#attrossitty

[bates--boy]

I dare ya Kristallnacht fuckers to get some

Think a faggot with a big pistol can't handle a gun?

Think a pretty princess can't bite if it ain't for fun?

[rppl]

Hello, hello! Have you ever heard of an 80-year-old rapper?

Well, there's the duo Frank and Maury, there's Kwayzar, and then there's Peter Kirkland Oxensternja aka Attrossitty, a messy Hetalia Older!Sealand written by Droid, a 25+ they/them mun who's been roleplaying for almost ten years! I'm currently looking for a 20+ writer to write an Older TRNSea ship. There are some caveats, however. 1st caveat: you'll have to be cool with my muse's daughter, Sadaf, a half-Palestinian baby Peter had with a human woman (that Peter may still be emotionally attached to, whether that is love or loyalty borne of baby daddy obligation.) 2nd caveat: my muse is a weirdo, like sometimes crossing into concerning weird, taking medications for it weird. 3rd caveat: I like science fiction, horror, and fantasy, and may want to bring our muses into wacky and out-there AUs.

Back to the topic" there are a lot of themes I want to explore with this ship, such as Peter learning Arabic (a minor language recognized in TRNC) and developing an appreciation for Islam and its many cultures for his daughter, what it means to be queer in a culture that has just recently decriminalized LGBT people but still won't recognize some of the queer people's rights, what it means if an immortal can have children with mortal people, and the fears of what comes next for micronations if they suddenly stop being micronations (KugelMugel, Nico Republic, Hutt River). Finally, and probably the biggest: found family, forgiving old hurts and moving on with people who really love you. (Of course, smut is on the table as well.) Although I would love to come back to Tumblr, I don't really see that happening or happening as often, so you can like this post or hmu and I can share with you my Discord and other RP platforms that I use. Au revoir!



.

[bates--boy]

My love language is fighting/No wonder I fall for my enemies.

[bates--boy]

42/22: The Birthday Album

[bates--boy]

Twelve-point-five million subscribers had gotten a notification. Popping up on their phone screens, showing up in their emails, a little number appearing on their bell icon. Many will get to it later, as a little treat, something to get them through the work day or the long classes, or after they put the kids to bed.

For those that hopped onto that notification immediately, they find what looked like a home video of Peter, sitting in his gaming chair, dolled up and his cut lined up, the ring light set up and giving him that extra glow.

"Hey, y'all, Atty here," Peter said with a little hand wave. "Coming at you with some big news! As you may know, my birthday is coming up tomorrow. And I thought, 'now how can I celebrate it this year?' I wanted to go big, and what bigger way than to give you guys a surprise?

"On September 2nd, I'm dropping my newest album, 42/22, for forty-two percent off pre-orders on CDs, records, and downloads, and twenty-two percent off merch. In the meantime, how about a little teaser for my song, 42."

[bates--boy]

I'm craven, I look for every reason to grieve

And I don't allow myself the luxury to breathe

[bates--boy]

Got that glitter on my black eye

And red stains on my teeth

And you dunno it's a lipstick smear

Or if life gave me a goddamn beat.

- Attrossitty, The MizFists: Shiner

[bates--boy]

How can I say sorry To the little boy in fatigues Cuz he can't go back to his family?

Attrossitty - Language Barriers

[bates--boy]

[bates--boy]

"Ethel Cain, girl, I fucking feel ya."

[bates--boy]

I do it all for her when I write these stanzas/Gonna make her sick with that affluenza

[bates--boy]

He needed to run through the list again.

Write new chapter

Consult artist about book cover

Update headshot for audition

Arabic lesson plans 1.2-1.6

Everything seemed to be in order, yet Peter was sure that something had to be missing. The week usually looked busier than this, even when there were no tours planned. The missing item prickled in the back of his head, an annoying itch trying to push forward. He scratched the back of his head as if he could physically fix it. He rolled his neck and highlighted the list to delete. Time to make my list and check it twice, he joked as he rolled his neck. He started off with the task with the closest deadline, writing that next chapter to give to the publishers to get them off his ass, then one that was simpler, the headshot for a potential movie role. Then, the Arabic lesson plans, and then...

