fyodor is as well, by the way his grunts and small groans become full blown moans. As his head drops into Atsushi’s shoulder, his hand from its position on Atsushi's neck wraps around his waist, pulling the men together until there's no space between their bodies. Is strangely intimate, and he's sure if Fyodor weren't on the cusp of an orgasm, the man would never do anything like this, but Atsushi feels almost honored none the less. He loves it, the feeling of love that comes with this position, and as his mind blanks out for a moment as he cums, he knows he screams Fyodor’s name, much too loudly.

Fyodor shivers behind him, and a hot feeling fills Atsushi’s ass.

The redressing act is subdued, Fyodor helps Atsushi clean himself up, tidying his fake hair and dress and placing the ruff back around Atsushi’s shoulders. Unfortunately, they can't do anything about the hickeys, and they remain, glaring proof about what had happened that evening.(although Fyodor looks suspiciously pleased by the fact). Atsushi leaves the closet first, and makes his escape from the party altogether. It's not too bad, although he does get a few stares as he excites the lobby, and calls a taxi. The taxi driver is thankfully silent, probably used to this kind of thing.

☠☠☠

Its now about eleven, and as Atsushi opens the door to the Ada, he's oddly touched by the fact that they stayed up for him. The younger ones have gone to bed, and Tanzaki and Naomi are absent, but the rest of them are here, sprawled across various chairs across the room. They look up when he enters.

Kunikida speaks first, still typing on his computer. “So Atsushi, how did it go? Were you able to apprehend him?”

“Apparently, the police had an undercover mission going, so I wasn't needed after all.” Atsushi says, sinking into a chair with a sigh, dropping the small purse Yosano had forced him to carry onto the table, and discarding the ruff beside it. “So it was a lot of wasted effort.”

Kunikida hums, but no one else responds. Atsushi frowns. “What?” Yosano is snickering, seated somewhere behind him. Kunikida is still typing, but everyone elses eyes are glued to him.

“What’s going on?” Eventually Kunikida, tired of the silence, glanced up. Atsushi watches in confusion as the man jumps to his feet, trips over his own chair and falls with a clatter to the floor, his face bright red. Ranpo giggles. “Well, I wouldn't say it was a totally wasted effort.” He motions at his neck and then it hits Atsushi, he swears his face is the shade of a tomato.

Ranpo hops off the desk, gathering all his snacks in a large bag and making his way towards the door. “Oh yeah.” He says, as he turns. “He left you his number, Atsushi. If he was that good maybe you should add it.” Yosano is choking on her laughter, but no one else seems to think it's that funny. Kunikida is still blushing as he asks the loaded question. “Who is ‘he’, Ranpo?”

Atsushi prays that Ranpo will just shut up, but of course, he doesn't. “Fyodor, you know, the strange Russian guy.” He sends them a confused look. “Wasn't it obvious?” He slams the door on the chaos that erupts behind him.

...

End Notes: Ango totally didn't recognize him, he just wanted to get a dance from the pretty lady in the corner, and she ran away from him. He definitely cried about it over a drink later. Also, ‘kitten’ is cringy, except when its literal

Taglist: @mulit05ho3st4n

[perfectisgeorgette]

Disco Margaritas -playlist

Georgette to Mim @madmagicmim

Disco margs a playlist for: that feeling when you take a sip of your first drink out with your closest friends, a cracking of a seltzer at a family gathering during the summer, dancing in the kitchen with your closest girls to an ABBA song on a Saturday night. A lifestyle, a moment, making memories, and shutting down all the silly bullshit.

🪩 Houdini (Adam Port mix) - Dua Lipa, Adam Port

Maybe you could be the one to make me stay. There isnt a single Dua Lipa song that isn’t an absolute bop. Even if they don’t admit it every girl dreams about a guy who can finally measure up and make her stay. No houdini act over here - not this time.

🪩 Stay High - Diplo, HUGEL, Julia Church

Staying in my play pretend; where the fun ain’t got no end. A remix of a Tove Lo song from 2014. If there is one thing that keeps past relationships no matter the kind at bay it’s a good song. No need to get to a higher level when this song is just as good.

