#or maybe a nice full length cloak!

[spontaneousmusicalnumber]

The Great SCA Garage Sale is coming up (formally known as Kris Kinder) and I have pinky promised not to buy fabric at Kris Kinder. I already have a lot of fabric. In fact, I have donated quite a bit of my fabric stash (34 yards plus various fleece pieces barely made a dent) for the Barony's fundraiser at Kris Kinder. I have told the person driving me to Kris Kinder not to let me back into the car if I am carrying fabric I bought at Kris Kinder. I WILL NOT BUY FABRIC AT KRIS KINDER.

Anyway this past few days (not kris kinder) i got a pretty great haul of fabric.

[soapymansuds]

Eternity and Counting

Pt.3

(Pt1, Pt2)

(I am SOOOOOO sorry I didn't post on Tuesday. Full honestly, I forgot. But today's chapter is a touch longer than usual as an apology. And by just a touch, I mean almost double the length of both previous chapters<3)

Obey me! X Angel!MC (They/Them Pronouns)

TW: Suicide, depression, self-deprecation, death, big feelings, lots of sad.

MC just can't handle anything anymore and takes their own life. Imagine their dismay to find even death isn't the end for them.Keep reading

~/\~

Since that day, my life, or afterlife I suppose, has been relatively simple. When I'm not resting in the garden, I'm running small errands for Michael. It's easy enough to avoid recognition here, but for the sake of my peace of mind, I wear a cloaking spell whenever I'm out. Simeon agreed not to tell anybody about my presence, and in exchange, he asked that I let him join me on my errands, even if he doesn't recognize me. He claims I could have any face in all three realms, and my presence would still bring him comfort. Sometimes he brings me updates on how the others are doing. Usually, he talks about Luke and his growth. He often avoids talking about the Devildom, and whether that's because he doesn't want to upset me or because he simply can't face them knowing what he knows, I've yet to figure out. It's a nice thought, him trying not to remind me of the best part of my life. But it's not overly helpful, given that, even if physical representations of our bonds weren't burned into my skin, everything I do reminds me of them anyway. I know it's selfish of me to make him keep my secret. But to be fair, I decided nearly a year ago that I am an inherently selfish creature, and I've come to terms with it.

Now that I'm on my own, things are easier. Nobody relies on me for much more than fetching papers or goods, and any failures that occur are mine to handle alone. It's simple. It's lonely. But it's simple. And it's good.

I suppose all good things must come to an end though. As I follow my long-since memorized path through the Celestial Palace, I can't help but wonder why I've been summoned. Usually, if Michael has a task for me, he simply brings it to me. But today he asked I meet him in the throne room, so here I am.

I'm greeted as soon as I swing open the door. "MC! Thank you for coming so quickly."

I'm nearly caught off guard by the use of my real name in public. For the sake of secrecy, Michael and Simeon have taken to calling me a fake name for the duration of my stay here.

"How can I help?" I nod as I close the door behind me. I take notice of Simeon's presence and he looks nervous. Never a good sign.

"I have some paperwork I need run to the Devildom. Usually I'd send Simeon, but I need him for another task today and this is rather urgent." Michael grins at me, likely in an attempt to sweeten the plan he's certain I would protest if given the chance.

I'm nearly nauseous at the idea of it. "You're joking, right? I mean this so genuinely, have you lost it?"

There's a flash of amusement on his face before he responds, "I would never make light of your trauma, no I am not joking. You have your cloaking spell, and all you need to do is hand the papers over to Barbatos. Maybe if he's busy, you'll have to hand them to Lord Diavolo himself. But then you can just come straight back. Simple and easy."

I stare at him, dead eyed and confused. "Yeah, seems super simple." I groan, sarcasm laced in every letter. "There's no getting out of this, is there?" I glance desperately at Simeon who seems to have loosened some of the tension in his spine at my pseudo acceptance of the whole ordeal. He shakes his head.

"Fine." I sigh. "Open'r up." with a lazy wave of my arm.

Michael nods, same fatherly grin plastered on his face as always. I'm sure he's convinced he's won some sort of mental battle, and maybe he has. Either way, he summons the portal, and I steal my nerves to step through. "I'm getting two days off when I get back." I call, lunging through the portal.

