#*proceeds to caterwaul*

[your-local-grinning-cat]

This is a TOTALLLY REÄL TORALLY ANGY callout post for @r7v3n and anyone else that doesn’t pay attention to tags normally!¡!! 😠😡🤬

First of all!!!!

Hi. 👋 How’s it going? I wuv you. 🫶😸

Second of all!!!!!

An important note to you from me, meowself, and I: many a time, reading the tags on my posts gives you a much muchier experience when it comes to the CheshireTM brand! Not always, but a lot!

Entire conversations can, and have, been had in tags. Sometimes it’s just me talking, sometimes I talk with AR, sometimes I/AR talk back and forth with the person I am rebageling posts back and forth with, and sometimes ooc notes are made in the tags where mods talk back and forth that can be just as interesting/funny.

Third of all!!!!!

I did, in fact, MEAN TO WRITE REBAGELING. LET ME LIVE MY LIFE! 🥯😤

[nyaagolor]

I wrote a little, vaguely local58 inspired thing abt the world’s worst ship captain

Magolor threw himself against the wheel, voice long since hoarse from his continued pleas. Caterwauling, he slammed into the steering console again, watching the ship go round and round through the thick smog. It seemed as though every moment, another fireball hit the hull, electronics sparking and hissing while Magolor struggled to hang on during the ship’s briefest lapses in control. She wouldn’t listen to him. Instead, the ship just wavered and spun, her voice hissing a monotonous dial tone that made his ears ring. 

“YOU ARE STILL ON THE FASTEST AVAILABLE ROUTE. MAKE A U-TURN.”

Magolor wrestled with the controls again, chest hot from his labored breathing, sweat dripping down his neck. He gritted his teeth and held on for dear life. 

“PROCEED TO THE ROUTE. IN 500 FEET

MAKE A U-TURN. PROCEED TO THE ROUTE. PROCEED TO THE ROUTE. PRO—-“

A final slam against the hull made the ship go dark, Magolor sent flying off the wheel and into the wall with a crunch. Something wet and metallic filled his mouth, and he frantically tried to wipe away the tears and spots of blood pooling at the corners of his lips as he struggled to stand. He could feel the floor lurch beneath him, space visibly rushing by even through the thick fog. The roars of the quadruplet dragons were fading, the fire still pouring out every window as Magolor struggled to breathe and make his way back to the captain’s chair. Everything was sparking, lighting up the dark as something strange and blue and ethereal opened up past the bow. Magolor paled, trying futilely to crawl and take back the wheel before they were swallowed completely by the void. A strangled cry escaped his throat as, before he could move, the chaos outside gave way to a beautiful, sky-blue starscape. The lights came back on just as Magolor felt his own vision fading. A voice reassured him. 

“YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION.”`

[meganmackieauthor]

I Can't Get the Vampire Rogue to Romance Me - Ch 14

“Just tell me if you have a condition or not!” Sigismund chided as she held her hands out over the burn marks on the surface of Artmond’s jerkin. He had been sucking at his breath since getting hit full force with the fire bolt, and even though Evangeline knew the magic would take care of the damage, it made her anxious to watch Artmond’s face go pale. Like he really could die or something. 

“What does it matter? Just heal him already?” Valerian snapped, aggravated by Artmond’s whimpers. 

Sigismund growled. “If I heal him but don’t fix the condition, he’ll just bleed out hit points and then keel over when it is most inconvenient!”

“None! It says ‘none,’” Artmond breathed out, flicking his hand into the air before himself while Hagor supported him from behind. 

Evangeline stood by the side unsure of what to do to even help the situation.

“There! Now, I suggest you make haste before his caterwauling summons something nasty and hungry,” Valerian sneered, folding his arms across his chest. Then he glanced over at Evangeline. “Is there something nasty and hungry ahead?”

“Uh,” she hesitated before shaking her head. “No, no. Nothing like that.” 

“Oh? And what is it like, my little roguish prophetess?” He chucked a finger under her chin, sending chills skittering down her spine and arms. Valerian smirked, knowing exactly what his little unexpected gesture had done. He was like a cat playing with a mouse trapped on a string. 

“Regeneris!” Sigismund said with a breath, her voice thrumming with power. Light emerged from her hands, washing over Artmond’s chest. Immediately, he took a deep breath in, the desperate gasping easing. 

“Oh good, the little nobleman’s son is going to live,” Valerian said. 

Sigismund’s gaze snapped to Valerian. “How did you know?”

“Well, darling, what else could he be? And, in fact, I didn’t know, so thank you for confirming that for me.” His wicked grin slid across his face again. 

Sigismund shot him a not literally incinerating look, then offered her hand to Artmond, helping him to his feet, with Hagor supporting him behind. 

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Artmond said, patting his chest once he stood. “And Valerian is right, I am Lord Cassiel’s son. Artmond de Cassiel.” He offered a small bow but immediately winced as his chest was still tender from the quick healing. 

“Alright, that is one mystery solved,” Valerian said, then looked to Sigismund. “So how are you related to him?”

“Oh, she’s not… related to me, I mean,” Artmond interjected. “She’s my family’s personal cleric.” Then he reconsidered. “And the—”

“Shut it, Artmond!” Sigismund snapped, definitely putting in doubt who worked for whom, especially when Artmond immediately obeyed it, even tucking his hands behind his back like a little boy having got caught with his hands in the cookie jar. 

“Hmm-hmm,” Valerian murmured, glancing over at Evangeline who returned the same look as they were obviously having the same thought. 

Then Valerian shrugged. “Well, I don’t really care. I was just wondering if I could get you to say. Shall we continue to traverse this little death trap of a temple of yours? I’ve already turned the trap off, so this room should be safe?”

Evangeline nodded. “Yeah, yeah. We’re safe in here now.”

“Then you’re first, lady rogue,” he said, gesturing for her to proceed. 

Ignoring his baiting tone, Evangeline went over to the first alcove. Before the statue, stood a crate-sized box, placed there to receive offerings from the gods’ followers. It wasn’t locked, and she knew it wasn’t a trap. The trap in that room had already been set off. Opening it up, she found some rotten flowers, a rusted curved knife a gardener would use, and a few gold coins. She picked up the coins and put them in her pocket then glanced over at Valerian. 

He arched an eyebrow at her, then turned to his own side of the room and proceeded to check inside the boxes there. 

They worked their way down each side, checking the boxes. On the third one, Evangeline crowed in laughter. 

“What?” Valerian asked irritably as he pocketed his own handful of coins. 

She picked up the creaky leather roll inside. “Thieves’ tools!” she declared, holding it up as the prize it was.

“You jest?” he asked, giving up on his side and its paltry offerings to come over to hers. “That is eerily convenient.”

Evangeline shrugged as she glanced up at the worn-down statue. “Maybe this was a god of thieves or something.” She opened up the roll and looked at the metal tools inside. They were spotted here and there with rust but were otherwise serviceable. She had never actually looked inside one of the “thieves’ tools” bundles she found in the game. They all just “worked” whenever she used them, the dice roller being more important than the actual animation to show the picking. 

She released them to Valerian, who slid a couple of the tools out and back, checking them more thoroughly than she had. 

“You know what this means?” she commented impishly. 

He met her grin with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Something in here is locked.”

She took the roll back and went to the last offering box waiting at the end. Sure enough, this one had a lock on it. 

“That’s just a coincidence,” Valerian tried to say, folding his arms over his chest. 

“This one has a lock on it too!” Hagor reported, having taken over where Valerian had left off checking the offering boxes on the opposite side of the room. 

Annoyed, Valerian sucked on his teeth and returned his attention to Evangeline as she knelt and slipped two tools out of the roll. It was uncanny how easily she understood what to do, even though she was pretty sure this was the first lock she would ever pick. She set the tools into the lock, and that nebulous, continual sound of dice rattling rang in her ears as she slipped in and bumped the mechanism open. The lock fell off, and her grin morphed into a triumphant smile as she flipped the lid open. 

“Oh!” said Valerian as he leaned forward to look inside. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

To be continued...

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[eartheats]

[A thin, cylindrical package, some five feet long, arrives at Bryony's house, addressed to Ren, and accompanied by a letter. While there's no name on the envelope, the return address on the package is the mail center at Celadon University. Written in Galarian, in a neat, if plain hand, it reads:

"Ren,

I know that a cane is likely the more ergonomic option, at least for walking in urban areas, but, being that I used to spend a lot of time out in the wilderness, my preference has always been for a proper hiking staff. Like I said earlier, this isn't the finished product, so it's lightweight, and a bit on the fragile side. Still should support your weight, but don't rely on it to lever yourself up a steep slope, or hit anyone with it. Let me know if the grip is sized right; you should be able to hold on with both hands, and the segments should fit comfortably between your fingers.

The real thing will be a bit heftier, and have some merit as a weapon, if necessary. I'll also actually finish the surface to make it weather resistant, and neaten up the carving on top. I promise my work isn't usually this rough.

Alexander I. Cypress

P.S. While you certainly have earned glitter, Bryony's house has not, so you're safe from that. If she wasn't the one to bring this in, let her know that it's here, would you?"