🪩 Milkshake 20 (Alex Wann Remix) - Kelis, Alex Wann

Damn right it’s better than yours. The old banger from elementary school is still a hit. With a cool dance vibe it’s nothing like owning your own self confidence about what you’ve got! Can’t sing it without feeling yourself a bit. Confidence baby!

🪩 Teenage Crime - Adrian Lux

We don’t sleep when the sun goes down. This song just pulls you right to a bestie moment. Let it be when you were young and having a sleep over doing prank calls or staying out late causing a ruckus. It’s moments like that that tie to songs forever.

🪩 Like That - Seamus D

Argue, you yell, but you take me back. This song puts you back with your first love. The fairy tale of it all. Even if you don’t want to be whisked away there always that feeling of addiction when you’re with the one you first loved. You may not need to wish to take them back or to even find them but it isnt illegal to think about it.

🪩 Heaven Takes You Home (ft Connie Constance) - Swedish House Mafia, Connie Constance

Show 'em how the struggle made magic. There is something about a nice hug and that is what this song brings. There are many interpretations of the lyrics but when you get to the bottom of it its about people parting ways in some sense. Weather its good or bad it still feels like a good hug when you are going through a hard time.

🪩 Doses & Mimosas (Vintage Culture & Zerky remix) - Vintage Culture, Zerky, Cherub

Cryin' when you're by yourself 'Cause of what they think. Everyone loves a girl that is not afraid of consequences. Every girl has had the issues with feeling left out, bothered, or down - this songs is a big f you to them. Seeking the fun and high of a party is a a fictional ideal way to forget all about it...while dancing and vibing.

🪩 Love Runs Deep - Autograf, Tiina

You've been walking under dark clouds. Everyone has struggles and problems no matter who they are. This dong takes you from thinking about those problems and realizing that through love no matter the kind you can get through them. Just a feel good song to raise your mood no matter what the situation.

🪩 Waterloo - ABBA

The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself. This song may have its hidden meaning that everyone deciphers differently but that doesn't matter. This song alone can bring any mood from sour to sweet. Dancing and singing to this song in the shower, your car, the kitchen or with friends. Top 5 feel good songs.

🪩 Don’t Leave (Throttle remix) - Snakeships, MØ, Throttle

I'm a girl with a temper and heat. Own your true self. This song takes every quality of a fiery woman and puts it on the table. There is no reason to change who you are for someone and you are capable of being there for anyone no matter how hot you may be.

🪩 Sexual (Oliver Nelson Remix) - NEIKED, Dyo, Oliver Nelson

Now I caught you, I won't let you go. There is hidden meanings of this song but those are up to the listener to interpret. The song is just feel good and it is impossible to not vibe to. The song has been taken down a lot from streaming services but it definitely one to save.

Disco Margaritas is for the vibes darling. Love, Georgette

[osmiumpenguin]

Say there, random Tumblr people. Because I have neither the time, nor the money, nor the shelf space to do otherwise, I keep a list of all the books I wish I could buy, instead of just going out & buying them. But with the solution to one problem, another arises: decision fatigue. There are so many books on my list, I can't just choose one all by myself! And so I like to resort to the strange & idiosyncratic solution of asking random people for help. People like you! Please vote (and I wouldn't object if you told all your friends to vote) in this completely unnecessary poll, whose entries are the seven books currently at the top of my Buy This list — and help me choose which one I shall buy next? I pledge to buy a copy of whichever book wins. The losers will wrap around to the bottom of the list, and if this ridiculous business has any traction on Tumblr, you may see them again.

[snowflakethewise]

Ms. Crush and Mrs. Love

When a person is under a crush they may feel like boulders are weighing on their chests. Ms. Crush may whisper in a person's ear "That stranger is the dove among pigeons, the demigod among men, the knight among villagers. Well, I bet my bottom dollar, that he would rescue you of any dangerous situation. I mean look at that hair and those amazing eyes. But he might see you as a mere mortal, not worth his godliness, a laughing stock among his pride." She turns and speeds her talk, shouting at the person, "No! You must look your finest to him. You must flaunt him with your every charm. But when things go south. Well... I can't help you. I'll have to leave because I live in only perfection. A peasant to princess story you see. Let me know how it goes."