On the other side, I take a quick moment to make sure my cloaking spell hasn't warn off before looking around. I'm right where I had assumed I'd be. The courtyard's grand arches and elegant gazebo bring a chilly feeling of recognition to the back of my mind. How many gallas and celebrations had I spent out here, in search of some form of peace from the hustle and bustle? How many times had I stumbled upon Levi, or him upon me, in search of the same thing? I think for a moment that I wouldn't mind him stumbling upon me now.

I shake the thought from my mind as quickly as it occurs. Just deliver the paperwork.

I begin the path to the castle without a thought. The trail ingrained into my very psyche. I almost laugh at the thought. I abandoned this place, yet it never left me. What is it Djo said about men and cities?

I never allowed myself to dwell on it from the comfort of Michael's garden, but God did I miss the sky here. Something about the ever present swirling of purples and blues splashed across the stars is purely... divine. Not to say that the Celestial realm wasn't stunning. But there was always this sense of perfectionism, even in the natural landscape. It never felt right to me. Not like this at least. This has always been chaotic, but in the way a toddler helping in the kitchen is chaotic. Sure, shit's a mess and you're near certain it's going to end poorly, but if you take just a moment to watch it unfold, there's beauty in it.

I wish I could have been reborn as a demon.

No. No I don't. Living out the rest of my days, infinite as they may be, facing them with my own selfishness. I'm sure it would kill me a second time.

I'm utterly lost in thought and the view of the sky as I follow the path. So much so, I nearly miss the tail swishing on the ground in front of me. Luckily for me, it bats my ankle gently before I manage to step on it. Double luck, the contact doesn't wake it's sleeping owner.

Belphegor snores softly in the grass next to the path, curled up with his back to me. Something in me instinctively wants to curl up with him, but I know I can't. So instead, I sit. Divine garb be damned, I'm sitting on the dirt, watching him sleep. I consider making a run for it, but the subtle pull he's always had keeps me calm and still. Even in his sleep, even with our pact burned away, his presence still lulls me like a child.

I shake my head as if I were actually dozing off. Was I? Regardless, I stand up, settling to move him out of the trail, just a little. For the sake of the hazard he poses to himself and others. He's as warm as I remember as I press him further into the grass, tucking his tail over his leg before quickly stepping away and back to my task.

A warm feeling I can just barely remember washes over me and stops me in my tracks. How could I, after over a year away, fall so quickly back into routine. Not only how could I, but how dare I? I made my decision, and I've got no right to just wander in here and return to my position, doting and fawning over them. I truly am a selfish creature.

I tried to explain it to them, time and time again. But they simply refused to believe me. I cared so much, not because of them, but because I needed to. I needed to care for them to feel useful. Asmodeus once told me that I was a "pleasure sub". I told him I was willing to rip my own heart out to please him, but mostly because i never much cared for it anyway.

(As always, thank you soooo much for reading. If you'd like to be tagged in future uploads, please comment to be added to the list!)

-Your Friend, The Author

*tags*

@spffldlbrnf

[cuffmeinblack]

hi! i love all of your ominis fics - if your requests are open could you please write something about ominis being a parseltongue? like maybe the reader/mc loves snakes or maybe even has a little snake as a pet, and they think his ability his incredible.

(also just a fun concept: imagine the mc being a parseltongue as well, and they send each other messages through snakes)

Kindred spirits

Ominis Gaunt x reader

Tags: fluff | pet snek 🐍

1.4k words

A/n: 1) Sorry this took so long. 2) I kinda love it and want to make it a full-length fic??

Ominis sat in the common room, trying his best to ignore Sebastian's constant whining about his new love interest. The new fifth year was certainly a distraction, and he was still fuming over their invasion of the Undercroft, a place that felt almost sacred to Ominis. Sebastian had never been one to think too much about anything, and Ominis worried about whatever the two were getting up to in their meetings alone. Sebastian sighed next to him and Ominis suppressed a smirk, when he heard a voice from near the arm of the sofa.

"Hello, nice to meet you," it said. It was unfamiliar, and different in a way he couldn't pinpoint.