Oh! Peter hurriedly typed, trying to capture the next two tasks onscreen before they escaped him once more. Go over Korean pop song lyrics with Tommy and sort through stage play and presentation proposals. There! Now he didn't have to worry about forgetting anything!

Except... Peter couldn't help but feel that he was missing something...

"Ah, fuck," Peter sighed. It had something to do with his book, hadn't it? Peter stared at the screen, trying to drag whatever the hell he's missed this time to the forefront, and squeezed his eyes as the phone screen began to blur.

"Peter O.!"

Peter looked up to find the barista holding out his order, a tray of his iced coffee and his breakfast of a fruit salad and egg sandwich. He rose from the cushioned ottoman and pushed his phone in his pocket. He stopped to blink again, and to stop the barista from splitting into three spinning mirror images of herself, and was surprised to find that the barista hadn't simply set his tray down on the counter for him to pick up, but waited with a smile. Until it wasn't a surprise, anymore, when Peter got close to the worker's pimply face and saw the cheekiness in her braces-filled mouth, and the admiration and glee twinkle in her hazel eyes.

"Thanks." Peter took the tray with one hand, picking up the cup that sat on it. He glanced at the label to be sure.

"Peter O.," was written on the sticker, and beneath that, set in parentheses with drawings of stars and vinyl records and a microphone with a cord looped around it drawn, was "@tty".

Peter raised his eyebrows and snickered, trying to not let his voice sound tired or let his shoulders droop. "Well, holy shit, that's really good!" he cheered. He winked, after catching a glimpse of the barista's nametag. "Truly, thank you, beloved!"

He turned, which made him miss the way the teen's grin grew wider and cheekier, and the bounce she made on her toes. He then tried to nip the encroaching sense of guilt in the bud before it could take hold and forced him to turn back to offer a selfie with her in return. It would have been the least he could do, but oh well. He could just take a picture and credit the art to her. He had her name, after all.

...Elena.

No, Elotsie.

...Megan?

He went to the table that he had scoped out when he first came in, relieved to find that it was empty and clean. He adjusted his grip on his tray. God, those seats looked all of a sudden so inviting. He couldn't wait to sit and--

"--ssitty!"

"Is he okay?"

"Attrossitty!"

A blinding white hot slap across his face made Peter snap his eyes open. He gasped as he came to a world swimming and full of blurred faces.

"He's awake!"

"The ambulance is on the way! Is he okay?"

Peter blinked until his gaze focused on one of the faces hovering over him, one that was pimply in all its baby-like glory. His eyes found her nametag. Audrey. Not even close. He wanted to chuckle, but when he opened his mouth, Peter let out a long yawn. "Mm, what happened?"

"You passed out, Atty," Audrey told him. "You just... dropped!"

Peter shifted and pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked around, finding another person, an older woman in scrubs, kneeling by his other side with her fingers pressed to his wrist. And the other cafe patrons crowding around him, one man with a cellphone pressed to his ear and feeding meaningless updates about Peter to the dispatcher.

"Are you okay, sir?" the woman, either a nurse or physician, Peter couldn't tell or be bothered to try to be politically correct, asked him. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Um..." Peter squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Peter Kirk --no. Oxensternja. And yeah. I just..." his stomach cut in with a tight and rude wambling. He looked around for his tray, spotting it immediately. His coffee, with the cup bursted from impact and the drink dripping off the table; the grapes and strawberry and peach slices of his fruit salad scattered all over the floor; his sandwich fallen apart and just everywhere on the table.

"And who is the prime minister?"

"Löfven... Wait, no-- Uh..."

The healthcare worker looked over her shoulder at the man with the phone. "ETA on that ambulance." She turned back to Peter. "Sir, when was the last time you ate and slept?"

Peter looked at the fruits still scattered on the floor. "Well, I was planning on eating this morning..."

"Sir, please."

"I... Uh..." Peter shrugged. "I don't know."

The healthcare worker pursed her lips and rechecked his pulse; there was something on her face that should have given Peter cause for concern, but a headache started to pound away in his skull, and there were three of her, and three of Audrey, and he was just not in the mood to talk.