Meanwhile, when a person sees all the other people for who they are. Flaws, strengths, activities, and feels calmness around them that is love. Mrs. Love would say in a gentle quiet tone. "That person whom you care about is amazing. He might be an average Joe or Janet, but they're your Joe or Janet. They have traits you enjoy, like compassion, kindness, stability, and many more. The list goes on. They also have flaws that you don't like." She asks to sit down next to the person and continues in an understanding quiet voice, "Like them biting their nails or their height, but you learn that their flaws help you enjoy things you never thought you had. Like reaching to the high shelf for them and looking at how adorable they are. Or how they enjoyed that horror fic from last night, and you knew from them biting their nails. You two have the most unique love lives. Even though you argue about where to place the toaster or how to do laundry, you two figured it out in the end. Whether it may be a compromise or a third idea you make it through. Your guys' love life is not a movie or fairytale but it has a good feel to it. It is an ever-changing feel and mental state for you. You constantly learn from each other every day and support one and the other in happiness and sadness. Now, if you have problems between now and next Saturday, call me. I'm always available."

Even though a crush can form into love, It takes time, learning, growth, and consistency to make anyone fall in love.

So, Disney, when are we gonna have an accurate love movie that is good, again? Like, come on, Man.

[littlewalken]

jul 21

It's here, it's a pleasant green, it's pretty much in place, it's looking at the books and going 'get in mah cubicles'. So between the green and white shelf and the white fake wicker I shall see how many books both can hold, and if it's all but the doll and craft section that shall be deemed acceptable. I think the doll books can go on the bottom of the wire shelf next to the dollhouse.

So yeah, don't expect too much on the creative side of life from me for perhaps the rest of the month because I have not been this physically tired since we moved in here.

I still don't know what any intended lesson would have been because there would have been a pretty much even vote on 'wait one more day for a solution' which might never come or 'use what you have at hand to solve your problem' because all I have is an aching back with no tickets or spoons aside from just wanting to be done. And the fridge being serviced the day after tomorrow so people will be coming in here.

The key to getting away with having stuff is to have it organized and clean. We never have cobwebs or built up dust because we're using the stuff in our piles. Anyone coming in can see I have clear tubs with yarn and fabric and other arts and crafts things. My public footprint has artwork and stuff I've made.

Yeah I have quite a few toys from my childhood but here's the thing- my brain would gladly put me in the category of the past isn't real or you dreamed it if I let it. That Yoshimoto cube is tangible proof of relatives that once lived somewhere in particular, somewhere we haven't been in 30 years and may never go again. That Instant Insanity game reminds me the time I spent in elementary school was real.

It helps to have a bit more than a scar on my face to remind me the 90s happened and that wasn't just a simulation in the matrix or whatever it is. Okay, anything after the brain injury could be like a coma fantasy but why would I have gone thru some of the shit I did after the TBI if it was just a fantasy?

And I've never seen a single anything by the Wachowskis and outside the off chance I read a Clive Barker comic one of them wrote I intend to keep it that way. Aside from none of their anything being something I'd watch in the first place I saw a video yesterday that... Yup. Yeah. There's why, there's exactly why.

Looking at the books I'm definitely going to thin out the mythology and fairy tale section. I know I kept some of the mother goose books for their freaky artwork and at the state they're falling apart will be cutting them up.

[cyanlastride]

... yaknow, someone told me this once -- i dont remember who; hell, it mightve been you -- but, they told me, its fucked up to say "you deserve better than me". because, well, it discounts the other person's choice. you chose me as much as i chose you. to say "you deserve better than me" is to imply something along the lines of "you made a bad choice when you chose me", which, just, it isnt fair, yaknow? you knew me -- or, at least, you felt you knew me well enough to choose me, and i dont think you like, made a mistake or anything. also, i just wanna say, i dont hate myself, yaknow? i think im alright. you deemed me worthy of you then, and id like to think youd otherwise deem me worthy of you now, ignoring our history. but there is still some element of truth behind the idea of "you deserve better than me", right? and, i think, well, ive got an answer that satisfies myself, at least.

a while ago, almost a year now, i went to go see a doctor for the first time in a long time. i didnt exactly say this outright to them, but i went because i was scared i was gonna kill myself. i didnt want to kill myself, and i still dont, and as far as im aware ive never wanted to and hopefully never will, right. but i was still scared that sometime i would find myself with an easy way out and id lean forward or pull the trigger before i could think about it. i left that room with a depression diagnosis, which i think vastly understates the problem, but whatever, and a prescription for a bottle of pills. and they said, "take half of one of these a day, for two weeks, and see how you feel." so i went, and i picked up my bottle of pills, and two weeks later i was feeling alright. i think they checked in, or something, and i said i was doing fine, and yaknow, here we are today.

