#the writer's almanac

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Dr. Zhivago was playing at the Paramount Theater in St. Cloud. That afternoon, we went into Russia, and when we came out, the snow was falling—the same snow that fell in Moscow. The sky had turned black velvet. We’d been through the Revolution and the frozen winters. In the Chevy, we waited for the heater to melt ice on the windshield, clapping our hands to keep warm. On the highway, these two things: a song from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and that semi-truck careening by. Now I travel through the dark without you and sometimes I turn up the radio, hopeful the way you were, no matter what. “November, 1967” by Joyce Sutphen from First Words. © Red Dragonfly Press, 2010 Thanks to The Writer’s Almanac and “Reckonings”

[withnailrules]

Robert Louis Stevenson was passing by the window of a house one night in France when he looked inside and fell instantly in love with a woman he saw eating dinner with a group of her friends. Stevenson stared at her for what seemed like hours, and then opened the window and leapt inside. The guests were shocked, but Stevenson just bowed and introduced himself. The woman was an American named Fanny Osborne. They fell in love and got married a few years later.

—The Writer's Almanac

[distilled-prose]

His Elderly Father as a Young Man

by Leo Dangel

This happened before I met your mother: I took Jennie Johanson to a summer dance, and she sent me a letter, a love letter, I guess, even if the word love wasn’t in it. She wrote that she had a good time and didn’t want the night to end. At home, she lay down on her bed but stayed awake, listening to the songs of morning birds outside her window. I read that letter a hundred times and kept it in a cigar box with useless things I had saved: a pocket knife with an imitation pearl handle and a broken blade, a harmonica I never learned to play, one cuff link, an empty rifle shell.

When your mother and I got married, I threw the letter away— if I had kept it, she might wonder. But I wanted to keep it and even thought about hiding places, maybe in the barn or the tool shed; but what if it were ever found? I knew of no way to explain why I would keep such letter, much less why I would take the trouble to hide it. Jennie had gone to California not long after that dance. I pretty much got over wanting to see her just once more, but I wish I could have kept the letter, even though I know it by heart.

[reel-fear]

Some non canon leaked S4 concepts: BA might've been part of why Blitzwing is a triple changer via surgery/experiments he likely consented to knowing the risks. The fandom: omg shes such a horrible bitch, I cant believe that shes such an abuser

The actual show: here's Blitzwing and BA interacting, nothing happens except Blitzwing says "ew ur gross and techno-organic/disabled such a bitch" and BA replies it "stick it up ur ass" The fandom: Blitzwing is such a bean did nothing wrong <3<3 he simply didn't mean it when he said BA's scars are gross <3<3<3 such a smol bean boy BA is such a horrible bitch

PURE sexism and horrible bigoted bias.

[thatwritererinoriordan]

Starting tomorrow, you'll be able to listen to my daily "Almanac" posts as a Spotify podcast.

[mioritic]

Almanakh VUSPP (אַלמאַנאַך װאוספּפּ) (Kharkov: Tsentrfarlag / צענטרפארלאג, 1929)

Almanac of the Yiddish section of the All-Ukrainian Association of Proletarian Writers. Cover illustrated by B. Blank and M. Fradkin.

Image via Yiddish Book Center, info via Stanford Libraries

[theangrycomet-art]

The Almanac is a very... interesting read

I have... opinions on some of the behind the scenes world building and what they had planned with S4 (it makes me a little glad the show ended where it did... writers it's bad enough you offed Prowl when you could have had restoring the Allspark be the Key's purpose instead of upgrading Sari- but then to further split up the team whyyyyy)

Anyway, here's Blitzwing and my take on him before the Triple-Changer experiment was done to him against his will and his former partner the cold hearted bitch who did it to him, also pre-op.

COMMISSIONS OPEN

Ramblings (no really- RAMBLINGS) below: I wanted to make this a comic but the Art wasn't Arting

TLDR: Lancer and Blitzwing were taken as prisoners of war by the autobots and Lancer made a lot of bad decisions to try and save his life within they circumstances which directly led to him becoming the first triple changer.

It's a little more complicated than this but basically Blitzwing (then known as Kaltwing) was hurt REALLY bad when he and Lancer were trying to retrieve the Allspark-about partway through the war. Like- missing his legs- wings ripped off- half his face blasted off bad.

So Lancer, or Himmel Lancer as she was then called, tried to put him back together with what she had on hand because she was not about to let her best friend go OFFLINE. This resulted in her basically frankenstein-ing him parts from a fallen tank decepticon's corpse as well as her own parts to try and keep him online.Most notably her own T-cog, as his was damaged and forcing him to attempt to transform at random. Because they were the same Frame type it was compatible enough to stabilize it when she fused the two ports.

Unfortunately, this still left him in extreme agony as Lancer was a RESEARCHER, not a Medic by any streatch of the word. It was one of those times he was pleading with her to offline him that they were caught by Autobots. With Blitzwing barley able to move and Lancer unable to transform, they were fish in a barrel.

The Autobots, after surgically stripping Lancer of ALL her weapons and installing a "contingency clause" protocol, allowed her to continue Blitzwing's "treatment" as well as forcing her to continue such experiments on other captured ‘cons. Many were curious to see where this "project" would go, even if most wouldn't openly agree to it themselves.

This went on for years with Blitzwing being their geniua pig until they reached the final straw for both of the former seekers.

Through a string of luck and incompetence, Lancer managed to achieve the two's original goal and stole the All-Spark right from under Ultra Magnus' nose. She was hoping it would reverse the damage she's done to him, and possibly restore herself in the process, but she was interrupted when the gaurds caught up with her and the contingency clause protocols activated and began frying her from the inside out.

While she was able to stabilize Blitzwing before all this and relieve him of the physical pain he'd been under, it came at cost. Between his fritzing original T-cog and the trauma of having endless, painful operations at the hands of his friend and subsequent the poor treatment from Autobots, his mind broke under the Allsparks "upgrades"z

During the chaos, he manages to break free and slaughters everyone in the facility including Lancer (at least he thought so). He was trying to grant her the clean death she refused him.

(Ironically enough, this damaged her enough for the protocols to think she'd offlined, and thus deactivate on their own).

He escapes back to the decepticons empty-handed and scary the shit out of everyone while Lancer is left to deal with the remaining wrath of the autobots.

[twstbookclub]

Inked Blossoms

Summary: Jamil didn't think much of you when he received a flower basket. You were his new neighbor running a flower shop—nothing more, nothing less. So, why can't he stop coming by after visiting you once? POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender-neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa🦋 Tags: Tattoo Artist x Florist AU, Tattoo Artist!Jamil, Florist!Reader, Fluff, Romance, Angst, No happy ending, sorry folks, Mentions of Blood and Self-harm, Use of Flower Language, Jamil's POV Word Count: 4, 025 Main Reference for Flower Meanings: Boeckmann, C. (2023, November 17). What does each flower symbolize? The Old Farmer's Almanac.

And I thought the Riddle fic I wrote is my longest one 💀 I actually had this plot in mind in the same month as I thought of the Riddle fic, which was back in April of last year. I only put in one link here, but I fact-checked every flower I used in this fic with other sources. Admittedly, when I wrote this, I received some heartbreaking news that morning and I cried my eyes out. I may or may not have projected those feelings into this and incorporated my previous experiences here. To all the Jamil stans, I'm so sorry that my first fic of this guy is long and angsty. I hope you all enjoy, though 💕

Jamil stared at the flowers on his parlor’s doorstep. Pink peonies and coral roses filled the twine basket, along with a purple flower that he didn’t know the name of. The arrangement emphasized the purple flowers, while there were a few peonies mixed in with the roses. What piqued Jamil’s curiosity were the leaves that lined the edges of the basket. He squinted, subconsciously leaning down to peer at the blooms at his feet.

“... Is that basil?” He mumbled, confused about the inclusion of a familiar herb. It was something he often used in his cooking, particularly when he was roommates with Kalim back in high school. That boy’s palate was too refined for anything bland and ready-made, so Jamil always had to cook with spices and herbs. It came to the point that the smell stuck to his clothes, even after a thorough wash in the laundry. Not just his clothes—even his hair. He already had a meticulous process with his hair care and bejeweled braids, so it was a nuisance.

He shook his head, before he took the flower basket in his hands. The blooms jostled a little, and a gentle hand pushed a peony back in place. Something nagged at Jamil to look to the left, for some reason. When he turned his head, the sign of the shop next door caught his attention.

“A flower shop, huh.” That was new. Jamil vaguely remembered this lot being sold recently, but he never thought it’d be turned into a store like that. It used to be an antique store owned by an elderly woman. She minded her own business, despite the weird and judgmental looks he received for the henna tattoos that decorated Jamil’s tan hands and arms.