"...One-thirty," the healthcare worker said to herself. She gently nudged Peter's shoulder. "Lie down until the ambulance arrives, please."

[bates--boy]

Okay, Peter had treated himself.

Bags and bags of new clothes, boxes of new Nikes and Doc Martens, and a goddamn treasure trove of jewelry. A shopping trip followed by a spa day that left his skin as soft and supple as flan, and then an evening of a nice dinner. It was a nice day just for himself.

So... Why was Peter not satisfied? Dopamine down, listlessness up, and now Peter was sitting in bed, trying to think of what to do next. He couldn't think of doing a whole week of splurging, not these days. He did want to video chat his daughter; god, did he want to see Sadaf, but he knew that if he did, he would go right back to centering his existence around her all over again, against Mike's wise advice. Plus, who knew if an out of the blue chat call, especially outside of their agreed visitation terms, would piss Ashira off. He could read, but he wasn't in the mood.

Maybe it was time for Peter to go back to work.

Peter pulled his laptop closer to him and opened it, powering it on and clicking open his work email. The crew's IT specialist did say that she fixed the spam filter for their contact forms, so Peter would have to trust that the shit flooding his inbox were legitimate as he scrolled through the piles of messages.

Collaboration offers, feature requests from smaller artists, questionable brand deals, drag broadway, cowriting--

Wait.

Peter scrolled back up and clicked the email. He tilted his head as he read.

From: rbrinkley@gooutloud.org To: attrossitty@mizfists.com Subject: Drag Broadway

Hello, Mr. Oxensternja!

My name is Robert Brinkley, and I am the founder of Go Out Loud! a non-profit drag-themed theatre company. What we do is take Broadway musicals and give them a drag spin! We recruit the best drag performers that we feel would be a great addition to our family, both established performers and up and coming kings and queens.

I am reaching out to you to offer you a place in our family! We have been following your shows for a while, and we were impressed with your performance for Inner City Lights and the charity drag event you did for LGBTQ Nigerians. We are currently preparing for a summer showing of Wicked, and would like to extend an auditioning opportunity for you. If this is something you may be interested in, then please, feel more than free to respond through email or call me, and we can schedule an audition appointment for you.

Thank you for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon!

Robert.

"...Huh..." Peter said, pressing his tongue into his cheek. Drag Broadway. That had to be new. And it was definitely calling out to Peter, so he started typing out his acceptance.

[bates--boy]

Peter was going to have to drag himself out of this slump soon.

Boxes had been sitting for weeks in whatever empty corner Peter could shove them in, collecting dust and being gnawed and clawed on by Jack and Rosé. They held the new samples for fabrics and cuts for next season's clothing line, ones that he was going to have to evaluate and give feedback on soon because his Crooked Crowns partners can't keep postponing the launch show; they were either going to move on without him (which sucked even if he was still getting paid) or cancel the show altogether.

He needed to reply to at least one, just one, of the emails that flooded his inbox, to grab at whatever business deal or artist collaboration his agents laid at his feet (but he was sure that many of those doors were closed by now.) He needed to return some phone calls, especially ones from Mike so he wouldn't ride Peter's ass for his many absences. He needed to shit, it was too much!

Peter laid his phone on his chest and pressed his hands into his face, He couldn't do this, this fucking spiraling. He hated how that one day, those damn letters that solidified the torment, cracked him, made it so easy for all of his other ghosts to slip in and make his days dark. The faces won't go away; even now, Peter saw them as he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Shit was sucking him hollow, leaving him with nothing to put into his music; he felt like a puppet onstage at the very few live shows he hadn't cancelled, empty and stiff and tired; the drafts of his new novel and short stories sat untouched, and his literary agent has since long stopped breathing down his neck about those goddamn deadlines Peter didn't give a shit about.

But worst of all, he missed--

The prodding came sudden, shocking him frozen. But he softened immediately and opened himself up. He could shake from the sweetness and innocence as Sadaf slipped into Peter's mind, her lovely face brightest and most real among those of Lady Celeste, the boy soldier, and Marion. Sadaf was supposed to be napping, judging by the soothing Latvian hymnal music playing somewhere in her room, but here she was, filling Peter's head with things she doesn't know the words for.