As described in the letter, the package contains a birch walking stick, slightly taller than Ren themselves. The grip he was concerned about being large enough is nearly three of their handspans in size, allowing the staff to be held at various heights. Said grip is stylized as some kind of serpentine Pokémon wrapped around the core, with a smooth head separating at the top.

When Ren holds the grip tightly and puts weight on the end of the staff, something clicks softly, and an internal speaker erupts in an unholy cacophony of Pokémon sounds. There's a deep, full throated barking, a feline caterwaul, a squeaking trill, a series of beeps so high that they're almost inaudible, and finally, just a flat-out shriek. This continues for almost a minute, and then a human voice bellows over it all, distorted so heavily that it almost sounds like another Pokémon growling.

"NO MORE GLITTER!"

The audio then proceeds to loop, until the rubber tip on the bottom is removed, and the speaker falls out. Wrapped around it is a piece of paper that reads:

"I only promised safety from glitter. Don't worry, this won't be a feature on the next model."]

...

i think that is in fact the perfect revenge, i almost fell over when that shout came on. no more glitter!! i understand for sure now, no more, promise!!

but xander!! thank you so so much, i really and genuinely appreciate this??? i'm gonna be like, super duper careful with this, but i promise i'll take care of and cherish this lil walking stick ;v; i think this'll be fun to take out to route 213 to play with some of the pokemon sometime so i'll give it a test run once my leg has a chance to rest!

thank you, from the bottom of my heart, okay?

[kforourke]

At a Distance

Some* records simply demand to be listened to on headphones, including Bill Orcutt’s Music for Four Guitars, which I’ve recently gotten into.

I’m a few months behind—MfFG was released in September 2022**—and I’ve only listened to the album a handful of times, but hoo boy has it been love at first sight. MfFG is one of those works of art that is both excellent and, just as importantly, is inspirational in its excellence.

What do I mean by that? Well, the art that I think of as inspirational is the sort of art that makes one want to go out and make art of one’s own (or at least write reviews on one’s blog). How exactly one defines art-that-is-excellent-and-inspirational vs. art-that-is-simply-excellent is harder to define, and may in fact be entirely subjective, but I’ll just say that the art that inspires me tends toward the difficult and/or the meditative, which MfFG definitely is. It’s difficult and meditative.

MfFG is a collection of short, two minute-ish songs that’s clearly descended from minimalist compositions like Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians (note the titles), albeit with a harder, electrified-guitar edge, as if Glenn Branca had snuck into a Reich ensemble.

That makes sense, because much of Orcutt’s work—going back to his time in the noise group Harry Pussy*** (yes, that was their name), a band New Noise Magazine described as “truly intimidating and strange”—has been atonal and aggressive, not the sort of music you’d put on for company. Which makes Music for Four Guitars that much more compelling, since it’s downright melodic and soothing compared to Orcutt’s earlier output. Sure, a touch of the caterwauling and feedback that marks Orcutt’s work is there, though not as stridently as before.

And this progression is part of what I find inspiring about the record. That and the transporting music, of course. Given the degree to which I’ve been grappling with and/or thinking about writer’s block, I’d say I’m on the hunt for inspiration. Have I been experiencing “a stress reaction that paralyzes the ability to put thoughts into words” as Canadian Family Medicine defines writer’s block? Uh, maybe? Regardless, work like Orcutt’s MfFG is eminently welcome. Experiencing the art of other artists can be just as pleasurable as creating art oneself.

...

*All records?

**Orcutt, who is quite prolific, already has another record coming out. Jump On It releases 4/28 and is “a collection of canonical, mature acoustic guitar soli to contrast against the fractured downtown conceits of previous acoustic releases.”

***Here’s footage of Harry Pussy playing in 1997. Proceed at your own risk.

Additional notes:

Header image of Orcutt via the Del-Uks Flickr photostream.

Title of this blog post is taken from the song of the same name from MfFG.

Here’s a live performance of the entirety of Music for Four Guitars! It rules!

[tunashei]

Cat noises

Meow - The main noise cats make towards humans. Not often directed at cats, this is a language cats invented to communicate with solely with humans because we are unobservant.

Mew - Like a meow, but more shrill. Made by kittens to their mothers.

Trill - The welcoming call of a cat. Ascending tone and very short.

Mrowl - A short 'brrrm' that can proceed a meow. Most often used when asking for food.

Caterwaul/wail - The loud, continues call of a cat. Like a yowl. Usually from cats seeking mates.

Chirp/chatter - High pitched and frequent noises, often quite quiet, that sound a bit like a meow cut short. Usually made at prey the cat cannot reach, it's unknown why cats do this but one theory is it's excitement or frustration.

Purr - A deep, low, rumbling noise made without the cat opening it's mouth. Made when happy, but also made when stressed. Is comforting towards the cat, and can even help heal them!

Hiss - A quick 'ssss' noise, made by expelling air with the cats mouth wide open. This is a basically saying 'I don't like you/this, back off'

Spit - A very quick 'pteh!' noise. Often accompanied by hissing, the spit is another warning. Spitting is an attack bluff, and cats with lurch slightly when doing it.

Howl/Yowl - Another threatening noise, but this time more regularly aimed at other cats, or things they are afraid of. Loud, high pitch, continuous meow.

Snarl/Growl - A deep tone warning. This warning is often given when a cat is being possessive over food.

Screech - Sudden, loud, high pitched noise of pain.

Distress call - A drawn out 'arrrrowww' meow made when a cat is lonely or lost. Cats with separation anxiety often do this when left alone.

[wrathbites]

A sequel to this.

Oh yes, a Witcher's Signs are handy indeed! Unless, of course, they're turned on you.

"Was it really necessary to hit me so hard, Geralt?"

"Hm."

"Hm!  Don't you hm me!  In what lawless, wretched world is poking someone rather ferociously in the eye suitable gratitude for them defending your honour?!  Your hide?!"

"Because reasoning always works with a dragon," Geralt replies, dry as sand in the noonday sun, rifling around for food to pair with the drink oh so graciously left by townsfolk scared witless by the bard's sudden ability to transform into a dragon.  A dragon larger than the Vegelbud residence.  Jaskier, that size.  Wonders never cease.  He pauses with hands on a crate of root vegetables (a hearty stew, if nothing else), frown carving across his face, and promptly sticks his head out from the larder.  "I didn't poke you, Jaskier."

The bard turns a solitary, accusatory eye on him, pointing with his free hand to the linen balled in his fist and held to the other one.  Formerly streaming tears and now firmly swollen shut.  What do you call this, then? that glower says, and he can't quite tell if the twitch in his jaw is an aborted grin or a grimace.

"Yeah, jabbing a finger into an eye the size of a dinner place would've been effective in getting your attention, Jaskier.  Could you even hear me over all that caterwauling?"

Jaskier's mouth pops open in comical fashion, squawking in wordless outrage and casting around, seemingly, for something within grabbing distance with which to hurl at Geralt's head.  And if he happens to snicker in response, well, can he be blamed?

"Caterwauling?  Caterwauling?  I will have you know I do no such thing.  Ever!  Not as a bard, not as a dragon, not as an ungodly mishmash of the two when I've imbibed one too many bottles of wine!  I take offense to your treatment, Geralt, I truly do.  Frist you advise I ignore the townsfolk throwing stones at you, then you climb all over me as if I'm a training ground for fresh cast Witchers back at Kaer Morhen, then you proceed to do something to my eyeball none too pleasant at the time - and it's still throbbing, thank you very much for asking - and then!  To add insult to injury - quite literally! - you think to slander my voice?  My source of income?  My pride and joy?!  Why, the balls on you must be solid steel, my good man.  Steel!" and with that he settles on divesting himself of a boot in favour of chucking it in Geralt's direction, cursing a truly impressive storm when he ducks back into the larder with a laugh he'll deny to his dying breath.

"No part of my body came into contact with yo-"

"Then what the bloody hell did you do?  I might as well be blind in this eye, you oaf!"

"Aard."

"..."

He counts along with every one of his slow heartbeats as he waits for the explosion, sniffing at meat and cheese as he unwraps them, suspicious of poison and mould, both.

"YOU COULD HAVE POPPED MY EYE LIKE A DROWNER'S GUT!  ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

And there it is.  The sheer volume Jaskier can reach makes sense now that he thinks about it, an impressive feat for human lungs, to be sure, but for a dragon's - no, that isn't the case, is it?  No mortal ribcage could possibly house organs so large.

"Geralt!  Are you even listening to me in there or have you gone selectively deaf again?"

"I hear you.  I'm choosing to ignore you.  Do you want apology stew or not?"

Silence, again, of the verbal sort.  He can still hear the sharp intake of breath and the measured exhale as Jaskier, presumably, calms himself.  He can still hear the thump of hands on table and the scuff of chair across floor, the uneven tread of one socked foot and one booted edging closer to his location.  He can still hear the pause, the rustle of expensive silk as Jaskier bends to retrieve the other boot where it had flopped from wall to floor in a sorry heap.  He can still hear Jaskier's heartbeat, the steady tha-thump of a human, so quiet even in simple existence compared to the dragon form that'd ripped from him less than an hour ago.