Jamil’s eyes darted from the cursive letters of the sign to the flowers and plants displayed behind the glass walls. The name of the shop was painted on one of the walls in gold—above some of the artful arrangements of red roses, white carnations, and calla lilies. There was a shift of color behind them, and he narrowed his eyes again for a better look.

Someone was tending to the flowers. He could vaguely make out the color of their hair and the verdant apron over a white polo shirt. With the large bouquets in the way, Jamil couldn’t see a face. Sighing and shaking his head, he walked into his tattoo parlor with the flower basket in his arms.

If all his time in the city taught him anything, it was that nothing in this world was free.

Still, Jamil couldn’t help but wonder what the purple flowers were. They reminded him of tulips, but the petals were thinner and pointed at the tips. The stamen was visible, too. It was a stark contrast to the blooming tulips he knew: blunt-tipped and oval petals without the stamen being visible. He made a mental note to search about them once he went home.

Jamil found out that the purple blooms were called crocuses, and he wound up finding a website detailing the meanings of every flower imaginable. The flowers replaced the lamp that used to be on the table next to his bed. Every morning, he’d wake up to the colorful arrangement in a vase with his mind stuck on the meaning of each flower.

Maybe he should see what the florist was like. If they were like the antique shop owner from before, then Jamil would just remain polite and ignore them whenever he could.

On a slow and quiet day in the parlor, Jamil flipped the sign and locked the door. He shoved the key in his pocket, while his eyes drifted to the flower displays and bouquets through the glass walls. A blur of white and green moved behind them, but he still couldn’t put a face to the florist.

Jamil would have to see if he was curious enough to put a name to that face, too.

A chime echoed in the store once he stepped inside, and an onslaught of fragrance hit him. He noted that it wasn’t as powerful as the smell of spices, ones that he can taste from the scent alone. Still, it was strong enough to leave him a little lightheaded.

“Ah, welcome!” A voice rang through the back, behind an open door that led to what Jamil assumed was a small greenhouse. Sacks of fertilizer and clay pots filled with flowers peeked out of the metal shelves. The sight was obscured by a green apron, stitched with the same cursive letters of the store sign.

Charcoal gray eyes met lively, cheerful ones. The gloved hands that gripped the door frame were smeared with soil, maybe even fertilizer. Dirt smudged your cheek, but his gaze drifted to your lips. Your smile—too bright to be natural—was difficult to look away from. Something churned in his chest the longer he looked at it.

“Oh,” you mumbled, which made Jamil look back into your eyes again, “you’re my next-door neighbor. Hi! I hope you like the flowers. I’m, uh…”

A sheepish chuckle left your lips, making Jamil’s heart lurch. He resisted the urge to scowl at the feeling. He just met you, and he’d rather not make a bad impression. The tattoo artist came to your store to meet you like a proper neighbor, not to antagonize you.

“I came by to say hi, and you weren’t there. I had to get the shop ready and all, so I decided to leave the basket and hope that it stays there—” You sighed, took off one of your gloves, and ran a hand through your hair— “and I’m rambling. Sorry about that.”

Jamil watched you, anxious and fidgety, and he suppressed a smile. There was something amusing about how you acted like a mouse: squeaking and retreating at any sign of danger. Although, he highly doubted that you saw him as a threat.

You were just… shy. You talked a lot, but you were shy.

“It’s fine,” Jamil raised a hand and smiled, practiced and polite, “and I appreciate the flowers. Thank you. It’s a beautiful arrangement—you have a way with bringing out their natural beauty.”

He probably laid it on too thick. It was a habit at this point: butter up people to ease them, to let their guard down. Jamil merely planned to meet this florist to satisfy his curiosity. He never considered the option of befriending this person, much less engaging in a long conversation with you.

Your face lit up, as if something dawned on you in that moment. Chuckling, you stretched out the hand without the glove and gave him your name. It was followed with a cheerful, “It’s nice to meet you! I hope we can get along, um…”

“Jamil,” he shook your hand with that same, practiced smile, “Jamil Viper. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He noticed your eyes dart towards his hand and arm, inked with the traditional motifs and patterns of his homeland. Under the sunlight that streamed through the glass, your eyes seemed to sparkle. Your mouth parted in a silent, “Oh.”

“That’s so pretty,” you blurted out and continued to stare at the henna tattoos. Jamil simply watched you with wide eyes, but the surprise disappeared in that same instant. Your voice, loud and happy, filled the silence of the room.

“The amount of detail here is amazing, and—Oh, there’s even more tiny patterns inside another pattern. That’s so cool!”

Even though this much praise usually annoyed Jamil (it reminded him too much of Kalim), he found himself flustered. A faint warmth spread across his cheeks as he watched you marvel at the tattoos. You raised a hand, probably to trace the design with a finger, when you paused.

Your smile was frozen on your face, as if you caught yourself doing something embarrassing. Your own cheeks flushed in shame, before you pulled away with a nervous giggle. Jamil almost laughed at how ridiculous you looked at the moment.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that called you cute.

It was supposed to be a one-time encounter. Jamil only visited your flower shop to see the person who opened a new business next to his tattoo parlor. He wanted to see whether this new neighbor of his was going to be tolerable or otherwise. One meeting was enough to deem you tolerable; someone that Jamil could politely wave to if you two happened to pass by each other.

So, why was he looking at a bouquet of irises and white jasmines right now? Why was he standing in your store on a Sunday morning?

“You’ve been coming a lot here lately.” Your voice rang from the back, much like how Jamil first met you. He looked over his shoulder to see you admiring the other flowers with a small smile.

“I don’t mind, really, and it’s nice to have you here. I just didn’t expect you to come here almost every day,” you clarified with a chuckle as you approached him. The telltale flush of your cheeks already told Jamil about how embarrassed you were to confess that. He watched you caress one of the petals of a hydrangea with a gentle look.

For a weekend, it was surprisingly quiet here. People flocked to your store during its first week, and Jamil observed all this in the comfort of his parlor. The window provided a clear view of what was going on, so he didn’t need to go outside. You became frazzled in a matter of moments—running around and arranging the flowers yourself—and that amused Jamil. Just a bit.

Still, you smiled throughout that hectic week.

Me neither, Jamil wanted to say. Instead, he answered, “It’s another slow day in my shop, so I decided to visit. I suppose it’s become a habit whenever I have nothing else to do.”

You chuckled, and Jamil pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat. He ignored the twitch of his lips, curling into a small smile. Oblivious to the look the tattoo artist gave you, you continued to admire the flowers.

“That’s fine with me. Besides, I like your company.”

Your shameless honesty was going to be the death of Jamil. The tips of his ears grew warm, and he tugged his hood over them. He already concluded that you were a thoughtful and considerate person after spending some time with you. You prepared tea and cookies, ones you yourself baked, every time he visited. Careful hands arranged the flowers by meaning and color, which already said enough about you. Being a florist sounded just right for someone like you.

Jamil briefly wondered what flowers you’d give him if you wanted to give him a bouquet.

He cleared his throat, mimicking a cough, before he shifted his attention to the irises and jasmines again. Ever since he searched the meanings of the flowers in that basket, he couldn’t help but be curious.

“Can you tell me what these mean in flower language?” He asked, glancing at you from behind his hood. Whether you found this action odd or not, you didn’t comment on it.

With a curious hum, you leaned over to look at what Jamil referred to and smiled wider. You replied, “Ah, irises can mean wisdom, faith, trust, valor, and hope. As for white jasmines…”

You raised an eyebrow at Jamil with a mischievous grin. He didn’t dare entertain the thought that you were being adorable from the action alone. He didn’t dare hope that the gesture actually meant something.

“They can mean sweet love, and the person who receives them is seen as friendly and pleasant.” You paused, before you suddenly left Jamil’s side and reached for the adjacent wall of flowers. Before Jamil could say anything, you already extended a white bloom under his nose.

Wide-eyed and bewildered, he stared at the flower in your hand. It somewhat resembled a rose in full bloom, but the petals were shaped differently. Another amused laugh echoed in the room. You took his hand, inked with intricate patterns that crawled his skin like vines, and placed the flower in it.

Jamil realized that it was a gardenia. This species of flora grew in some part of the botanical garden of his high school. He was only familiar with it because he used to pass by the area to relax, preferably alone.

“I think this suits you, though.” You hummed and returned to the counter with a spin of your heel. Jamil watched you wordlessly as you disappeared into the greenhouse. From where he stood, the tattoo artist saw pink and white camellias peeking through one of the shelves. He nearly jumped when your head popped out of the door frame.

“Oh, and can you help me carry some of these pots around? They’re pretty heavy, thanks!”

It was only until Jamil got home that he searched for the meaning of the gardenia. The bright laptop screen glared at him as he entered the keywords in the search bar. He clicked on the first result and—

Jamil stared at the words with darkening cheeks. His mouth became dry, and his tongue was tied into knots. His hand slammed the monitor shut, before he abruptly stood up and left for the kitchen. He needed some water. He needed to not think too much into things. You were going to be the death of him, Jamil swore to that.