but i never opened that bottle. it still sits on my shelf, actually. i see it every day. i dont look at it every day, but yaknow, some days i pick it up. some days i read the label real hard. spin in around in my hands. i always put it back on the shelf, unopened.

im scared of what those pills would do to me. its not a practical fear, i dont think. it might be borne of my mom having a host of medical issues because shes had to take a while suite of pills basically her entire life, but i dont really think its the fear of medical issues twenty years down the line thats stopping me. i think im scared of the pills working. of the pills changing me into a happier, healthier version of myself. i dont want that. one of my friends in highschool joked once, "what if the treatment takes my funny away." its not even really that, for me. its that i dont want to be a person who has "normal" levels of happy and sad all the time. its not the funny that it would take away -- its the lows. the horrifying, utterly terrifying lows. because thats what the pills are supposed to do. either that, or they wouldnt work, and we're back at square one. and yaknow, like, those lows are scary. really fucking scary, sometimes. sometimes they just suck ass. other times theyre mildly annoying. but i would miss them. or no, thats just it, isnt it -- i wouldnt. i wouldnt miss them. id be happy to not have them anymore. id stop thinking about them. eventually id forget.

and see thats, thats the thing. i dont want to forget. i want to know exactly how bleak the world looks from the bottom of the hole. because the lows are also my moment of greatest empathy. where i can look at my neighbour, my peer, my fellow person, and understand how different we may see the world. im already a bit of a shitbag sometimes, and the lows help me remember that everyone is worth saving. no matter how much it hurts. everyone can be someone theyre proud of, even if theyve forgotten what that looks like.

well, and, if we're being honest, thats not the only reason. i was put on this earth with a fucked up brain, and gods fucking dammit im going to leave with it. im not interested in fixing it. ill repair it as much as it needs, but i never want there to be a day where my fucked up brain isnt fucked up anymore. therell be another hill, another hitch, another problem. its a pride thing. im playing the hand i was dealt. itll kill me. im okay with that.

but it does fucking suck. the lows make me unstable. inconsistent. makes it hard for me to maintain the level of happiness i would generally want in the life of someone i love. so thats what ill say. i love you, and i love myself. but you deserve someone whod take the pills. and neither of us knew it then, because i had never considered pills as an option back then. but that was never going to be me.

[frickityfrackityfuckingshit]

He drags the ‘hero’ by the scruff of their collar. They stumble along beside him.

Office clerks and heroes alike stare and gape at the hooded figure, before the off-dutys frantically leap to their feet, pulling out weapons and powers alike.

With a fast movement and an audible click, the figure points his own weapon at the hero in his grasp.

He is immediately recognisable as ‘The Shadow’, by the dark aura and sense of dread that trails his steps. He may not be the most destructive of all the villains, but he’s elusive, and certainly the most feared.

He continues walking towards the reception desk, his cloak grimy and soaked at the bottom from the wet footpath outside, out of place in the pristine foyer of The Headquarters. Tension hangs in the air as the heroes and civilians alike wait in confusion and hesitation, not know whether to act or wait by.

The clerk shakes under the purpose of his movement. Towards her.

Surely there were security measures towards such a scenario. But the anger that leaked from his body, waves of his power, seeped further into their bodies with every second that passed. An ever growing fear that could not be fought with a weapon.

He stopped in front of the desk, silent. The room held it’s breath.

She cleared her throat, a small sound that echoed in the space.

“What can I do for you today?” Her voice shook. She attempted a smile, but it flickered out under the cold weight of his presence.

“I’d like to see the boss,” he breathed, voice like a low hiss, rusty and deep.

The clerk cleared her throat again. All eyes watched her.

“I’m sorry I-”, she swallowed, looking around desperately. “The boss is unavailable right now.” She swallowed again.

“If you’d like you could-” a quick breath, as she become to overcome to speak. He attempted to loosen his grip on her, but his fury rose in such waves, that he had less control over himself than he had since he was a teenager, stalking the streets.