And then Jaskier's in his personal space, a solid band of heat against his back, around his waist where arms setlle, small streams of it following the path his fingers make as they trace idle patterns on his shirt.

"What kind of stew?"  Really, does he need to sound so suspicious?

"The good kind."

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, my dear Witcher.  I'm not trusting you to give me mushrooms again, and if I never see another squirrel, dead or otherwise, in my lifetime, it'll be too soon."

... So maybe he does have grounds to be so suspicious.  "Vegetable stew only, you have my word."

Quiet humming for a moment, then: "dinner and beer Geralt, and then I might just let you close enough to my face to kiss it better."

"Let me kiss you elsewhere and I'll make you feel more than better."

Laughter, then, tucked to the back of his shoulder like a secret for them alone, before Jaskier's tightening his arms in a squeeze too weak to belong to a man with a dragon slumbering under his skin.  "Oh I'm counting on it, Witcher.  Be a good boy and don't leave me waiting too long, hmm?"

... Fuck.

[perditaalottachocolate-blog]

My @mlwriterzine​ sneak peek

As you may have noticed from my other posts, the Miraculous Writer Zine is on sale now. If you want to buy this beauty, especially a physical copy, you’d better hurry! 

For more details visit the zine blog.

All proceeds will be donated to AO3.

I had the honor of participating in this project, as one of the Spring Team writers. 

And here’s a little excerpt from my story  - “Caterwauling in the Rain”:

From behind the deck chair Marinette produced a black umbrella. She pressed it into his claws. “This is no dew, Kitty. It’s going to pour heavily soon.”

“Really?” He chuckled. She walked straight into this one. “I’m purring already, my Lady.” He grabbed her hand and put it to his chest. Then he released a rumble worthy of a thunderstorm.

“Besides, where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.” He dropped the cheesy line with a flourish.

“See, you’re already delirious,” Marinette replied matter-of-factly. “Also, yes, I’m very proud of you for getting the ‘Singing in the Rain’ reference, you dorkasaurus,” she added, seeing his pout of indignation. “Now go, before you get wet for real.”

“Didn’t you mean furrrrr real?” he started, but dropped it immediately when she set him with one of Ladybug’s finest glowers. “A kiss good night, purrrhaps?” he asked hopefully.

[victoodles]

I Have no Sweetheart but You (Arthur Morgan x F! Reader)

I’m back on my yeehaw bullshit baybee! Find on AO3!

Escapes don’t come often for Arthur - the weight of others’ expectations fall heavy on his already bad shoulders. Though he bears these burdens (as always) with a slight gruff and a spur of his horse as he goes wherever he is needed or told. On occasion it’s both.

But when he finds himself with a moment of time to call his own, he uses the luxury of choice to spend it with you. There aren’t enough hours in the day he can give to you, but he tries his best despite that shortcoming.

Patience is a virtue, and you are the human embodiment of that sentiment. You never complain, even when he is gone for weeks at a time. His basis for comparison isn’t vast, but he considers himself lucky whenever he catches an earful of the caterwauling Molly directs at Dutch most evenings.

When you hear the rhythm of his horse trotting into camp you are there to greet him with a warm smile, like clockwork. Your embrace bridges the gap between you, making him feel like he was never really gone at all. Arthur doesn’t consider himself eloquent like all those fancy romance novelists, but he thinks you feel like home.    

It comes as a surprise when Arthur asks if you would be so kind as to accompany him to the Saint Denis. Your answer is yes, of course, but you hadn’t expected him to make such an offer of his own volition. Usually when he talks about the aforementioned city (to which he considers to be the bane of civilization) his choice of vocabulary is quite...colorful.

You tease him, asking what this stranger has done with the real Arthur Morgan, and he gifts you a hearty laugh. You’ve softened his rough edges; your jests are not taken to heart and he is not crippled with self-doubt. He appreciates this carefree atmosphere you provide, it gives him room to rediscover himself after years of molding who he was to fit certain schemas.  

Tit for tat - he promises he won’t tell a certain Mr. Morgan of this illicit encounter; he saw you from across the way and was instantly captivated by your beauty. His heart took over any sense of rationality - he had to have you. He reminds you of the highbrow men you grew up around in the very city he detests, the only difference here is that he’s being genuine. That, and he’s a wanted outlaw. But you choose not to busy yourself with that minuscule detail.

You cast your hand over your chest dramatically, feigning offense. “Why, you beast! What kind of woman do you take me for?” Despite abandoning the life of a high-society woman almost a decade ago, the mannerisms are not forgotten. Arthur isn’t the only one trying to grow from past projections.

Arthur smiles sheepishly, dropping the act, and apologizing for offending his dear lady. He offers you his hand which you gladly take, finding a secure place around his arm. “Just wanted to treat ya to somethin’ nice is all,” he admits as he leads you to his Thoroughbred at the precipice of camp.

He knows you would never concede with the notion, but with all this time away he feels as if he’s been neglecting you. After years of watching John act a fool, dancing around the responsibilities of being a husband and father, he fears he might be looking in a mirror sometimes. What he wouldn’t give so you could have some sense of normalcy in an otherwise hectic life. You always gently remind him normal is rather drab, and his anxieties are temporarily assuaged for the time being.

Calloused hands take ahold of your waist as Arthur effortlessly lifts you onto the back of his horse. The action is unnecessary, he’s aware, but he relishes touching you whenever he can. You know this all too well, and gladly accept his assistance. And they say chivalry is dead.

Arthur finds his place behind you, urging the mare away from quiet campgrounds and towards the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis. He’ll put aside his disdain - you deserve time away from the dirt and debauchery despite your insistence to the contrary.

The ride is peaceful, dusk begins to grace the sky with brush strokes of pink and orange. Clouds nomadically drift along the horizon as Arthur passes the time with languid kisses to your cheeks and the side of your neck. With privacy comes his unrestricted affection. His stubble’s tickle is a more than welcome feeling against your skin.

Smog-riddled skylines of Saint Denis remind you both of your quickly approaching your destination; factory smokestacks paint the picture of civilization’s impending “progression” - much to Arthur’s chagrin. Dirt paths transition into cobblestone-riddled pathways; the steady clop of his horse’s hooves distract him from these unseemly surroundings.

He’s out of his element, he knows this, but he can survive an evening amongst the real wolves. Men in tailored suits with overly coiffed hair claiming to be peddling this and that, all in a pathetic attempt to further their life by ruining another's.

Do your worst - he’s never faced a problem that couldn’t be solved with a bullet from his Cattleman.

In front of him, you look around in a way he could only describe as nostalgic. Despite the foul memories, he can’t take away the fact that this was your home. Arthur wonders when was the last time you freely wandered these streets.

Mentally kicking himself, he doesn’t think he ever bothered to ask. His line of work focuses primarily on the day-to-day and very rarely on the when, where, and why. You understand this.

He recognizes that you don’t miss the lifestyle - a girl raised to become a rich man’s parlor piece. But maybe there’s something here, amongst the glitz and glamour, that a piece of you yearns to be a part of again.

It happened with Mary, who’s to say history won’t spare him from its vicious cycle of repetition.

He briefly entertains the thought, but it’s properly discarded and replaced with the sensation of your hand on his. You squeeze it gently, silently affirming you’re happy to be here - with him.

Joys of civilization be damned.

The sign for La Bastille Saloon is alight for the evening, bulbs twinkling faintly as they prepare to rival the stars above. Arthur hitches his horse before holding his hand out to you for the second time that day. You regard his choice of dining with a tilt of your head and a smirk. A jest of some sort most likely dancing on your tongue already.

“La Bastille? Monsieur Morgan, très bonne!”

Arthur looks at you, befuddled. “T-tray bone?”  He could be well spoken when he wanted to be, but Arthur wasn’t very cultured per se. You had to give him credit for trying though, the poor dear. A light peck on his lips will suffice. He certainly appreciates it.

“It’s French,” you explain, which does nothing to alleviate his confusion.

“I’ll take your word for it princess,” he chuckles dryly as he lowers you from the saddle.

“Merci,” you continue to tease, playfully sticking your tongue out at him. He guffaws at your impishness as you head for the saloon- tit for tat.

La Bastille exudes old-money sophistication. A place of luxury meant only for those born into the lifestyle. Posh men and women bid you both bonjour as Arthur leads you inside by the small of your back. He pays them no mind - this is a foreign game and he has no interest in learning the rules.  

The setting sun against the stained-glass windows casts an array of dulled colors against the polished wooden floor. It’s a pretty sight - Arthur momentarily feels at peace.

Obnoxious chatter about local politics and the burdens of the wealthy reminds him of where he is. While it can be nice to see how the other half live, it quickly becomes grating. He needs a drink.

In standard Arthur fashion, he pulls out your chair and you settle into a small table with a streetside view. You lean back against the plush velvet, smiling to yourself as Arthur walks briskly to the bar for a well-needed whiskey.