Still, the words were already seared into his memory: you’re lovely.

Jamil found himself visiting you whenever he could. You always asked for his help whenever heavy labor was involved. If it was anyone else, he would’ve felt annoyed. With you, it was just an excuse for Jamil to stay longer.

Fleeting touches, subtle glances, and shy smiles—it was like your own language. Not a single word was exchanged, yet it felt like you said more than Jamil could comprehend. He didn’t miss the moments when your hands lingered too long over his. He would be a fool not to notice that a cookie jar and a box of teabags sat on the counter each time he visited.

For the past year, you’d give him a single flower every day without fail. One time, after the usual tea, it was a morning glory. Another time, when you were particularly homesick and Jamil stayed to chat, you gave him a hydrangea. When he visited your house and took care of you when you became sick, you gave him a yellow lily the next day. He always brought them home, but it came to the point that a mishmash of flowers in a vase brought color and life to his workspace. It sat under the window, where it bathed under a patch of sunlight. He even considered buying another vase due to the sheer amount.

You gave him all kinds of flowers, but he’d never forget the first gardenia he received from you.

“That looks out of place,” one customer pointed out while Jamil prepared the needle. He already knew what he was talking about, but the tattoo artist still followed his line of sight. A soft smile stretched from one ear to the other, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Without looking away from the flowers, he answered, “They’re gifts from a friend. It’s the only place I can think of where they can be cared for.”

He ignored the sly, knowing grin on the customer’s face. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Jamil gestured towards the chair and continued to prepare everything he needed for this job.

One sunny day, your storefront was crowded more than usual. Jamil paid no mind to the crowd as he pulled his hood over his head. Inked hands grabbed a bundle of flowers, tied with twine, from the table. They were placed far from the vases that decorated the parlor; just to avoid confusion. His eyes fell on the gardenia he drew on the back of his hand. Jamil added that some time ago, maybe around the past month. Still, it made him smile.

Jamil locked the door, then he instinctively looked at the flower shop. His heart stuttered at the sight of the flowers amongst the crowd. The vibrant and lively blossoms were like a splash of color against the dull tones of the city. What used to be gray pavement and monochrome buildings seemed to come to life with just a few flowers.

He blinked his surprise away, before he gripped the bouquet in his hands. The thrum of his heart and the sweat on his palms weren’t something foreign to Jamil. He always felt like this at the thought of you, even Kalim noticed the change in his friend when he visited once. Your smile flashed in his mind, and his own lips curled into a small one. His feet led him to where he knew you were.

Past the flower shop; past the crowd that lingered at the storefront; past the fresh flowers that gathered against the glass walls. Jamil’s feet grew heavier with each step, as if lead hit the concrete and left faint cracks behind. He stepped through the iron-wrought gates with a soft exhale. His grip on the flowers tightened. He considered going back to the tattoo parlor.

In the end, he thought he’d regret it if he backed out now. Blades of grass grazed his sneakers as he walked through rows of stones. Names were etched into each one, a reminder of who they were to the loved ones left behind. Charcoal gray eyes looked straight ahead. He didn’t bother looking at any of them.

It had been a year since that day, but he still remembered where you were.

Grass crunched under his feet as he stopped in front of an unassuming headstone. Engraved in the stone was your name—funny how he never knew your surname until the funeral. You never told him when you introduced yourself, and he didn’t pry. He even imagined you with his surname at some point, but…

Jamil swallowed the lump in his throat. He crouched on one knee and laid the bundle of flowers on your grave. The tattoo artist made the effort of arranging the colorful blooms in a way that you would. At least, how he remembered that you would.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, and he stared at your gravestone with that same lump in his throat. A sigh rang in the empty cemetery. A cool breeze carried the hustle and bustle of the city. The laugh that used to plague Jamil’s everyday life here was missing. It was gone for months now, but he could still hear it clearly in his head.

“Hey,” Jamil mumbled, clenching his hands into fists, “it’s been a while. I’m sorry I only visited today. It… took me some time to come to terms with what happened. Regardless, you deserved an earlier visit.”

No answer, Of course, there was no answer. You’ve been dead for quite some time now. That was an understatement, considering that a year has already passed.

Jamil’s stomach churned, and an insufferable heat filled his chest. His eyes stung. His nails pierced into the skin of his palms. The lump in his throat seemed to grow bigger, and he found it hard to breathe. Memories of your smile, your laugh, and the time he spent with you and your flowers overlapped in his mind.

He dug his heels into the dirt as he gritted his teeth. The sting behind his eyes grew worse. It was hard to breathe, and he found it harder to speak. He somehow forced the words out with a broken heart, pieces scattered along the ashes of what was left of you.

“You idiot,” Jamil choked out as his vision blurred with tears, “you could’ve called me to help you. How was I supposed to know you were still sick? How was I supposed to know you needed to carry that ridiculously huge flower display across the street? How was I supposed to know that car would lose control and—”

Jamil looked up to the sky with a clenched jaw, teeth clacking and shaking his skull from the force. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse whatever deity existed in this world. He wanted to forget how you looked, pale and bleeding on the street, that day. He wanted to erase that memory of you until his heart bled out and his voice croaked its last scream.

“—they haven’t found the driver. Everyone who knew you petitioned to keep the shop in your memory. Someone else took over, too. You don’t have to worry about your flowers anymore.”

Since that day, whenever Jamil looked at the ink that adorned his hands and arms, all he remembered was your loud voice and bright smile. Your praise and astonishment echoed in his head like a broken record player. He couldn’t count the amount of times he tried to scrub them clean from his skin. If that didn’t work, he scratched at them until he bled and the patterns were hidden under that shade of red.

In hindsight, Jamil thought that was idiotic of him. Love turned anyone into idiots, anyway.

Sighing, Jamil forced the tears back and looked down at your gravestone. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine you smiling and laughing again. The image of you, lifeless and still on the road, would become a scar that faded with time. He hoped it would be.

“I thought of giving you baby’s breath,” Jamil began as the lump in his throat returned, “along with forget-me-nots, and blue salvia. It would be a horrible contrast, but I also thought of adding pink carnations.”

He paused, before bitterly chuckling to himself. “I don’t have your skills, though. You were always amazing with flower arrangements. I couldn’t hold a candle to you, and I rarely tell anyone that. I didn’t want to give you something that was less than perfect—you deserve more than that, so I settled with sweet peas.”

Jamil knew he was talking to himself. He always found it ridiculous how anyone talked to the dead, even if he understood the necessity to respect the ones who passed. This one time, he understood why people did this. Jamil just couldn’t bring himself to accept the circumstances that led to that revelation.

“They mean goodbye in flower language, but I prefer the other meaning. Maybe, in another life, I would’ve bought you flowers for a date. I was thinking of asking you on a date before. Did you know that?”

Another bitter chuckle. Another shaky breath.

“I was supposed to ask you that day. I finally found the courage to try, and what did I see? You…” The words were stuck in Jamil’s throat. He couldn’t force the words out this time. The clamor outside and the harsh slam of his parlor door echoed in his memories. He didn’t want his last memory of you to be your dying breath. He’d rather not remember that at all.

Jamil shook his head and continued, “I apologize for that. What you need to know is that I like you. I may even go so far as to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never told you earlier. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

The tattoo artist sat down in front of your headstone. He didn’t care if dirt and grass stained his jeans this time. He reached out to trace the name etched into the stone, with the same hand where the inked gardenia peeked out of his sleeve.

“I like your flowers. I like all of them. I still keep them with me. I wish I told you that sooner,” Jamil mumbled, voice cracking at the end. A tear rolled down his left cheek and dripped into the soil. His shoulders shook in a silent sob as he breathed his last words to you.

“Thank you for a lovely time. I’ll never forget you.”

[thislovintime]

From The Monkees' Kansas City concert on July 14, 1987: "Good Clean Fun," with Peter on lead vocals and banjo on this Nesmith tune (originally released after Peter had left The Monkees). Footage courtesy of the Monkees Live Almanac.

“I have a great deal of respect for Mike as a musician and a songwriter. He’s very good. He could make it on his own easily. Also he’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.” - Peter Tork, Flip, August 1967 “Mike’s a song writer, one of the best in the country.” - Peter Tork, The San Francisco Examiner, November 23, 1968 “Nesmith is an astounding artist, and he’s very funny.” - Peter Tork, Monkees Convention Q&A, 1982 “There are two common and, to me, repugnant notions about the Monkees. Number one, that I was the only one who had any talent, which is patently absurd. It’s as unfair and as unkind as it is stupid. The other one is that I was the only musician. I wasn’t the only musician and I wasn’t much of a musician. Peter was a much more skillful player than I was by some orders of magnitude.” - Michael Nesmith, The Monkees Tale

[study-with-aura]

Wednesday, August 28, 2024

It has been really busy around here since my parents are back to their campuses regularly again. That, and it has been so quiet! There's nothing wrong with the quiet of course, but it reminds me that Julien isn't at home anymore, which makes me sad. It is okay though. He is having a great time back at his university, and that makes me happy to know!