“You can fill out a compliments and complaints form,” her knuckles gripped the arms of her chair, and still she shook.

She stared as he took in a slow breath, released it softly. Part the power, allow him to talk to her.

“I’ll do that,” he said sharply, lips pulling apart to reveal all teeth and no smile.

Though she still shook, she quickly pulled out a paper from a shelf, and produced a pen.

“Will it be- will it be a complaint then?” She asked.

“What does this look like to you?” He asked seethingly, lifting the hero who, previously still, started squirming now that their feet were no longer touching the ground.

The clerk’s pen hovered hesitantly.

“That’s um-” a pleading glance around the room. “That’s level two hero Spoonbill?”

A bird name. The Shadow knew that the animal classifications related to their roles. Maybe he could let it go if it was a rodent, as they were simply observers, but a bird was not a watcher, and he didn’t care any further than that.

“And how old do you think this Spoonbill is?”

The hero in his grip spoke up for the first time.

“I am a month away from 15! I’m not a child!”

The clerk glanced between the hero and then villain.

“He’s of legal age to work…” she trailed off, as if she seriously didn’t see the problem.

“Hey man come on,” the child whined at his side. “I need this gig for the money, my ma can only make so much working the diner.” Left unspoken was the plea.

I have no other option.

Obviously this kid had developed a power early, and quickly been snapped up by the agency. The Shadow growled.

“Well let this be my formal complaint. I will not let an undertrained child, whose power hasn’t even matured, fight the city’s best villains.” He quickly recalled the flickering and spluttering of the young hero’s fire. So much potential, nearly wasted. He could have killed them so easily.

“And if I find you do, next time I’ll do much more than file a complaint.” He let his malice extend once more, uncaring about the trauma he could inflict on those around him. Let them dream of this moment in the years to come. Let it interrupt their waking hours too. Let the fear grip the forever, and let them remember.

He spared his mercy only for the one in his grip. He strode back out of the building, focusing his power on slipping from citizens notice.

“What’s your name?” He asked them.

“Spoonbill,” they said stubbornly.

“I meant your real name.”

“I don’t know why you need to know that.” They were starting to talk to him like they’d forgotten he was a top villain.

The Shadow stopped and turned to them. His grip loosened on their coat, an obvious hand-me-down through the heroes association. It barely fit, and obviously did nothing against the wind. With their power it shouldn’t be a problem, if not for the evident fact that they didn’t know how to use it.

But their decisions were their own, now that his point had been made to the association. He just had to give them a choice.

“Usually when you seek to employ someone, you want to know their name.”

They startled, looking up at him with calculating eyes.

“You’re a villain. You’re evil.”

The Shadow winced. He brought his hands up to his hood, pulled it down to reveal the disfiguring scars that stretched down the left of his face.

“I oppose the heroes association. They are my enemy. I believe an evil person finds an enemy in all others.”

Their eyes widened at his scars, obviously stricken. The unspoken question hung in the air.

“I once trained with the heroes association,” he said coldly. “They tried to use my power for good. Were not happy when I couldn’t control it properly.” When they couldn’t control it.

A flicker of something, understanding, went over their face. The kind of understanding that came with experience. He saw them rub their upper right arm subconsciously.

“I was 17.” It slipped out, but he wanted the kid to understand just how young they were. He shoved his past weakness to the side, and powered through.

“I would see you employed under my care. Properly trained you would be a powerful asset to me. You would be paid well for training, and would get a raise when I deem you ready for the field.”

He could see the glimmer of temptation in their eyes.

“But my ma-”

“Would receive sufficient protection if needed. I could also employ her as one of my household staff, if you wanted her closer.”

Their jaw dropped. They closed it quickly and swallowed.

“I don’t even know your name, how can I entrust you with mine,” they said with a nervous laugh.

He grinned, and the kid didn’t even wince as the scars on his face twisted.

“My name is Simon.”

The kid was silent for a second, before bursting out laughing. The laughter continued, until Simon’s patient amusement started to wear into annoyance.

“You sure don’t look like a Simon,” they finally said with a grin.

They held out their hand, expectant.

“I’m Mars.”

He shook it.

“Good to meet you Mars. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition to the team.”

A villain has entered the Hero’ main headquarters… to make a formal complaint.