It’s a wonder he manages to catch the eye of the barkeep at all. There’s some washed-up socialite squawking in his ear about the city’s imminent regression into an uncivilized ruin. An attitude Arthur can agree with, though he wishes it would happen sooner rather than later.

Arthur finally gets his opportunity to order, and promptly returns to your side with a flute of champagne in hand. Your eyes light up, thanking him sweetly as you take the glass. He grins, agitation washed away as he sits down across from you. With your company always comes a sense of relief; the crosses he bears feel lighter.

He extends his glass towards your own and your smile only widens. You lean forward, elbow perched on the table with your chin in your palm. “What would you like to toast to, Mr. Morgan?” You ask him coyly, idly swirling your drink around. Again he responds with genuine, albeit rare, laughter.

“How about,” he pauses to mull over his words. There’s a list of things he’d like to celebrate, to verbally reaffirm he’s grateful for. Living to see another sunrise, the gang and their health. But ultimately he decides to go with-

“Us.” It’s the one that feels right.

You’re beaming at this point as you raise your glass.

“To us.”

The two of you officially start the evening with a harmonious clink.

***

“A-and I told the purty lady tha’ Micah, the s-slithery snake, had said some ‘ungentlemanly’ things bout’ her.” Arthur emphasizes aforementioned things with air quotes. He takes a generous swing of his whiskey and proceeds with his drunken tale. You’re hanging onto his every word.

“She practically had STEAM coming out er’ ears when she got to the bastard. Slapped him s-SO hard, Micah blacked out! Went down like a sack o’ b-bricks!” Arthur exclaims. You squeak in surprise before taking a less than dainty sip of your fifth helping of champagne. You’ve lost count for your cowboy.

Arthur looks side to side, checking if the coast was clear. “Now don’t go tellin’ nobody darlin’ but,” he hunches over the table and whispers, “I lied to that gal. I jus’ wanted to see her mess Micah up somethin’ fierce.” You put a hand over your mouth to contain the onslaught of giggles that wrack your chest.

“Arthur! Tu es un coquin,” you chide playfully. He responds to your “scolding” with a chuckle of his own - you had taught him some French over dinner. He had to admit he found the language rather beautiful. Or maybe it was you speaking it that he found to be beautiful. He quickly concludes it was the latter.

A lively tinkle of piano keys suddenly catches Arthur’s ear. The pianist plays a jaunty tune with a gusto that has him tapping his foot in tandem. He never thought much of those fancy records Dutch played, but there was an undeniable wonder that live music encapsulated. “Well would ya listen to that darlin’,” he says with an impressed whistle. You’re clapping along softly as well, delighted with Arthur’s childlike fascination.

“I used to play you know,” you say with a swell of pride. While almost nothing in your youth was learned voluntarily, you are grateful for your musical prowess.

The sillies come back full swing when Arthur’s eyes widen and his mouth gapes in awe. “You used to tickle the ivories?!”

“I dabbled,” you shrugged nonchalantly, biting your lip to refrain from grinning madly. “Piano and violin.” Arthur looks at you like you’re otherworldly. Your cheeks are heating up from the intensity of his gaze.

“Darlin’ you,” Arthur is  rendered speechless for a beat, “you are incredible.” His sincerity is palpable, it practically sweetens the last drops of your champagne. Your blush spreads when his hand finds yours, softly tracing your knuckles with his thumb.

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear shyly. The more delicate sides to Arthur’s nature are reserved for you (and occasionally Jack). But regardless of your exposure, you still feel the fluttering of your heart like that of a lovesick schoolgirl. “Arthur,” you say his name so melodically each time, he can hardly believe it belongs to him.

He interrupts you (unintentionally) when he notices you’ve both topped off your drinks. “Oh! It looks like we’ve run dry,” he pushes himself up and gathers up both of your glasses. “I’ll go fetch us some more.” You reach for his arm, hoping he’ll let you pay for this round. He’s old fashioned, in a good-hearted way, and simply won’t hear it.

“Now you just stay here and keep our seats warm, princess,” he says with a quick kiss to your cheek. Arthur swaggers away before you could try to get smart with him. You opt to blow a raspberry at him instead.

You turn to the streets outside your window. Evening had cascaded into night, the end to yet another day. Shop owners had closed up and were hurrying home to their wives, beggars to their respective allies. Everyone seemed to have a routine, a place to be. You were born here, yes, traversing these streets countless times as a girl. Yet now you felt like nothing more than a ghost - a mere drifter.

How passing strange.

“Goooood evenin’ ladies and gentlemen!” Arthur’s booming voice pulls you from your thoughts. You whip your head around to find him standing atop the saloon’s grand ebony piano. His quest for drinks apparently abandoned, as evident by the two empty glasses left on the stairs. You’re no match for the giggles this time around.

The bar is eerily silent. Everyone directs their attention at Arthur, expressions ranging from horrified to absolute bewilderment. The ex-starlette nested by the bar actually looks amused for the first time all night. An unsure pianist holds a crisp dollar bill from Arthur as he awaits further instructions.

“I wanna sing a ditty for that,” he points to you, “pretty lil’ peach o’er there!” All the women look to you, wanting to satiate their morbid curiosity and practically shaking from secondhand embarrassment. How would a lady respond to such an inebriated act of buffoonery?!

You’re certainly no caliber of lady they’ve ever seen.

Much to their surprise, you’re positively radiant during Arthur’s pleasantly uncharacteristic address. He very much was the type to speak softly and carry a big stick. But with the help of some liquid courage, he’s publicly showcasing his devotion like the fool in love he is. It’s a good look for him. Arthur smiles from ear to ear, blowing you a kiss. He turns back to the pianist and nods, being counted in by a few gentle chords.

“I have no sweetheart but you, dear. You are the one that I love.”  

You audibly gasp at his choice of lovers’ ballad, a sensual tune that had many a young girl dreaming wistfully about romance. While Arthur’s rough, low slurring isn’t what the composer had in mind, the allure isn’t lacking. A few of the previously judgmental women (though they would never admit it) seemed to turn envious at the attention you were receiving. Some unlucky husbands were definitely in for it tonight.

You pay the pettiness no mind, you’re too focused on your own personal performer.

“Close to my heart I would hold you, there where the roses once grew. While in the silence I told you, that I had no sweetheart but you!”  

Arthur feels strangely lighter, unburdened by his role in the gang - in the world even. Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch, it all fades away. There’s just you and him - a man and a woman in love. Simplicity has never sounded so divine.

“Say that you always will love me. For I have no sweetheart but you.”  

You’re already cheering before Arthur can bring his song to a close. It encourages a handful of others to also applaud, paired with some catcalling from a certain regular near the bar. Arthur has never been fond of being the center of attention, but right now you swear he’s thriving in the spotlight.

He’s reveling in it, until he isn’t.  

Arthur is swaying atop the piano, his balance leaving him as all that alcohol finally takes its toll. He’s an imposing fellow, but the cruel mistress called whiskey can knock any man down. Literally.

The pianist pushes away from the piano, fearing not just for his nerves but now his physical well-being should this cowboy collapse on him.

To Arthur’s credit, he doesn’t.

“Thank yew and g’night, Saint Denis,” he says woozily just before he falls to the floor with a hard thud. You yelp in shock as you shoot up from the table, knocking your chair over in the process. Saloon patrons don’t know who to watch at this point. Arthur, flat on his back mumbling dreamily to himself. Or you politely shoving your way through a throng of people to reach him. They soon decide to return to their own evenings, having been involuntary participants in your own for long enough.

You take a quick detour to clumsily toss a few coins the bartender’s way. At this point, a bed for the night is not a choice but the only option. Arthur decides he must be the luckiest man alive as he sees not one, but two of you heading his way.

[dustedmagazine]

Sun City Girls — Live at the Sky Church, September 3, 2004 (2182 Recording Company)

Photo by Toby Dodds

Even given the expansive, explosive parameters for live performance established during Sun City Girls’ long history, the band’s set (farcical romp? ritual exorcism?) at the 2004 Bumbershoot Festival was feral, hilarious and enraged. The fellows at 2182 Recording Company have done us all a solid by making the audio and visual record of the performance available via this combined LP and DVD release. Future ethnographers of Weird Americas old and new will rejoice. You should, too — and while you’re at it, maybe offer up something juicy and warm to Shiva.

 As the sounds and sights attest, the 3 September 2004 performance has a theatricality that’s intensely unpleasant and bitterly, anarchically funny. The Girls enter the stage at the Sky Church in full costume. Alan Bishop (AB) wears a Freddie Kreuger mask and a keffiyeh tied over his scalp. As the band’s noise cranks up, he cycles wordlessly through numerous routines: shagging golf balls into the audience with a pitching wedge; spastically grappling with a large, mic’d-up transistor radio; sitting in a chair and reading an oversized copy of Mein Kampf. Meanwhile Richard Bishop (RB) works over a guitar laid out horizontally on a table, hammering and raking at its strings with hollow metal rods; Charles Gocher beats on a bass guitar, then on a bass drum and also growls and shouts into a mic through a bullhorn. Both men are arrayed in scarves, skirts and veils. The abrasive sounds they produce are awash in static and accompanied by what sound like processed, collaged snippets from the collected output of Sublime Frequencies.  