Peter's gentle hands. Warm lavender bubble baths. The sweet lilt of Peter's singing voice as they swayed in her favorite rocking chair.

I miss you.

Keeping his eyes closed, Peter lowered his hands and folded his arms over his stomach, taking a shaky breath. He smiled and fed Sadaf

Gurgling coos and toothless smiles. The honeyed scent of milk and the perfume of jasmine soap from being so close to Ashira. Dark, downy hair that was feathery soft on Peter's chin when Peter kissed it.

I miss you, too.

Peter shut her out.

He opened his eyes to watch the ceiling above him as he was sucked hollow once more.

You have to be the shittiest father ever.

Peter would have argued that that was fucking unfair, because wasn't he still getting out of bed to take the kids to their appointments, paying for their tutors and extracurriculars, and even hosting them in his house, and they weren't even his? But that was such a piss-poor argument, and he knew it. He knew that Pakiza and Hasan could feel the distance, the coldness, because Peter was once them an unloving family ago. He couldn't keep doing it to them.

Time to crawl out of this.

First, he was going to need some serotonin. Peter turned to his side and held his phone up to his face. He tapped open Instagram and typed in

little atrocities

Peter still hadn't figured out when or how this new name for his fanbase came to be, but it tickled him when he found it, one of the more popular tags alongside #attrossitty and #attyparty. There were over five thousand new posts since the last ime he had checked -- not exactly Beyoncé levels, but enough to scroll through for an hour or two until he stopped hating himself. One of the very first posts he saw was a fancam reel with a rosy, dreamy filter of him and some K-pop star named Sun-Kist, and it took him an embarassingly long time for Peter to realize that it was a shipping fancam (Peter briefly closed out of the app to make a Note to look this Sun-Kist up and chat him up for a collab). There was fanart of Peter dressed as a drag queen Marie Antoinette from one of his shows. Next was a clip of Peter in the costume, with one of his backup dancers skipping up to him and ripping off the bountiful skirt from his hips.

On and on the posts went, photos and fanart and music covers. He was careful to avoid the hate, of course, but Peter was getting drunk off of it, this outpouring of the adoration, slowly not feeling like the worst person in the entire world.

Peter almost skipped a photoset when he saw that he was specifically tagged in it. Normally, he would be forced to skip posts that he was tagged in to avoid legal messes, but this was neither someone's original song nor someone's costume designs they saw him in, not a request for a brand partnership nor a hate-filled spiel accusing him of "falling off." It was just a selfie of a young woman. A baby, actually, couldn't be older than fifteen, with a heart-shaped face dotted with freckles, a swoop of deep red hair over her hazel eyes, her whole being glowing as she was having the time of her life.

Skimming the caption, Peter let out a soft laugh.

"Finally got the boomer to come to a show! He did not like being out so late, but it was fucking lit! He said he wants to catch another show if there's one before seven, lol. #newlittleatrocityrecruited."

Peter swiped through the photos of the girl dancing, singing along, waving a rose vine-themed scarf that she purchased from his merchandise shop. And there he was, the geezer himself, smiling thinly as he entertained his daughter (granddaughter?) and her stan behavior, his arms crossed as if trying to hold in his warmth in the chilly air. Poor dude, Peter chuckled as noted how the man looked ready to curl up where he sat, exhaustion clouding his eyes.

His brown, crows-feet eyes that tickled the back of Peters' head, that started wiping away the small grin on his face.

"...Wait..."

Peter sat up slowly, his own eyes widening as he stared at the man in the photo. Brown eyes, brown, round eyes, now sagged with age. The tickle in the back of his mind has spread, materializing into prickles eating along his arms, sickness filling his stomach as he painted over the gray on the man's temples and thick mustache with an auburn sheen, plumped the man's sagging cheeks and jawline, smoothing the wrinkles and slimming the shoulders. Back and back the clock went, as Peter sat frozen, a bunny caught in the stare of a snake's brown, sweet, warm eyes --