My updates may start to get sporadic again, as I am already starting to experience slight difficulties with staying motivated in studying. One would think, since I had an amazing summer break (despite the small studying I still did), that I would be good and ready to keep going until the next break. However, my summer was still packed with activity and maybe not a true break at all even though all of it was enjoyable and fun! The work this year is also more demanding. If you haven't noticed, there is a lot more revising going on with my notes and more writing and reading material in general. It will prepare me for more advanced studies of course, but I need to get back into the groove of it, so to speak, and I will.

Tasks Completed:

Algebra 2 - Learned about graphing linear inequalities + practice + practiced with the graphing calculator

American Literature - Copied vocabulary terms + read about Benjamin Franklin as a writer + read excerpts from The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin + answered discussion questions + read about Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac in the article "The Prominent and Prodigiously Popular Poor Richard" + read over Benjamin Franklin's aphorisms and the virtues associated with them + wrote down three aphorisms from the list that I liked including what they meant + read over the article "Reflective Writing: A Basic Introduction" + read chapters 20-21 of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Spanish 3 - Read over an activity in Spanish to determine how much I could read and understand (I understood most of it) + reviewed gender and plural in Spanish

Bible 2 - Read 2 Samuel 22

Early American History - Watched a short video about the first Thanksgiving + read chapter 9 of Plymouth Plantation by William Bradford

Earth Science with Lab - Watched a video about hydroplate theory and Earth's radioactivity

Music Appreciation - Read about and listened to Musical Signatures associated with Gustav Mahler + read about and listened to the "Refuge and Renewal," "Triumph and Tragedy," and "Awe and Affirmation" tabs about Gustav Mahler + copied major necessary terms from the H section of the music dictionary

Khan Academy - Completed US History Unit 2: Lesson 3 (part 1)

Duolingo - Studied for approximately 30 minutes (Spanish + French + Chinese) + completed daily quests

Piano - Practiced for two hours in one hour split sessions

Reading - Read pages 211-277 of We Are All So Good at Smiling by Amber McBride and finished the book

Chores -  None today

Activities of the Day:

Personal Bible Study (Matthew 5)

Ballet

Variations

Journal/Mindfulness

[cherrydropru]

A Belated Introduction

I'm Ru. I am a game designer/writer/editor/stream producer in table top role playing games.

You can check out all of my written work at https://charupatel.carrd.co/

And all of my actual play work here: https://charuperforms.carrd.co/

You can also check out an article I wrote that I'm quite proud of about my thoughts on game design here: https://startplaying.games/blog/posts/game-design-and-the-pieces-of-myself

My work in the industry focuses on my curiosity with curating and forging identity, the complications of building community, and experimenting with atypical game mechanics. I draw on magical girl animes, 90s teen media and 80s/90s Bollywood to inspire my narrative design. I've designed my own games, Kick Rocks! and Kick Garlic! and have worked on Unbreakable Revolution, Slayers Almanac, Grasping Nettles, Babes in the Wood: All Hollows EP, and BUTT&HEAD.

[pastafossa]

So the biggest of my city's libraries started their three day 'every book 25 cents, a bag for a dollar' book sale today. And me, used to Rural Area Library Events, figured I'd roll in a half hour or so after they started, cause it wasn't like there'd be a ton of folks right?

WRONG.

A swarm, a seething SWARM of fellow book lovers had descended upon this sale like a flock of seagulls on a tossed french fry. There were hundreds of folks packed in, and apparently, this was light compared to what it had been on opening. I was told there'd been a massive line of people who'd waited two hours outside in the rain before it opened just to get first picks.

Scifi? Picked clean.

Fantasy? Literally no books left.

Horror? Not a single Stephen King in sight.

Romance? Nothing left but smutless Hallmark style romances

Nonfiction was a little better - I snagged a neat little Farmer's Almanac, a photography book of horses I can use for carving, a book of tips for writer's and artists, and, hilariously, a small book I thought was a world history book but turned out to just be the D section of an encyclopedia.

I'm not even mad. I'm just happy people are reading and using the library! But damn, gonna be going earlier next year. 😅

[thatrickmcginnis]

ANDREI BITOV, Toronto 1988

Andrei Bitov was a Soviet writer when I photographed him at the authors festival in 1988, even though he had been labeled a dissenter and offered the choice that so many other writers in the Soviet Union had taken - exile - and turned it down. Under glasnost and Mikhail Gorbachev's regime, though, his career had taken a positive turn and Pushkin House, the novel considered his masterpiece, had been published in both Russia and the west. Born in Leningrad in 1937, he spent part of his childhood in the city when it was attacked by Nazi armies - an 872-day siege where an estimated 1.5 million people died of disease and starvation. He'd work as a stevedore and construction worker and serve in the army before he graduated from the Leningrad Mining Institute and began publishing short stories in the '60s. While he finished Pushkin House in the early '70s, he would have to wait for over a decade to see it in print.

Writer Andrei Bitov's reputation with the Soviet government went bad in 1979 when he edited and contributed to the Metropol Literary Almanac, an anthology that was offered for publication in both the Soviet Union and the west despite lacking official sanction. It was never published in the Soviet Union and Bitov was offered the choice to leave the country, which he refused for personal and family reasons. Describing the family and upbringing of Lyova, the "hero" of Pushkin House, Bitov wrote that "politics was never mentioned in the family, neither damned nor praised, and he regarded it as something very external and exempt from criticism, not even so much out of caution - they didn't seem to have taught him that, either - as because it was totally irrelevant to him." But in the Soviet Union you might try to be disinterested in politics, but politics was very interested in you.

Glasnost came along just in time to give writer Andrei Bitov a career inside and outside the Soviet Union, and around the time I photographed him at the authors festival he helped found what would be the Russian chapter of PEN International. By 2000, when he was president of PEN Russia, there was a controversy when Russia hosted the PEN International Congress, and members protested that this shouldn't be happening while Russia was waging war in Chechnya. While he disapproved of the war, Bitov said that he felt that PEN Russia had "become hostages of East and West at the same moment…now the word 'Soviet' is being replaced by the word 'Russian,' and I don't like it. What I don't like is that as a private person I was made to feel responsible." My principal memory of my shoot with Andrei Bitov in that little wood-paneled alcove off that hotel lobby in 1988 was his gravitas; he seemed like a very literary person, more concerned with his work and the culture of books and words around the world. It seems like a very long time ago now. Andrei Bitov died in Moscow in 2018.

[cosmiccannibalcamille]

YOUR Mercury & Venus in Cancer HOROSCOPE

What: Mercury & Venus in Cancer

When: June 16/17 through July2/11

Takeaway: A deep dive into sentimentality, nostalgia, nurturing and sensitivity

Tighten those purse strings and give someone a big hug: on June 17, Venus, the planet of love and money, glides into the security-loving water sign Cancer, where it stays until July 11. But that’s not all: Mercury, the planet of writing, also enters the cardinal water sign on June 17, shifting your focus to feelings.  

     Lots of (TikTok) horoscopes will likely tell you that 2024 Mercury & Venus in Cancer makes you a little moodier in your relationships, a little more sensitive, a little more affectionate and nurturing, and maybe even more intuitive—but that’s just half of it.  The combination of the love planet and the mind/messaging planet in this feeling-focused water sign also sends your sentimentality and concern surging. (Cancer is ALL about safety, security, and comfort.) This is the time of year when decisions are made because they feel right and because they promise some kind of support. Indeed, emotions and sensory experiences steer the ship in a lot of ways, making it easier to reminisce—and easier to take offense.

     Get ready to rhapsodize your past as if it’s the best thing that ever was, because these transits are all about nostalgia. The upswell in sensitivity, sentimentality, and nostalgia makes it a lovely time to sift through your past feelings, your secret worries/fears, your sensory experiences, and use them for your current writing projects. (I’m talking to you, fiction writers!) And because Cancer is such a nurturing sign, these two transits help you be the same towards your current creative project—but only for a short time. Mercury enters Leo on July 2.

     So, if ever there was a time to nurture an idea, a story, or an art project like it’s an only child, it’s now. But if you’ve been throwing away money during Mercury & Venus in Gemini, these two transits through Cancer may see you clinging to (or dwelling on) your cash like Walter White. 

     Speaking of clinginess… Mercury & Venus in Cancer could also see you clinging to your loved ones like a vine. During this time, it’s natural to ache for snuggles, cuddles, and more and ~quality~ time. That means less talking and more hugging, kissing, and cuddling for you and your boo. With friends, you might consider forgoing going out and instead hole away at home to cook dinners together and talk about your feelings. (Fun fact: Venus rules both love and platonic relationships, dontcha know.)