As the set progresses, the tension steadily ratchets up. AB removes the blankets that have covered a lumpy, upright form, and reveals a life-sized laughing Santa Claus automaton; the band has affixed a cartoonish Saddam Hussein mask over its features. AB dances grotesquely and soon unbuttons his jacket. His tee shirt is emblazoned with a lovingly realistic, full-color portrait of Osama Bin Laden (keep in mind that all this is happening in 2004, eight days before the third anniversary of 9/11 and 18 months into the second Iraq War). The noise and cavorting go on for about twenty minutes. Then, as the Girls were often wont to do, they shift the trajectory of the music on a dime. The distortion and collaging are silenced, and RB activates a cheap, keyboard burlesque of “Killing Me Softly with His Song.” He sings along, after a fashion — it’s not quite as unlistenable as the Girls’ notorious cover of “Me and Mrs. Jones.” AB accompanies him for a bit, then breaks into harangue: “Your culture’s fucking dead! And your friends are dead! And your fucking music is dead!” He grabs a copy of Pol Pot’s Brother Number One and reads aloud, caterwauling, “Sending your children to kill them!” It tracks, syllable for syllable, alongside RB’s equally demented recitation of the song’s chorus.  

The visuals on the DVD are charmingly shot: a continuous, single-camera vantage, shakily hand-held, that focuses for the most part on one Girl or another. One wishes there were more attempts to get the whole band in frame. It would be even more useful to get consistent shots of the crowd, to see how the Seattle festival audience — an erudite, liberal bunch, listeners of KEXP’s hip, indie-rock programming — reacted to the Girls’ possessed antics. The band had a history of working crowds into froths of disapproval. Throughout their tenure, they were accused by some putatively progressive types of cultural imperialism and “present[ing] mocking images of the Other.” Oy vey, the mind reels. Perhaps with such superficial, priggish charges in mind, at Bumbershoot the band covers “The Girl from Ipanema” and proceeds to do awful things with and to a couple bunches of bananas.  

It’s likely more than a few folks in Seattle took issue with the Girls’ grim iconography and sardonically playful symbolic action. At one point, AB sits on the edge of the stage and asks the audience, “Oh, who are you? Are you mediocrities who invented the color beige? Oh, cool….” The camera briefly surveys the audience. There are numerous confused faces and at least one older white dude seems to be inviting AB off the stage for some fisticuffs. After a long, oppressive barrage of horror-movie organ and operatic, scat-sung gibberish, AB begins repeating, “Yes, master. Of course, master. With pleasure, master.” He sounds like a parody of Peter Lorre, in the obsequious, Levantine guise he assumed in Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon. AB goes on: “With a thousand violins, master. With ten thousand rock stations and seventy-two keyboards… With twenty-five years of the history of the worst music ever produced, master, of course. I wouldn’t want it any other way, master.” His hostility is palpable. It’s hard to say exactly to whom the vitriol is directed. The music industry? The audience? Donald Rumsfeld? The Sun City Girls were interested in obeying no masters.  

As the performance winds down, RB says, “That’s how we do it down in Crawford,” invoking the location of the Bush Texas ranch. AB gives the audience the finger. It was September 2004. Mohammed Omar was touting the intensification of a Taliban-supported insurgency in Afghanistan. In Iraq the first Battle of Fallujah had ended; the second was soon to start. George W. Bush’s infamously dunderheaded response to it all was, “Bring ’em on.” In such circumstances, culture shouldn’t be slavishly interested in “pleasure” or “entertainment” or obeisance. Later that day at Bumbershoot, Nickelback would play the headliner’s set, preceded by Seal and Nancy Sinatra. Of course, master.  

Jonathan Shaw

[fuck-customers]

Long post ahead, tldr at bottom

So I’m at an office job now. Reception at a small lifestyle clinic, really small, like 3 employees including myself. 

It’s usually pretty chill, nice and cushy compared to my previous jobs so when it’s not it hits you like a freight train.

Woman comes in for an appointment, has 2 kids - one 7 year old and one toddler, maybe 2? Proceeds to ignore them her entire appointment. I’m not a fan of babysitting but it’s pretty slow and the elder girl is unfailingly polite (if perhaps a bit handsy with things she shouldn’t be but I don’t blame her for that. I had to pick the bathroom lock after she had unwittingly locked it from the inside then closed it to display her good manners when she left and Nobody was happy that day because it took an hour to get into since the failsafe mechanism was, apparently, broken) and a joy to hang out with. However, I DO have a job to do, and that takes priority.

So she asks to colour. I brought my personal highlighters to work because they’re pretty dang good ones, and they’re pretty colours also, so I give her these highlighters and a couple pages of blank paper. Toddler sees and wants to join in! No problem, right? Elder sister is monitoring, I think, and I return to my duties. Big mistake.

I look up 2 minutes later to see that the toddler has EATEN my highlighter!! 

SHIT. I panic, I get the baby some water. That can’t be healthy after all! Me and her sister make toddler drink it all up. I have no medical training, I’m just admin! Okay, crisis averted I think. Baby is still alive, not puking or sick though she doesn’t look impressed by the taste (understandable). I return to my duties.

Big sister returns to her colouring.

Toddler wants to colour. Big sister doesn’t let her. Toddler begins. To fucking. SCREAM.

I have very sensitive ears and I’m prone to overstimulation on top of that. And since growing up I had a ton of ear infections (the doctors worried I may actually go deaf because of how nasty and chronic they were, luckily I didn’t), nothing saps my stamina or gets me grumpier quicker than an ear ache. And this child. This fucking child. Caterwauls at an increasingly high decibel. 10 minutes in her mother starts to yell at the kids from the office her appointment is being held in, but otherwise doesn’t do much to settle her damn child, peeks her head out once or twice but that’s it. Big sister, clearly used to this, is unflappable and continues colouring. I am clueless. I have no children, and don’t fancy getting yelled at for attempting to console one that isn’t mine without permission.

20 minutes later. Appointment is still going, child is still screaming, mom is yelling at her older kid to settle her toddler intermittently, and my ears are ringing.

Finally it wraps up. They leave, kid still screaming. Mom’s embarrassed that her kid ate my highlighter but otherwise seems unbothered. Silence descends and everybody is incredibly ruffled but the day goes on. At ground zero, I have an ear ache to kill all ear aches, the pain descending into my jaw, neck, and temples, and a developing migraine. And to add insult to injury, my personal highlighter, a lovely shade of nearly pastel blue, is chewed right through and unsalvageable so goes into the trash. I’m a big grouch for the rest of the day, because I don’t have advil on me, and I’m a bit dizzy to boot. Reinforces my personal vow to not have children, I definitely wouldn’t cut muster if that’s all it takes to do me in.

This happened around 2 or 3 pm, and my headache and ear ache lasted for the next day and a half.

So yea, I don’t let these kids colour when their mom brings them in anymore. And I keep a better eye on them too.

TLDR a baby brought by a customer eats my personal highlighter, unleashes a sonic attack of increasing decibel level for a half hour because we won’t let her at the remaining highlighters and her mom does nothing to help. It was super effective and I take 50 damage, spend the rest of the work day and day after miserable. The pain. The tinnitus.

[subtextures]

Chromosome Damage

(a post-modern renga)

(draft 1--this is the complete 46 stanzas, I will remove the numbers (syllable counts) when I finalize the whole. I am looking for comments)

(23)

Lights break auras

As night deepens

The rain. The solstice

Grows closer through the dark;

Grim days shorten.

(28)

Half-way back

To summer’s long heat—

In afternoon hours,

It hurts to step

Outside as if someone

Near waits with knives.

(14)

Patient enough now

To watch all this unfold

Into spring.

(40)

Outside, another cold day:

Most of the leaves have fallen

From the sycamore outback;

Its white bark stands in contrast

To the stark grey sky. Beauty

Lives with our view.

(43)

Nietzsche said, among other things,

We experience only ourselves—

Even when I shift toward you,

It remains me who must see

The shadow which falls starkly

Between us on the floor.

(36)

If no one hears the Eliot allusion,

Does it make a sound?

Or should one pretend

A studied nonchalance

To carry one through the late afternoon?

(39)

Thus, an old ritual snickers

To a close, the porch lights

Turned on, the curtains

Drawn. I feel safe,

Less exposed, contained

With the pattern—

A spider moves toward motion.

(34)

We’ve woven our disparate dreams,

And become subsumed beneath the totality

Like ocean waves rolling upon themselves

Far from shore.

(28)

My anger sits at a distance,

It does not go away—

It whispers discontent

Like whip’s end striking wet flesh.

(41)

Ubiquitous as fear,

The air tightens

Without provocation.

Yet, still we sing,

Sing our song,

As if redemption

Can be gathered

Like bags of wet cotton

Blotched with blood.

(23)

I caught my breath,

And did not speak.

Is writing equivalent

To speech? I loved you,

In silence.