"Are you talking to me?" Ominis said, tilting his head toward the sound.

"Yes."

"Who are you? Sorry, I don't recognise your voice," Ominis said.

"Ominis what the hell are you doing?" Sebastian said from beside him.

Ominis frowned at the stupid question.

"Talking to someone, obviously," Ominis said testily.

"Ominis, you're speaking Parseltongue," he replied quietly.

Ominis felt the sofa shift as Sebastian stood up and started shuffling around, presumably looking for the source of the mysterious voice Ominis had been talking to.

"I'm sorry, he doesn't usually venture down into the common room," another unfamiliar voice said.

Sebastian made a quietly disgusted noise.

"He's not dangerous, you know," the voice said, soft and quiet. Sebastian had obviously hurt her feelings.

"Doesn't have to be dangerous to be disgusting," Sebastian replied.

Ominis frowned at his friend's insensitivity. Whilst not the biggest fan of snakes, Ominis couldn't say he was disgusted by them. Quite the opposite, he had enjoyed many encounters with the creatures in his childhood, but his disdain for the association with dark wizards had led to Ominis avoiding using this particular inherited gift.

"Do be quiet, Sebastian. It's a snake, not a dugbog," Ominis said, pushing himself off the sofa.

Sebastian huffed and Ominis heard the swish of his cloak as he departed.

"Don't mind him, he's having girl trouble," Ominis said with a smile.

The voice giggled, an enjoyable musical sound.

"I never thought I'd meet another Parselmouth," she said as she introduced herself.

"It's quite the rarity, even by Slytherin standards. I'm Ominis, Ominis Gaunt," he said.

"Oh of course, I've heard about you…in passing. I suppose we wouldn't have met, being in different years," she replied.

"Well, I'm glad we're meeting now," Ominis said truthfully.

"I'd better return Caius to my dormitory before we get into trouble, but it was lovely to meet you, Ominis."

"Don't be a stranger."

"I won't."

-

You couldn't help but break into a wide smile as you head back to your bedroom, Caius wrapped around your arm. Ominis Gaunt. Of course you knew who he was, he might be a year younger than you but you'd admired him from afar ever since last Summer when you'd noticed he'd put on quite the growth spurt. His young face had matured into something you could only describe as hauntingly beautiful, with his almost pearlescent eyes and ivory skin. Your heart fluttered in your chest at the thought.

"I suppose I should thank you for the introduction," you said to your friend.

"Glad to be of ssservice," he responded.

-

Ominis found himself unusually distracted the following day, the unexpected encounter with who Sebastian had termed 'snake girl' was playing on his mind. As such, his performance in Potions was even more woeful than usual, turning his Wiggenweld potion into a thick paste exuding what could only be described as fumes of rotten egg.

"Something on your mind, Ominis?" Sebastian asked, knowingly.

"Nothing," Ominis lied.

"In all my years I have never seen you so affected by a girl," Sebastian jibed.

"You're one to talk," Ominis huffed.

"So we're both hopelessly afflicted. What are you going to do about it?"

Ominis wasn't sure—he had no experience wooing the fairer sex, and the thought of mimicking some of Sebastian's flirtatious nature was utterly laughable. He supposed he would have to find her again, get to know her. Find out if this was more than a mere passing fancy. He decided to find her at dinner—it shouldn't be hard if Sebastian could point him in the right direction. 

His stomach turned over from more than mere hunger as he approached the Slytherin table in the great hall that evening. As it turned out, he didn't need Sebastian's help, as he heard the familiar melodic voice call him.

"Ominis!"

Sebastian patted him on the arm to say goodbye and he followed the voice.

"I was wondering if you wanted to join me? Sorry if that's presumptuous," she said shyly.

"I was hoping to find you, in fact," he said as they settled at the table.

The smell of the food did nothing to stir his appetite as his nerves had gotten the best of him. He helped himself to a small serving of pie and vegetables, but left the plate untouched as he turned his attention to his companion.

"How is Caius?" he asked.

"Fine, safe in the dormitory. He has free reign in there but some of the other students don't like him roaming the common room. Luckily my roommates aren't unnerved by him," she said.