Get the FULL SCOOP on these two transits (including Horoscopes for YOUR Rising Sign) on The Cosmic Almanac:

[kindahoping4forever]

Blood Moon Lit // Ashton Irwin

Hello! Thank you to everyone who continues to engage with my masterlist and ask about my writing even though the fics have slowed down again - even as a writer, I somehow can't find the words to describe how encouraging it is. It's because of that encouragement that I've got a new fic for you today! I've been working on some longer form stuff (partly to blame for my absence) and since those projects are gonna take some time, I thought it'd be fun to sneak in a quick, light piece to tide us all over. The lunar eclipse that took place last week (sadly rained out in LA) provided a burst of inspiration and I ran with it!

As always thank you to @cal-puddies, it's more apparent than ever that I don't know how to do this without her lol

Warnings: Friends to lovers!Ash, an overabundance of flirty banter, an obnoxious amount of references to Ash's beard. A conversation about weed. Protected first time sex.Just some classic fluffy smut vibes.

Word Count: 6585

Masterlist // Ko-Fi linked above

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

“You know, according to the Farmer’s Almanac---”

“How many times do I have to tell you that’s an absurd way to begin a sentence?”

Ashton tosses a crumpled up napkin in your direction, good-natured glare on his face. “If you’re gonna invite yourself over to my house to watch the eclipse, it’s only fair that you listen to my moon anecdotes.”

“Alternate perspective: if you’re going to be offering up moon anecdotes to a captive audience, you should spice up your presentation. You’re a professional entertainer, Ash, you should understand.”

You cackle watching your friend’s face twist and contort as he struggles not to laugh at your ribbing. He scratches at his beard, aggravated and amused, and you can’t help but smile. He’s so expressive, you love getting a reaction out of him.

“Next time, you can throw your own damn eclipse party, I don’t care how lame the view at your apartment is,” he declares, knocking on the kitchen island for emphasis.

You shrug, “Lucky for me, the next lunar eclipse isn’t until 2025, so I’ve got time to find some better digs.”

“I’ve got time to find better friends,” he mutters under his breath, giggling at the sound of your offended gasp. Apparently he loves getting a reaction out of you as well.

You pout, “Aww, if you didn’t want me here, would you really have gone to this much trouble?” You hug his broad shoulders, cozying up to him, smiling at how he seems to melt against you. You gesture at the spread of snacks on the tray in front of you. “Crescent sandwiches, moon pies, Mars bars, Milky Ways…”

“Not a lot of moon specific snacks out there, had to extend the theme to the entire solar system,” he chuckles, nudging you with a pack of Starburst, gesturing for you to follow him outside.

It’s not that you invited yourself over to Ash’s tonight, it’s just that when you complained how obscured the view is at your place and he responded by mentioning how much he loves watching the moon from his garden every night… Well, that sounds like an invitation, now doesn’t it?

You trail behind him as he sets the food on a table in the backyard and pulls two bottled waters out of a nearby cooler, handing one to you.

You grab a sandwich off the tray. “Do you want to finish your almanac anecdote, buddy?” You ask sweetly as you settle in, laying across the patio couch he’s set up.  

Distracted, he pats the pockets of the button down shirt he’s wearing. “You’re only being nice to me now because I’m feeding you," he sighs.

“Well, yeah, that’s the key to most positive interactions with me. We’ve known each other for how long and you’re just realizing this?” You crack, grabbing the lighter out of your shorts pocket and tossing it to him.

Ashton snorts at your joke and bends down to light the candles on the table. You may be friends but you’re also human and can't resist noticing how well his jeans fit him, especially when pulled tight across his ass like they are right now. The sound of him dropping the lighter back onto the table stirs you from your thoughts and you tune back into the conversation.

“...So that’s why some cultures advise people not to eat during an eclipse,” he shares proudly, sitting in a chair across from you.

“Interesting,” you respond breezily, giggling as he sticks his tongue out at you, clearly able to tell you weren’t paying attention.

“Listen, I don’t see you attempting any trivia to pass the fuckin’ time,” he snarks. 

“I didn’t know there was gonna be a pop quiz, dude,” you gripe. “Besides, why are you worried about filling time anyways? If you went to the trouble of themed snacks, I know there's no way you didn't slap together a playlist."

"Ah, I have been perceived," he admits with a grin and with a few swipes of his phone, "The Killing Moon" by Echo and the Bunnymen begins pouring from the speakers just outside the house.

The eclipse begins just after midnight and the full visibility - and accompanying "blood moon" coloring - isn't due for almost another two and a half hours so the two of you vibe, snack and banter for a while, occasionally peering up at the sky and commenting on if you think the moon looks different yet or not. 

After about an hour, Ash disappears inside for a few minutes and returns holding two cups of steaming hot coffee, the pink blanket from his living room couch slung over his shoulder.

"How'd you know?" You coo, beaming up at him as he spreads the soft material over your legs.

"Because I know you," he laughs, watching as you warm your hands on the mug he just handed you. "Offered you sweats to come out here, you refused and still spent the entire time trying to yank that hoodie - which I expect back by the way - over your legs."

You defend your choice, "I like the cool air on my legs!" 

"Why is that such a girly thing? The oversized hoodie with the tiniest shorts? Like are you hot or cold? Pick one."

"Says the man who went inside to get his cozy jacket and yet hasn't thought of buttoning his shirt."

"Maybe I like the cool air on my chest," he mimics you with a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, is that why your nips always look ready to cut glass?"

He nearly spills his coffee laughing. "You been checkin' out my nips, baby?"

"Nah, just conscious of sharp hazards and when I should be wearing protective eyewear," you joke, ignoring the flush you involuntarily feel when he casually calls you 'baby' like that.

Ashton giggles gleefully as he turns his attention to the sky. "These clouds are making it hard to tell what's supposed to be there, eclipse-wise," he complains. He crosses over to your couch and in one easy motion, lifts your legs up and places them in his lap as he sits down. He points, "That right there? That's moving, right? Must be a cloud. But what's that next to it?"

If you're being honest, you can't see what he's talking about too well from this angle but you're not sure you're ready to move and give up the feeling of his legs warming yours, of his hands subconsciously drumming on the blanket covering you. You like feeling him close. 

"I mean… you can still kinda see light through it so it's probably cloud, yeah?" You reach for your phone to check the weather. "Damn, why is there so much coverage though, didn't you say it's not supposed to rain until the morning?"

"Yeah not ‘til like 5 or 6," he answers. He squeezes your legs. "By the way, if it starts before that, you're staying here. I don't like you driving home in the middle of the night and in a storm."

"Whatever you say, Dad." 

He scoffs, face coloring ever so slightly. “Excuse me for caring about you staying safe.”

He looks damn good when he’s embarrassed and you decide you’d like to see more. “Sorry, you’re right. Whatever you say… Daddy?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, a little too loud, a little too hard. Cheeks now an adorable shade of pink, he playfully shoves your legs off his lap. “Get outta here,” he adds for good measure.

“Rude,” you accuse, grinning as you catch yourself before you fall off the couch, adjusting your position to sit next to him. 

You steal a glance over at him as he looks upwards again: his curls messy from laying around, shirt askew and exposing a generous amount of chest, chest you know to be warm and solid and full of hair that tickles your face every time he pulls you into a hug when he’s wearing a shirt like that. He looks nice. Comfortable. Comforting. You want him closer and you’re contemplating how to achieve that when he suddenly gets up from his seat.

The disappointment that runs through you is mercifully temporary as Ash drags the cooler over in front of the couch to use as an ottoman. He plops down next to you again and stretches out, putting his feet up, sighing in satisfaction. You do the same and use the opportunity to toss the end of your blanket over him, scooting closer so that you’ll both fit under it. You rest your head on his shoulder and he doesn’t seem to mind, just like you don’t mind the designs his fingers begin tracing on your knee.

“Can I ask something?” Your voice breaks the silence. The designs stop. Interesting.

“Depends,” he says wryly. He seems nervous. You like it.

You throw him a curveball. “Are we not smoking tonight?”

He snorts, nudging your knees with his. “Take over my garden, eat my snacks, now you want my weed?”

“See, I’d argue that having someone over to literally just stare at the moon for hours implies drug use is on the agenda,” you muse. “I’d argue that Ashton Irwin having someone over to his house in general implies there’d at least be an offer.”

He pokes your side as a means of protest and you squeal in response. “Truth be told, I thought about putting a couple joints on the table but I didn’t want you falling asleep before the big show even started,” he explains, mischief dancing in his eyes.