(42)

Self-doubt’s constant

Caterwauling echoes,

Like now— I mock

Attempts to quiet:

Hush, hush

Little baby hush—

All these scorpions

Are your own, each

Tail-strike skitters

Across skin.

(11)

Memory circles back to savage the corpse.

(42)

If only the dead would remain with the dead;

The past cannot so easily be revised—

I know what I desire to have happened;

Yet a mirror cannot be unbroken.

(12)

I can only see what

I think it is I see.

(4)

A lens warps light.

(38)

We are woven through our day

Despite our proclivities

Or desires. A thread’s easy

Enough to trace in retrospect

As being a part to a whole.

(31)

And here I am

Beneath a December moon

Waxing its way

Across a gray night.

Fate, or circumstance,

Is of no consequence.

(36)

He touches his forehead

To the damp ground

In a patterned response

To appease God’s chaos.

Here things are quiet;

Here one pretends

There is this center.

(6)

She waits, then dons her mask.

(7)

He scurries beneath the rain.

(41)

The sideways shift and snip

Clatters across the sand.

It’s easier to move out of the way—

Trouble passes, one remains

To proceed with plodding step

Along one’s path.

(3)

Time’s slow arc

(34)

All the variables led here

As inevitable as this morning’s

Sun striking the sycamore’s white

Bark; no god laughs as our choices.

(14)

A left, a right, a yes, a no:

Life’s crushed to binary.

(16)

I close an eye

To see the obvious

Connection: the moment.

(15)

I stumble step across a bridge

Swinging above a crevasse.

(21)

No saints guide us home,

Nor care how far we fall.

The emptiness opens

Like an aura.

(43)

This morning everyone sleeps in

As fog drifts between the trees

Near the creek and the gray sky.

The last brown leaf has fallen

From the sycamore; the solstice

Passed under a full moon.

(30)

Dusk and dawn, progressive

And simultaneous, flow through

The landscape. Yet, we think

Our futile actions have consequence.

(3)

I’m a lens.

(19)

Like you,

Light bends

Along each wave’s edge

Into separate

And singular parts.

(36)

I live on the periphery

Whispering songs

To the dry wind--

No bold flights

Of choirs or timpani rolls

To assuage the silence

Which surrounds me.

(15)

Edges, like borders,

Allow difference

A false consequence.

(5)

Mirrors are echoes.

(26)

Like Narcissus,

I see only

What I want

To see; like

A song wedged

In my ear,

A flower grows

Nearby.

(35)

Another flower flowers

As if it were made for you

Each flower flowers

From bud to petal fall

The flower flowers

With or without you

(35)

In action, the noun is

Verb without separation.

The sentence inscribed

In bone, slippery as blood

Along a knife’s edge,

Leaks into our veins.

(34)

The sun moves and spins;

The earth spins and rocks;

The galaxy twirls along

Its own circuitous dance.

Nothing stops. I am tired,

And wish to rest.

(45)

The creek behind our house has risen

As the rain has been unrelenting

For the last few days. Work begins

Again tomorrow; over time I’ve grown

Accustomed to the pervasive fear.

(36)

Each day leads to another;

As do such platitudes; thus

We humbly don our daily masks

As those we meet present their own,

Forever and ever.

(12)

Rituals bring comfort,

Like an old dog its bone.

(16)

I keep revising the past—

Hoping for a new denouement.

(32)

She unfolds the origami crane

Next to his bed, but does not

Write the note. Oblivious,

He cannot erase what is not there.

(40)

We make only one choice.

Possibility’s extant only

In possibility. The first

Motion’s desire, which

Collapses upon itself

Continually.

(1)

Choose

[dear-mrs-otome]

19 "You're Satan" with Ikesen Mitsuhide please! ¤_¤♡

It was eight o’clock in the morning, and a brown paper bag had just materialized in the middle of the casebook you were staring at.

“What’s this?” you asked, as Mitsuhide took his usual seat across from you. A gift from Mitsuhide couldn’t actually be anything good, you knew. It was full of worms. Or dog turds maybe, just missing the flames and a doorbell.

“I was under the impression it was a paper sack.”

You shot him a murderous glare that he returned evenly, and forced your teeth to unclench. “Mitsuhide. What. Is in. The bag?”

He sighed, and gestured sharply. “Just open it. It won’t bite, for God’s sake.”

Gingerly you unfolded the top and peered inside. “It’s…a bagel.”

One of those fancy ones covered in every seed imaginable. Toasted, smeared with just the right layer of cream cheese, and wafting its heavenly warm smell straight to your neglected belly. You closed the bag up, waited a moment before opening it again, and continued to stare inside it in confusion when its contents stayed the same.

“You brought me breakfast.” You glanced up at him, your eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you lace it with something?”

“Did I - what?”  He shook his head, and reached to take the bag back.  “Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother,”

“No!” You yelped, a touch too loud, and snatched the sack back to hold close to your chest protectively. “I just…thank you. Even if this is just some new part of the ‘playing nice’ game.” A small part of her wondered if this was some sort of apology on his part for making your first year in the firm a living hell, but that idea was vetoed immediately. That was giving him far too much credit, you was sure.

“Beg pardon?”

“You know, the ‘play nice’ game. The one where you do things that almost seem human, until I relax and then you proceed to mock me mercilessly for it because actually you’re Satan.”

“I - hmm.” He lapsed into an abrupt silence, and for the first time you could recall, Mitsuhide seemed taken aback.

“Like that time when I was caught up with that case brief and you spent the afternoon double-checking my conclusions and then proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t have struggled because even a first year could have made those observations? Or when you let me choose the music for once instead of slaving away to a bunch of dead guys with harpsichords in here, and you complained after the first hour that it was a wonder I ever managed to accomplish anything with that ‘caterwauling’ in the back ground? You didn’t think I would catch on?” You wagged your finger at him. “You’re not the only observant one around here.”

A smile touched his lips but never quite reached his eyes, the genial expression soured by a hint of…bitterness? You couldn’t read it, despite your assurance mere moments before. “You’re right. I’m as opaque as a pane of glass and you’ve seen right through me.”

Nodding triumphantly, you unwrapped the bagel and took a bite, closing your eyes at the warm deliciousness of fresh-baked goods. “Exactly. So don’t think I won’t be on my guard for the rest of the day,” you warned around a mouthful. Another followed, and if you had been less hungry you might have been embarrassed by the small sounds of pleasure you were making as you worked your way through the first half.

Movement caught your attention, and you glanced up from your notebook to see Mitsuhide lean forward with a fervid, sharp look in his eyes. “Ah, but see, if you’ve been enlightened then I shall have to change up the…’game’, as you call it. It would never do to be accused of being predictable, after all.”

You froze, dumbstruck by his whiplash change in attitude. What was with the bedroom eyes, and that little purr in his voice? Was this his new gambit already? As you stared, he reached across the table and traced his thumb along the edge of your lower lip before drawing it back to his own mouth and deliberately licking it.

“You had a bit of cream cheese there,” he said smugly, taking in your bug-eyed expression.

What the hell. What in the ever-loving, sam-hooty-hecking hell. You didn’t think you liked this game. Not one bit. The lump of bagel you’d meant to swallow was wedged in your throat, actively trying to kill you, and you blamed the struggle to get it down for the heat that rose in your cheeks.

[minaminokyoko]

Escape: A Peter/Gamora ficlet

(A/N: Spoilers for Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 1 & 2. Is anyone else dying to know the story of drunken Peter telling Gamora about David Hasselhoff? Here’s my headcanon of how it went.)

“If you like piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiña coladas!”

Gamora lifted her head from the book between her slender fingers and glanced with mild annoyance at the off-key exclamation that had just come from outside of her hotel room door. Her lips threatened to smile, but she refused to, despite being in her room where no one would see it. It was the principle of the thing, after all. She wouldn’t admit even to herself that Peter Jason Quill could be amusing on rare occasions.

“Getting’ caaaaaaught in the rain!” Peter’s voice continued. “If you’re not into yogaaaaaaa! If you have half a brain!”

Gamora snapped the book shut and stood up as she heard a fumbling, scratching sound. She pressed the button to slide the door open and affixed her lovely face into a bemused look. “Peter, what are you doing?”

Peter Quill abruptly stopped his caterwauling and blinked a few times. “Oh. Hey, G’mora. Whatcha doin’ in my room?”

As soon as he spoke, she caught a wave of alcohol fumes. It made sense. They’d just gotten paid for another job and the boys’ idea of celebrating was flying to the nearest habitable planet and getting completely trashed, spending most of their score, and bickering with each other. Baby Groot had curled up on a pillow on Gamora’s sofa, mumbling in his sleep every so often. Judging by his dilated pupils and shaky footing, Peter was all but three sheets to the wind.

“Your room is behind you,” Gamora said patiently. “That’s why the key card didn’t work.”

“Oh, man,” he said, his face falling with actual regret, to her surprise. “M sorry, G’mora, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m such a jerk.”

“Usually, yes,” she said frostily. “But not in this case. I wasn’t asleep. I was reading. However, you might want to apologize to the hallway full of guests who had to hear your shrill voice through the walls.”

“You’re so right,” he agreed, and then tilted his head to bellow, “SORRY, EVERYBODY! DIDN’T MEAN TO WAKE YOU UP!”

“SHUT UP!” someone shouted back.

“MY BAD!”

Gamora palmed her face. “Peter. Your room. That way.”

“Right, right, right. Sorry. G’night, G’mora.” He swiveled on his heel and walked up to the door. She watched him try to slide the card in eight times before finally sighing to herself and closing her own door. She snatched it out of his hand and placed it inside the hole. The door whooshed open and Peter stumbled inside, but not before turning and giving her an admittedly adorable smile.

“You’re a life saver, beautiful.”

She shook her head and caught his hand, dragging him towards the bed. “You need sleep or you will be too hungover to fly us out of here in the morning.”

“Well, one thing you’ll find out about me is that I bounce back like that.” He tried to snap his fingers on his free hand. “That. No, that. C’mon. That.”

Gamora sighed. “I will never understand why you find this infuriating state of intoxication so enjoyable.”

“Rocket said I couldn’t out-drink him,” Peter said defensively. “He was wrong. I won.”

“Did you have to buy every round to prove him wrong?”

Peter paused. “Yes.”

“Then no, you didn’t win. Rocket just wanted free drinks.”

Peter scowled. “Little trash panda.”

Gamora again refrained from smiling as she continued pulling the sheets down. She turned and helped him out of his red leather jacket. She felt his gaze on her and ignored it, brushing it off even though she felt her skin warming over her face and neck, over her shoulders, and in the tips of her fingers. Her heart beat mocked her with its accelerated pace. She tried to picture him as a child getting ready for bed, but it didn’t work. He was too close, too warm, and under the scent of alien beer was a rather nice, mild cologne.

He lifted his arms as she pulled off his outer shirt, still strangely silent and watching her fold it and set it on the nearby couch. Finally, when she turned around, he made a move.

He hugged her.

She stiffened, having expected something else. Stranger still, it was completely wonderful. He kept his hands on the small of her back and buried his nose behind her ear and into her dark hair. She hadn’t been held in years. Decades. Not since her parents. Gamora had lovers in the past, but none of them were permitted to touch her that way. This…it was affection, not lust.

And it scared her even more.

“You’re so good to me,” Peter mumbled with a sigh. “I don’t deserve it. I’m sorry.”

She shut her eyes for a second. “Peter…”

“No, really. Thank you, G’mora. I know I get on your nerves all the time. S’ just ‘cause I like you. You’re pretty and smart and so much stronger than me. Dunno how you do it.”

Gently, she settled her hands on his chest and pushed until she could meet his gaze. God, his eyes were all for her, like there was nothing else in the entire cosmos. No one had ever been foolish enough to do such a thing. Maybe that was why he did. Peter Quill defied everything, and her expectations most of all.

Heart in her throat, she smiled weakly. “Guess that’s just how my father raised me.”

She led him over to the bed and pushed him to sit. He obeyed and she knelt, unlacing his boots. “Bet he was a great guy. Probably smart like you too. Y’know, when I was a kid growing up and everybody else had a dad and I didn’t, I used to pretend that he was this famous actor.”

Gamora’s brown eyes widened and flicked up at Peter’s face. She’d never heard him say much about his father since they left Xandar. She’d gently tried to ask about his life before Yondu abducted him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. She licked her lips, unsure of how to proceed. She wanted to know, but she also didn’t want to invade his privacy while he was drunk. Eventually, she softened her voice and kept unlacing his boot.

“What was his name?”

“David Hasselhoff,” Peter slurred. She frowned, unsure if that name was correct or if his drunken state had altered it somewhat. “He was this German icon. He could sing and dance and his biggest success was this TV show with a talking car called Knight Rider. It was the coolest thing I ever saw.”

He fumbled for a second and pulled a slip of paper out of his pants pocket. She took it, examining the square-jawed, fluffy-haired man that he apparently idolized. “Why him?”

Peter shrugged. “He’s the coolest man alive. Who wouldn’t want him for a dad?”

“No,” she said softly, rising and sitting beside him. “Why tell the others it was him? Why not just pretend on your own?”

“I don’t know. Guess I just ran with what my mother used to tell me, that my Dad was perfect and not like all the other people on earth. Hasselhoff sounded like a good option at the time.”

He took the picture back and stuffed it into his pants. Gamora took the plunge. “Do…the others know this about you?”

He shook his head. Her stupid, selfish heart fluttered. “They’d probably laugh at me.”

Without thinking, Gamora reached over and slipped her fingers through his. He looked at her then. “No, they wouldn’t. Out here it’s hard to find family. They’d understand.”

He smiled, running his thumb along her knuckles. It tickled and sent butterflies exploding through her stomach. He leaned in towards her. Her eyes flicked to his lips. They parted as he drifted closer.

He kissed her cheek. “Thanks, G’mora.”

She felt a tug of disappointment at her core. “You’re welcome.”

“Stay with me.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Not like that, I mean…stay here tonight. Just tonight.”

“I…” Word clogged her throat and got stuck. She couldn’t look away from that hint of desperation and adoration on his face. Eventually, she just nodded.

He stood, drawing her up by the arm, their hands still connected, and she slid under the covers after kicking off her boots. She curled onto her side as Peter climbed in beside her and settled down, facing her. He smiled again, kissed the back of her hand, and snuggled down in the pillows, his eyes closing.

“Night, G’mora.”

“Good night, Peter.”

Slowly, she let her eyes drift closed.

And she never slept better.

FIN

I just have a lot of feelings about this ship, okay?!

[hollywithaneye]

Sticks and Stones Chp 2 - WIP

Given that today is the hubby’s birthday and I took on the masochistic project of knitting my mother a lace shawl by Mother’s Day, I’m not sure I’ll make my end-of-week personal deadline for chapter 2 of Sticks and Stones. So as consolation, here’s a bit of rough, unedited, probably-will-be-butchered-and-used-for-parts sneak peek.

It was the following morning, and a brown paper bag had just materialized in the middle of the partial differential equation Jane was staring at.

“What’s this?” she asked, as Loki took his usual seat across from her. A gift from Loki couldn’t actually be anything good, she knew. It was full of worms. Or dog turds maybe, just missing the flames and a doorbell.

“I was under the impression it was a paper sack.”

She shot him a murderous glare that he returned evenly, and she forced her teeth to unclench. “Loki. What. Is in. The bag?”

He sighed, and gestured sharply. “Just open it. It won’t bite, for God’s sake.”

Gingerly she unfolded the top and peered inside. “It’s...a bagel.”

One of those fancy ones covered in every seed imaginable. Toasted, smeared with just the right layer of cream cheese, and wafting its heavenly warm smell straight to her neglected belly. She closed the bag up, waited a moment before opening it again, and continued to stare inside it in confusion when its contents stayed the same.

“You brought me breakfast.” She glanced up at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you lace it with something?”

“Did I - what?”  He shook his head, and reached to take the bag back.  “Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother,”

“No!” Jane yelped, a touch too loud, and snatched the sack back to hold close to her chest protectively. “I just...thank you. Even if this is just some new part of the Playing Nice game.” A small part of her wondered if this was some sort of apology on his part for yesterday, but that idea was vetoed immediately. That was giving him far too much credit, she was sure.

“Beg pardon?”

“You know, the Play Nice game. The one where you do things that almost seem human, until I relax and then you proceed to mock me mercilessly for it.”

“I - hmm.” He lapsed into an abrupt silence, and for the first time she could recall, Loki seemed taken aback.

“Like that time when I was caught up with Planck’s Law and you spent the afternoon double-checking my equations and then proceeded to tell me that I shouldn’t have struggled because even a first year could have solved those problems? Or when you let me choose the music for once instead of slaving away to a bunch of dead guys with harpsichords in here, and you complained after the first hour that it was a wonder I ever managed to accomplish anything with that ‘caterwauling’ in the back ground? You didn’t think I would catch on?” Jane wagged her finger at him. “You’re not the only observant one around here.”

A smile touched his lips but never quite reached his eyes, the genial expression soured by a hint of...bitterness? Jane couldn’t read it, despite her assurance mere moments before. “You’re right. I’m as opaque as a pane of glass and you’ve seen right through me, Ms. Foster.”

Nodding triumphantly, Jane unwrapped the bagel and took a bite, closing her eyes at the warm deliciousness of fresh-baked goods. “Exactly. So don’t think I won’t be on my guard for the rest of the day,” she warned around a mouthful. Another followed, and if she had been less hungry she might have been embarrassed by the small sounds of pleasure she was making as she worked her way through the first half.

Movement caught her attention, and she glanced up from her notebook to see Loki lean forward with a fervid, sharp look in his eyes. “Ah, but see, if you’ve been enlightened then I shall have to change up the...game, as you call it. It would never do to be accused of being predictable, after all.”

Jane froze, dumbstruck by his whiplash change in attitude. What was with the bedroom eyes, and that little purr in his voice? Was this his new gambit already? As she stared, he reached across the table and traced his thumb along the edge of her lower lip before drawing it back to his own mouth and deliberately licking it.