You drop your jaw in exaggerated offense. “That’s never---”

“Your birthday, my birthday, select dinner parties, two weeks ago when we watched that movie… that one time I think we were watching the Olympics…”

“OK, OK, I get it… Jesus,” you concede, amused at how much he’s enjoying calling you out like this. “Listen, maybe if you didn’t smoke fuckin’ industrial strength weed…”

“Maybe if you’d bring your own stash every once in a while instead of just mooching off mine,” he zings back, squeezing your thigh to make sure you know he’s kidding. He lets you pout for a few beats before he adds in a notably softer voice, “I actually did go to the shop the other day and picked up some of that hybrid you told me you liked. Maybe if this goddamn moon ever does what it’s supposed to do, I’ll break out with it.” 

You offer him a fond smile. “Ya ol’ softie,” you tease, ruffling his hair. Your logic brain tries to convince you it was because you wanted to annoy him but the impulsive part of you suspects you just really wanted to touch him for some reason. 

In a move that appears to surprise even himself, Ashton closes his eyes and contentedly leans into your touch. He attempts to course correct by peering at the sky and observing, “The moon’s definitely gotten darker… but that storm really looks like it’s moving in quicker than they said it would, there’s even more clouds than before.”

“Gonna be such a waste if we can’t even see the blood moon after all this,” you comment.

“Ouch, I’m having fun hanging out with you too,” he cracks, nudging you with his knees again. You don’t think his body has been out of contact with yours since he sat back down. Interesting. 

You bump his shoulders with yours. “So fucking sensitive,” you laugh, shaking your head. “Like I probably wouldn’t have been hanging here tonight anyways.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “You’d definitely already be asleep on my couch by now.”

“Oh my god, Ash, I do not pass out here that often!”

“Why’d you think I served you a giant cup of coffee at 1 AM?” 

“You’re actually the worst person I know, congratulations.”

“Just figure you took the whole ‘make yourself at home’ thing a bit too literally.”

You turn to stare daggers at him and the resulting burst of laughter he lets out is so intense it echoes into the night.

“As if I'd be able to fall asleep out here anyways, I’m fucking freezing,” you grumble. He takes a breath to respond but you cut him off. “And I know it’s my fault for not borrowing the sweatpants, we’re all aware, the media will be calling for comment in the morning.”

His laughter continues and though you’re committed to your performance as a pitiful, mocked guest, watching him react to your plight is so endearing, you’re having a hard time keeping a straight face yourself.

He finally stops long enough to gasp out some breaths and wipe his eyes. “Aww, I’m sorry, baby,” he says, somewhat sincerely, though you can still detect a faint chuckle in his voice. He tries again. “You’re still cold, though, for real?”

“Yeah, dude, the temperature’s had to have dropped at least ten degrees since we’ve been out here.”

You’ve barely gotten through half of your sentence before Ash is pulling your body closer, laying your head on his chest, tucking you inside his jacket and wrapping his arms around you. “How’s that?” He asks, vigorously rubbing your arm.

“Um…” Your mind is blank and suddenly you swear you’ve never had a thought in your life, the concept of language is entirely outside of your grasp. All you know is you wanted him close and now Ashton is literally all around you. You take a deep breath to reset your mind but it only makes things worse, he smells incredible.

He reads your stammering negatively and starts rambling, "I thought about setting up that little fire pit for us but I didn't want to light things up too much and take away from the view." He continues fussing over you, holding you tighter. "I could see if I can do it real quick…"

“No, Ash… it’s fine, I’m fine,” you quickly insist, unwilling to give up this embrace for any reason. Trying to play it cool, you quip, “Plus it’s getting late, can’t have me getting too cozy, anyways.”

Your humorous sidestep provides enough of a misdirect and the two of you lay in comfortable silence for a bit. It’s long enough for you to finally relax into him and start thinking about how nice and natural this feels, how you kind of want him on you like this all the time, how you’re not sure if you’ve ever felt this warm and content or if you’ll ever feel this way again. 

Unfortunately it’s also long enough for you to start overthinking things and now you’re wondering if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he’s noticed all the subtle breaths you’ve been forcing yourself to take. You pause. OK, his heart feels like it’s beating pretty fast too. Wait. Really? Shit, thinking about his heart beating fast is making yours beat even faster now. The fuck?

He’s not… you’re not… right? You’re obviously aware that Ashton is an attractive man. Super charming. Thoughtful. Caring. And yeah, you get along great. He understands you, listens to you, confides in you. Sure, you have chemistry. All friends do, don’t they? 

He senses that something’s up with you and you swear you’ve never felt anything as intense as his hand squeezing your shoulder as he quietly asks, “You OK?”

You look up at him… since when is he this gorgeous? The sleepy smile on his face, creating deep dimples in his cheeks and friendly crinkles around his eyes, eyes filled with equal parts curiosity and concern for what’s going on with you. The dark beard on his face draws attention to his perfectly pink lips, lips that he nervously licks and catches between his teeth while he waits to hear what you have to say. Lips that you’re definitely staring at now. Lips that you’ve never given this much intentional thought to. Ashton’s lips. Fuck.

“Yeah, yeah, all good,” you nod, tearing your eyes away from his suddenly irresistible features. Desperate to distract yourself from your thoughts, you ask, “Got any more moon anecdotes for us?”

“Pfftt, why? So you can make fun of me some more?” He replies pitifully, jutting out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout.

Those goddamn lips. Fuck.

"It was a genuine question!” You sit up and train your eyes on the clouds, figuring it’s best not to look at the man sitting next to you until you figure out exactly what your brain is doing. “Might as well learn something while we wait.”

He giggles, “Ah, ‘might as well.’ My favorite conversation prompt!” You jab at him and he giggles harder. “I dunno, what kind of anecdotes do you want? You clearly thought my almanac shit was lame.”

You laugh, “Because it matters so much what I think?” The tiny shrug he gives in response gives you a butterfly feeling in the pit of your stomach. Your brain needs a channel change ASAP. “Give me some of your hippie dippie anecdotes. Like, we know why the moon is doing this but what does it mean?” 

Ash grins. “You’re still making fun of me but I’ll allow it.” He purses his lips and strokes his beard while he thinks of what topic to present to you. “Well… you know all eclipses can be considered symbolic, spiritual events.”

“Sure, everyone knows that.”

He squints, unsure whether or not you’re being serious but unphased regardless. “But did you know that emotionally a lunar eclipse is about three times more powerful than a solar one?”

“Oh?”

“You seriously want to know?” He asks, looking you over in a way you’re assuming is meant to be playfully skeptical but makes you feel flushed nonetheless.

Your laughs blend together as you elbow his side. “Yes, you weirdo! You’ve been trying all night to tell me about the moon, now’s your shot!”

He begins explaining this theory, animatedly detailing bits of ancient mythology for context. You listen with genuine intent but you also find yourself focusing on the way he’s talking to you, the excitement behind his eyes as he shares his knowledge, how he uses his hands to punctuate his ideas. Have his hands always been so large and attention grabbing? You try to zero in on his words but unfortunately, that brings you back to his lips, which are wrapping around every word he says in the most inviting way.

In an effort to remove the visual conundrum of Ashton entirely, you lay against him again. Without breaking his train of thought, he recalibrates, arms coming back to gently cradle you, voice dropping to a softer tone. “...So it’s basically like you’re getting all the effects from a full moon and an eclipse all at once,” he summarizes. 

“Oh, I guess I never thought of it like that before,” you think out loud. You smile because you practically hear him buzzing at your interest. “Both of those events are already centered around transformation, so combined that’s a lot of energy being put towards change.”

“Mmm hmm. And this one’s a blood moon too, which also fits that theme.”

“I thought a blood moon was more like… destruction. Chaos. That’s why those tattoos of yours make so much sense,” you tease.

He cackles loudly. “Can’t give a guy a break for one second!” You look up to flash him an innocent smile and he affectionately rolls his eyes before going back to the conversation. “It can mean those things. But I’d say those are forms of change, right? And it can also symbolize rebirth, which is change.”

“True.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he launches into his next idea. “I really like how it all works together to form a bigger conversation about exploration, evolution.” He waits for the inquisitive glance he knows is coming from you and when you deliver, he continues. “So a full moon is full so that’s an opportunity to think on what you’re grateful for, the fullness in your life, right? But you can also use those feelings to set your intentions by the full moon, what you want your next phase to contain. Evolution.”

“OK…” You nod.

Fuck.

“And then an eclipse is a harbinger for change… could be an ending, could be a beginning.”

“Could be both,” you point out.

He squeezes you encouragingly. “Exactly! And then the blood moon is interesting because it’s, you know, refracted sunlight - literally light shining through the darkness. So that’s connected to intentions hidden below the surface…” He pauses long enough that you look up to see why he stopped talking and he locks eyes with you. “Evolving something you maybe thought you were already content with… or exploring wants and desires you didn’t even know were there.”

You trust your face to remain neutral while your mind races. Evolving something? Exploring wants and desires? It’s all a bit too on the nose… maybe you’re reading too much into things, looking for excuses to be feeling the way you’re feeling, thinking what you’re thinking. But the way he looked at you when he said that… you’ve never been smoldered at before but hey, apparently every aspect of tonight’s moon is super gung ho about new experiences so why not?

Ash holds your gaze, looking at you somehow both patiently and expectantly as he waits for the conversation to continue. Your logic brain and your impulse brain have differing ideas on what an appropriate response would be so you buy yourself some time. 

"I mean… I think there's definitely something to all that but it also seems like a good opportunity for people to be reckless and then just blame it on the moon if it doesn't go the way they wanted."

Soft smile on his face, he shrugs. “I don’t know if it really matters to be honest, whether it’s an actual influence or just helps you frame your perceptions differently? Maybe that safety net of ‘the moon made me do it’ gives people the courage they need to act on feelings they felt they couldn’t otherwise.” His eyes stay fixed on you while he speaks. “Doesn’t make their actions any less valid. Inspiration is still inspiration.”

Fuck. 

He definitely just snuck a peek at your lips.

Fuck.

Logic brain and impulse brain are arguing louder than ever… but curiosity brain decides to drown them both out and you find yourself coyly replying, “Well then… are you feeling inspired tonight, Ash?”

The corners of his mouth curl into something more teasing than a smile but softer than a smirk. His fingers brush along your jaw before hooking under your chin to tilt your head towards him. 

Fuck. This is really happening.

You're not sure what's louder: the voice in your head screaming excited obscenities at you, your shallow, shuddered breathing or your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You lean in to meet Ashton halfway and his lips finally brush against yours. Those lips. Ashton’s lips. They're softer than you expected and sweet, still faintly tasting of the desserts you shared earlier. His lips are undemanding, applying gentle pressure, moving slowly, unrushed. The kiss is commanding but cautious. Persuasive but respectful. Simultaneously a screaming exclamation and a tentative question, both eagerly awaiting your response.

You expect your brain to be bombarding you with a million questions and concerns but you're stunned to hear… nothing. No racing thoughts, no self-conscious reprimands. Your mind has suddenly found peace, content to be exploring… whatever this is.

You eventually break apart and he studies your face, clearly trying to gauge your reaction to this unexpected territory. Your brain doesn’t offer up any coherent thoughts, let alone words to say, so you pull him back in, opting to let your lips silently share with him how you’re feeling. He lets out a satisfied hum against you, reciprocating your energy and your mouths move together frantically, your skin tingling both from excitement and from the friction of his beard.

Without even realizing you're moving, your hands tangle in his curls, pulling him closer as your tongue swipes over his lips, seeking permission to deepen the kiss. His hands settle on the back of your neck, thumbs lightly stroking your cheeks as he accepts your invitation to finally kiss you with the full force of his passion. 

The next time you break for air, you waste no time in adjusting the blanket so that you have room to straddle his lap. He delightedly chuckles your name as you settle on top of him.

“This feels like one of those reckless things you were talking about,” he teases, running his hands up and down your sides.

“Mmm hmm,” you lilt, leaning in to peck along his jaw on your way to tongue at his earring, an idea you’ve been fixated on for most of the evening. 

He groans deliciously as you catch the tiny hoop between your teeth, giving it a light tug before you move your attention back to his lips. “Do we need to take a beat and think this through?” He asks before capturing your face between his hands and planting his most heated series of kisses yet.

You shiver at the way he caresses your cheeks, at the realization that his hands are large enough to cover basically your entire face; Ashton assumes you’re trembling from the cold and pulls away to reposition the blanket around your shoulders. “Oh, this is clearly a huge mistake,” you answer, tone unconcerned as you run your fingers through the chest hair peeking out from his shirt.

He giggles, ticklish at your touch, as he brings you back in. “Definitely in ‘ruining the friendship’ territory,” he laments with a grin. 

“Irreparable damage being done,” you agree, smiling back, closing the space between you. The kisses seem to increase in intensity each time you break apart and come together again and you soon hear yourself murmuring at the feeling of his hands giving your ass a light squeeze. You roll your hips in response and can’t help whimpering again when you find him half hard beneath you. Ash. Hard for you.

You never considered yourself a greedy person but the more you make out with Ash, the more you’re fascinated by it. It’s satisfying, it’s electrifying, it’s… Ash. You want to feel everything he has to offer, you want to feel him everywhere, you want to feel overwhelmed by him. More. You just need to feel more. More of Ash.

“Do you care?” He asks, gently tugging your hair back so he can nip at your neck.

“About destroying our relationship?” You joke breathily as his beard scratches at your tender skin. You grind in his lap a little more and the groan he gives you in return makes you feel lightheaded. “The better question is: if we’re gonna do something foolish, how stupid do we want to be?”

Ashton bucks his hips against you and you moan, louder than you mean to. He licks his lips hungrily before replying, “I mean… I have no problem admitting I’m having some pretty dumbass thoughts tonight.”

“Just tonight?” You giggle, squealing as he playfully tosses you onto the couch to lay on your back, slotting himself between your legs. His mouth attaches to your neck again while his hands slip under the hem of your sweatshirt, fingertips chilly against your skin, a pleasantly surprised hum escaping him when he grazes your bare breast. “Wanted to be comfy,” you shrug, arching your back to encourage him to keep touching you. 

His large hands wander on your body, unlocking a newfound level of desire for you and the urgency with which you kiss him is a testament to that. You writhe under him, mewling at the way his hardness feels against you. He grins against your lips, hand traveling down to play with the hem of your shorts. “I know my answer but how stupid do you want to be?”

You watch him closely as you guide him under your shorts, pressing his hand to your clothed center, letting him feel the heat between your legs, the wet spot that’s been forming since he sat down next to you. He meets your challenge and pushes your panties aside; he curses under his breath as he drags his fingers through your arousal, swirling light circles on your clit, all while maintaining eye contact with you.

“Mmm… Ash…”

“Yeah? Like that?” He rasps, clearly affected by watching you react to his touch.

You nod, gently pressing on his hand to receive slightly more pressure. Your head spins at how intimate it is to look directly into his eyes as he pleasures you, to feel so completely seen as you moan for him. It’s got you feeling needy and you pull him back up to your lips, seeking more connection with him.

His teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers still teasing when he breaks the kiss, groaning into your mouth, “So wet.” He raises his fingers to his mouth, noisily sucking his fingers clean. You pant beneath him, restless, and he asks in an earnest, strained voice, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

It’s a simple request and yet one of the hottest things you’ve ever heard. “Wanna be so… so fuckin’ stupid with you.” You reach to palm him through his jeans. "Think you can run inside and grab a condom before we talk some sense into ourselves?"

Ash grins as he plants an impassioned kiss on you before taking off for the house. You make the couch more comfortable, putting a pillow for your head at one end and spreading the blanket out at the other, ready for you to crawl under. You're shimmying out of your shorts and underwear when he reappears, protection in hand.

"Afraid I was gonna change my mind that quickly?" You joke, wincing at the cold air on your naked bottom half as you toss your clothes aside.

He snorts and gestures to the room you entered the patio from. "I had some condoms in the den, so."

"Oh my god, are you one of those guys that keeps condoms in every room of the house 'just in case'?" You smirk at him as you lay back down. You take his slightly exasperated sigh as your answer and you can't fight the urge to tease further, coughing out a quiet, "Whore."

"And yet I'm not the one pantsless in some dude's backyard at 2 AM," he teases back, lightly slapping your ass as he covers you with the blanket. 

He sits at the end of the couch, helping you get situated before stripping himself. You love the spontaneity of the situation but you have to admit you wish you could see him better; your imagination is going wild as the late night darkness seems to amplify the smack of his cock hitting his stomach, the hiss he lets out as he strokes himself before rolling the condom on.

You hold the blanket open for him to climb inside and on top of you again. He smiles softly at you, offering a slow kiss as one hand slips under your sweater again, the other between your legs. His tongue teases yours, licking into your mouth with precision while his fingers play over your clit and you start to wonder what it’d be like to feel his tongue on your pussy instead, his beard scraping against your inner thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing and pulling to where you need him most.

The fantasy elicits a moan from you and Ashton takes that as a prompt. He asks quietly, “Ready?" You nod, pecking at his lips once more as you feel his tip nudging at your entrance. He begins to push in and your groans mix together in a sensual harmony.

“Oh… holy fuck, Ash,” you sputter, gripping at his shoulders as he continues to slide in. Everything about Ash is big so you can’t say you’re surprised but the stretch you’re feeling is unlike anything you’ve experienced and you’re immediately craving more.

He pauses to check in with you. “You alright?”

“Mmm hmm,” you exhale, playing with the curls at the back of his neck. You crack, “Lotta things about your personality are just suddenly making a lot of sense right now.”

He giggles and rolls his eyes. “You really making digs at me while I’m inside you?”

“You know I like to keep you humble.”

He bottoms out and you moan together; he leans down, his beard tickling you as he sucks a mark onto your neck. You trace along the seam of his jacket, appreciating the moment to adjust, until you start to get impatient and try rocking yourself against him.