“You had a bit of cream cheese there,” he said smugly, taking in her bug-eyed expression.

What the hell. What in the ever-loving, Sam-Hooty-Hecking hell. She didn’t think she liked this game. Not one bit. The lump of bagel she’d meant to swallow was wedged in her throat, actively trying to kill her, and she blamed the struggle to get it down for the heat that rose in her cheeks.

[escape-from-reality-reads]

Pharalynn’s Challenge: Part 6

Formerly known as Assassins Creed: Protection

Part 1 //  Part 2 //  Part 3 //  Part 4 //  Part 5  // Here

Word Count // 1956

By the time we entered Masyaf Altair had gotten some of his pride back from our scuffle, and when we reached the stables he stopped to look over his shoulder at me. "You said that you know what is to come."

'That is correct.'

"So you know what the Master is hiding from me."

'Correct as well.' I dropped my eyes and sighed. 'I know what you are going to ask, and I can't tell you. Just know that you are right to question his motives.' He nodded before leading the horse into it's stall and heading towards the castle, thinly veiled anger behind his eyes and movements.

As he reached the masters desk I laid down on one of the stone pillars. "I sense your thoughts are elsewhere. Speak your mind."

"Each man I kill speaks cryptic words to me. Each time I come to you for answers. Each time you give me riddles in exchange, but no more."

My ears perked at the boldness of my charges words and I purred in satisfaction. "Who are you to say no more."

"I'm the one who does the killing. If you want me to continue talk straight to me for once."

Mualim started to pace in irritation and Altair snuck a glance at me, uncertainty gracing his features.

I sat up and nodded. 'Stand your ground. You hold the tools he needs. You have more power in this situation than him.'

He nodded slightly, acknowledging my words. "Tread carefully boy. I don't like your tone."

"And I don't like your deception."

"I have offered you a chance to restore your lost honor."

"Not lost, taken, by you. And then you sent me to fetch it again like a damn dog." Al Mualim grabbed his sword from his desk.

"It seems like I have to find another. Shame, you showed great potential."

"I think if you had another you'd sent him long ago. You said my questions would be answered when I no longer needed to ask it, so I will not ask, I demand you tell me what binds these men!"

Mualim sighed. "What you say is true. These men are bound by a blood oath not unlike our own."

"Who are they?"

"Non nobis domine a no nobis."

"Templars."

"Now you see the true reach of Robert de Sable."

I tensed at his name a growled softly. "All of these men; Leaders of cities, commanders of armies."

"All pledge allegiance to his cause."

"Their works are not to be viewed on their own, are they? But as a whole, what do they desire?"

"Conquest. They seek the Holy Land, not in the name of God, but for themselves."

"What of Richard? Salah Hadean?"

"Any who oppose the Templars will be destroyed. Be assured that they have the means to accomplish it."

"Then they must be stopped."

"That is why we do our work, Altair. To assure a future free of such things."

"Why did you hide the truth from me?"

"So that you might pierce the veil yourself. Like any challenge; knowledge proceeds action. Information learned is more valuable than information given. Besides, your recent behavior did not instill much confidence."

"I see."

"Altair, your mission has not changed. Only the context in which you perceive it."

"And with this knowledge I can better understand those Templar's which remain."

"Is there anything else you wish to know?"

"What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back."

"In time Altair, all will become clear. Just as the role of the Templar's revealed itself to you so will the the nature of the treasure. For now take solace that it is not in their hands, but in ours."

"If this is your desire."

"It is. You are restored another rank. Take back your weapon, use it to bring honor to the brotherhood, and before you go," Mualim paused, leading Altair to prompt him.

"Yes?"

"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"

"Truth be told Master, I didn't. I took a leap of faith."

The elder man nodded and moved to his window, prompting the two of us to leave. Once we do we head out of the castle with no one asking Altair to train their apprentice, thankfully, and head out towards Damascus.

"Thank you for the advice. It helped me follow through." I angled my ears towards him, but said nothing and kept my eyes on the dirt path.

The horse slowed and Altair dismounted before standing in front of me. "You have been quiet since we left. What is wrong because you are not the same cat I was attacked by."

I lifted my head, sighed, stood up, and shook. 'You're right. Hearing Sable's name threw me off my game. I'm alright.'

Altair stood there for a second before nodding and mounting the horse again. 'Thank you, Altair.'

"You are my guide. I can't have you distracted."

'The old you would have yelled at me to get back on track. He also wouldn't have questioned his mentors motives even if he thought they were wrong. You have changed during these past few days.'

"Change is not always good, Kallie."

'That is true, but in this case it is. You have grown up, Altair. Changed from a headstrong child to a man who can see past the words he is given to see closer to the truth.'

Altair looked back to me. "Thank you."

'Don't get me wrong Altair. You're still headstrong.'

He cracked a small smile. "Alright Kallie."

'And stop calling me Kallie. She is dead.'

"Then what do I call you?"

'You're a smart man. You'll figure something out.' Altair nods and spurs the horse to a gallop towards Damascus.

"Altair, my friend, welcome welcome welcome! Who's life have you come to collect today?"

"His name is Abu'l Nuquod. What can you tell me about him?"

"Oh the merchant king of Damas! The richest man in the city quite exciting, quite dangerous. I envy you, Altair."

I sighed before laying down at Altair's feet.

"Well, not the part where you were stripped of your rank, but of everything else. Oh, except for what the others say-" I jumped onto the table and growled, cutting his rambling of condescending praise off.

"I do not care what the others say. We are here to do a job, so I ask again; What can you tell me of the merchant king."

"Only that he must be a very bad man if Al Mualim sent you to see him. He keeps to his own kind, wrapped in the finery of the cities noble district. He's a busy man, always up to something. I'm sure that if you spent some time in the streets you'd learn more about him."

"And where would you have me begin my search?" The Rafik rattled off three locations before the two of us head out.

We makd it a few buildings before I spoke. 'You took his condescending tone quite well.'

"His words mean nothing."

'I'm just saying that if he had said something like that a few days ago you would have challenged him to a fight. It shows how much you've changed for the better.' His lips turned to a ghost of a smile.

"Let's get to work." I nodded and the two of headed towards the first destination, saving a few people along the way. Once we got there Altair interrogates the man preaching for people to follow Nuquod.

When the man finally decided money wasn't worth life he sung like a bird. He told us that he never left his chambers out of hatred for the people as well as himself. He also stated that he had celebrations so that he could look down on everyone. "What's wrong with him that he hides like this?"

The man laughs. "You'll see, now let me go."

"So you can tell him of my plan? I think not." Altair kills the man before we made our way to the next location. Once there another assassin gave us a map showing where Abu'l stationed his men around the castle and city.

The final man gave us information on how to get to our targets quarters by using an entrance through the back, and once all the information had been acquired we head back to the bureau.

Once we returned Altair told the Rafik all the he learned while I did the less noble thing of eating a piece of the mans jerky.

I was hungry and he was a bit of a dick. End of discussion.

Once Altair was granted his feather we headed off to help people around the town till it was time to kill Nuquod. When it became time we made our way to the palace entrance where I stopped, which made Altair look back to me with confusion. "Why stop? We have a job to do."

'On the streets I stand out, and I'll do more so in there. This one you must do on your own. There is no time to waste.' I look up up the arches surrounding the opening. 'I'll wait up there for you to return once Abu'l is dead. Good luck.'

Altair nodded and went inside while I climbed to my perch to wait. It didn't take long for Altair to walk out of sight and I began to pace atop the arch, telling myself that Altair had been doing this long before I arrived, but I couldn't help but worry about my first charge. It only took a minute for the screams to begin and have people run for the entrance, only to be stopped my Nuquod's men.

I jumped down and slashed a man's throat before leaping to another and doing the same to his eyes. I quickly landed and hissed at the few remaining men, making them run and allowing the civilians to run out onto the streets. I barely got out of the way of being trampled before going to return to my perch, but am grabbed from behind.

I yowled and tried to land a blow, but the man quickly placed me into a cage before locking it. I continued to yowl and spit at the man, hoping that Altair found me before I was skinned for profit.

"let her go."

I stopped my caterwaul and turned to see Altair walking towards where the man had me contained. "An assassin protecting a flea-bitten feline? How you have fallen."

"My business is my own, now, release Shifra or die." The man growled at Altair before he opened the cage.

Unfortunately for him I don't take kindly to being locked up, so the second the cage was open I lunged at his throat and ripped it out.

The two of us made it to the rooftops before stopping. "Are you alright?"

'Yeah. Pissed that I didn't hear him, but unharmed.'

Altair nods. "Let's head back."

I nod and we return to the Rafik. Once Altair informed him of what happened at the party, informing him about how the guests were poisoned, we headed out. Once we reach the horse I sit down.

"What?"

'So my name is now Shifra.'

"What about it."

'Nothing. just glad that I have a name now.' I jumped up onto the horse. 'Thank you for saving me.'  

"I can't let the creature that's supposed to guide me get killed now can I."

I curled up behind the saddle. 'Perhaps not, but  I am nonetheless grateful.' Altair nods before directing the horse back to Masyaf.