You feel him smile against your skin. “Easy,” he rasps, holding your hips still as he slowly starts to move inside you.

“Oh my god, that was sexy… don’t be sexy, that’s too confusing for me,” you ramble playfully.

He laughs loudly. “‘Don’t be sexy?’ We’re literally having sex.”

“I know but like… it’s us. Don’t you think it’s weird for it to be this hot?”

“No?” He replies with a hint of incredulity. He curses under his breath as he increases his pace a little. “Haven’t you ever thought about this before?”

“Not really?” You think out loud, noting that he almost looks disappointed at your admission. “I mean it’s probably crossed my mind in an abstract sense but not in a ‘that’s something I actively want to happen, that’s something that could happen’ sense.”

Ash hooks one of your legs around his hip and you breathe out a tiny ohmygod at his next thrust that makes him smirk. “Interesting.”

“So I take it you’ve thought about this before?”

“Not in an ‘actively wanting it to happen’ way but more in a ‘that could definitely be fun’ way,” he shrugs. He grinds his hips into you and the friction on your clit causes you to whimper. “Gotta admit I have spent a bit of time wondering what that sound would be like.”

"Godddd why is that hot?" You whine, rolling your hips to match his movements. 

He half-chuckles, half-moans as you move together. "Hate to be the one to break it to you but… there's a possibility you might be attracted to me."

"No, that can't be it," you jokingly dismiss, pulling him down into a heated kiss.

You fuck back against him with greater force and he gasps your name. "Fuck…" He huffs, already sounding spent. "You feel… so fuckin' good around me… Takin’ it so well."

His praise goes straight to your core and you grab at his back, loving the way he feels on top of you but wishing you could feel his skin instead of his coat. Your brain suggests maybe next time but you push the thought aside.

"Never felt so full before," you admit with heavy breath. "God… can’t believe it feels this good. You’re making me feel so good, Ash.”

You wrap both your legs around his waist and the new angle instantly gets an audibly enthusiastic reaction from both of you. The shift allows him to drive into you faster, harder, deeper and Ash can tell from all your tiny whines, heated moans and revelatory sighs of his name that you’re well on your way to getting what you need.

“Love hearing you,” he groans, voice straining as he tries to keep control. “You make my name sound so good, baby.”

Your brain decides that hearing him call you ‘baby’ in this context is somehow the most erotic thing that’s ever happened and you give a long whimper as you slide your hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, chasing the orgasm you can feel sparking deep within. 

You feel him hesitate slightly, as if he’s wondering if he should help you out. “Keep… perfect… just like that,” you murmur, grabbing his ass, pulling him closer to you. “So… so close… oh god, Ash…”

“That’s so fucking hot, oh my god,” he pants, watching you touch yourself while he fucks you. “Working so hard for it, baby… gonna cum for me? Gonna let me feel it? Wanna feel it so bad, baby, wanna feel you cum.”

A strangled cry escapes your throat as your orgasm crests and you begin pulsing around him. You gasp and moan, the waves of pleasure washing over you again and again as he continues snapping his hips into you. You hear a variety of profanities followed by a long groan of your name before Ash’s hips stutter and he cums with a shout.

There’s a few solid beats where it’s clear neither of you know how to proceed, what the immediate afterglow should look like. He’s awkwardly hovering above you, head hanging down, arms slightly quivering as he fights the urge to collapse from exhaustion.

“Well, no reason to get shy now,” you declare, pulling him to lay on top of you, rubbing his back while he catches his breath.

He laughs warmly, allowing himself to settle for a minute before raising up and asking quietly, “Can I kiss you?”

It’s a silly question, considering you’re both still naked from the waist down, but for once, your instinct isn’t to make a joke.

You hold his face in your hands as you pull him in and the kiss you share is representative of the encounter you just shared: sweet, surprisingly erotic and appreciative of each other’s presence.

Smiles decorate both your faces as you break apart. He sits up and reaches for the stack of napkins on the table, handing you a few as he ties off the condom and wraps it in one. You’re almost done cleaning yourself up when you hear him chuckling to himself and look over to see him squinting at the sky. Before you get the chance to ask what he’s laughing at, you jump at the feeling of a stray raindrop landing on your thigh. 

“You’re kidding,” you gasp, taking a look at the sky yourself. “Where’d the fucking moon go?!”

He grins, standing to slip his pants on. “Can’t really be mad that we got distracted and missed the rise of the blood moon - seems like it was probably never visible to us because of these rain clouds.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you grumble, getting dressed so you can help Ash clean up the table. You think for a second and then laugh, “How long until you tell me what the rain symbolizes?”

Ashton giggles, playfully bumping into you as he grabs the blanket to take inside. “It’s not dissimilar from the eclipse, actually. Lots of introspection, mindfulness. Beginnings. Contrasts between light and darkness, the acknowledged and unspoken truths.”

“Soooo… what I’m hearing is we have an excuse for this to happen again,” you flirt as you head for the house.

You feel his eyes lingering on you before he springs into action, quickly catching up and opening the door for you. “Liked it that much, huh?” He teases. “Already ready for more?”

Ignoring the blush you feel spreading through you, you continue towards the kitchen. “I’m just saying, you already insisted I sleep over if the rain started, which it has,” you reason. You set the dishes down and spin around to face him. “And there are worse ways to spend our time.”

He nods, giving exaggerated consideration to your points as he inches closer to you. “Well… who are we to fight against nature?” He smirks, lifting you up onto the kitchen counter.

---------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading! I'm no longer in the habit of using a taglist so more than ever, these fics live and die by reblogs! If you enjoyed please consider sharing so it can circulate and be seen by other readers!

[alexsgrimoire]

Plurality & Paganism: An Introspective

If any of you keep up with my main (@sinfulauthor), you may have noticed this post, along with my new pinned post. In short, I've come to the realization (after burying the thought of it for many years) that we are a Collective.

Now, how does this impact this blog and my craft?

To start off, this blog's content will remain the same. It will still primarily act as an e-grimoire with some additional posts, but the people posting what content will change. Specifically, these people:

-Alex (they/them), the host (hi!). I'll generally do most of the talking/posting. Works with The Signless/Sufferer and Dionysus. ANP that the IRL coven knows. (I'm not open with them about being a Collective just yet.)

-Vaati (he/him), who works with Demise and focuses on divination. Writes solely in cursive and gets VERY frustrated when grimoire notes are in standard print.

-Ghira (he/him), who works with Demise closer than Vaati for Obvious Reasons™️. (Though he generally doesn't do any actual spellwork, just offerings, worship, and altar setup.)

-Karkat (he/they) on occasion, solely because Signless HAS shown himself to him and is very much a Dad™️.

-Toko (she/her) has not yet "awakened." She was a former kin heavily associated with our craft. Taking bets on her being a spellcrafter/writer.

So, now that the roll call is done, onto some other stuff regarding plurality and paganism, the introspection the title mentions. (This will be below the cut as it's not as integral to the "functioning" of this blog.)

So, coming to the realization as a system was... interesting. We first became aware of dissociative disorders through Danganronpa (Yes, Toko's horrible representation. We know.) and related to Toko heavily. At the time, we were heavily involved in the Fictionkin community and had "memories" of those "timelines." However, this relatability on the DID aspect was soon hidden under the guise of "I like to write, and so does she! Also super traumatized like me lmao," and then we didn't think about it for five more years.

Come 2023, we've relapsed for the first time in four years and are going through some pretty traumatic stuff again. At an Esbat in September, an argument breaks out that causes us to dissociate and brings up those really painful feelings from childhood. Nothing felt real, and the rest of the night was foggy. (The people in the argument have since apologized. It was also an extremely stressful night due to our old High Priest being ousted for sexual misconduct not even 4 hours before we started.)

At this point, this whole debacle causes us to realize, "Hey, this isn't really a normal trauma response. There might be something else going on." We have a lot of friends who are systems, and we went to them asking, "Hey, do you like. think we're a system?" and FIVE OF THEM SNIFFED US OUT YEARS AGO AND DIDN'T BOTHER TO TELL US??? Like maybe that would have been useful information, idk (We still love our friends to bits, though)

So, fast forward to 2024. Still in the process of diagnosis but receiving trauma-focused therapy to process things. It's been a long process of figuring out how to live/function as someone with a dissociative disorder, but we're learning.

Thankfully, having a good support network has been a great help. We have an almanac (specifically The Practical Witch's 2024 Almanac by Friday Gladheart) to track our craft/spiritual work, and it's interesting to see the input of everyone in the collective. It's a lot of taking things day by day and seeing how things go, but we feel the energy around us changing.

Anyway, ramble over. If y'all read this to the end, thanks for sticking around. I've got some other posts we plan on making, so keep an eye out for those, too.

Signing off,

Alex of the Magic Collective