"I can't imagine being unnerved by him," Ominis frowned at the irony of being sorted into Slytherin and being scared of snakes.

"I think it's the Parseltongue that freaks a lot of people out, honestly," she said quietly.

Ominis could understand that. He'd encountered many people in his life who found the language eerie or downright evil. The association with dark wizards had tainted their perception of it, including Ominis' own. He'd considered it a curse rather than a gift for years, now.

"But you disagree?"

"I love being able to talk to them, they're such beautiful and misunderstood creatures. Most people would jump at the chance to speak to their favourite animal."

Ominis nodded, he couldn't fault her logic.

"I know from experience just how strong the prejudice can be," Ominis muttered.

"Me too," she whispered.

Ominis smiled at the feeling of kinship, as he had the overwhelming urge to hold out his hand for her, but resisted the temptation. Instead he picked up his fork and began to eat, his nervousness abated by the friendly conversation.

-

Over the next few weeks you spent most of your free hours with Ominis, making up for lost time. Caius was pleased to have another human to talk to, and you'd taken him to Ominis' dormitory on more than one occasion. You talked about everything, learning about his family and his favourite subjects, his taste in food and his strange but endearing friendship with Sebastian, who was at least friendly toward you now.

One evening when you had returned to your bed, you noticed something missing. Caius. He must have slithered down to the common room again. Sighing, you head out of the door and come face to face with the serpent hanging from a light fixture.

"How did you get up there?"

"Ominisss," he replied.

"And what were you doing with him?"

"He wanted me to tell you something."

"Oh?" you said with a smile, your curiosity piqued.

"He said he misses your beautiful voice," Caius hissed.

You let out a loud and entirely unexpected giggle, nervously turning to see if anyone had heard you. You blushed furiously at the words as you unhooked the snake from the light and carried him back towards the bedroom, letting him slither onto the mattress.

"I'm going to find him," you said giddily.

"Good luck."

You head out of the door once again with a new route in mind, crossing the halls to the boys' dormitories. Thankfully, girls were deemed trustworthy enough to allow access to the boys' rooms, which was an amusing insight into the founders' attitudes. You knocked on the door and heard a voice telling you to enter.

Ominis sat on his bed, already in his pyjamas. He looked relaxed but strange in the casual outfit, and you briefly swept your eyes over his elegantly slim frame leaning against his headboard.

"I got your message," you said, making your way to the side of his bed and perching on the edge of the mattress.

"Oh?" Ominis smiled.

"I missed your beautiful voice, too," you said, leaning in and kissing him.

[harmlessghosty]

Omg I really loved you touchstarved plus size!mc post! It's rare to see stuff for bigger ppl so thank you! I wanted to ask if you could please do one for Vere specifically?💕

MY LOOOOVE. Everything about Vere is amazing. His character is spot-on flirty and vulgar and spectacular. I love the idea of him taking hold of a plus-size MC and never letting go, ever.

—

He would be absolutely smitten with your curves and rolls. Everything about you hypnotizes him—the way you walk with an imperceptible wave to your stride, the way you move deftly through a parting crowd, the way your chubby cheeks puff out when you pout at him for not taking you seriously…

Everything about you makes him wild, and that includes him wishing to see what’s beneath those clothes, of course.

But he can wait until it’s the right time for that. Naturally, he wouldn’t mind if it was sooner rather than later, and he’ll try his hardest to tempt you into taking off that hot overcoat or those thick boots, but he’ll be patient, especially if you’re uncomfortable with your size.

“Darling, don’t you know that ancient cultures find bodies like yours irresistible?” he purrs, running his hand over the length of his tail and flicking the edge in interest. “Now, I wouldn’t be caught dead admitting my age, but I will say that I find you irresistible myself.”

His favorite part of your body is your thighs, especially how they smush when you sit down and their width stretching the fabric when you wear pants. Something about it just…Well, there’s no telling what he might do given the chance to caress them. Perhaps you deserve a few bite marks to that supple, giving flesh, or maybe he can curl himself into your lap for a little cat-nap sometime when those damn chains aren’t so tight.

He constantly has an arm around your waist or his head resting on your shoulder while he sits outdoors in Eridia. Honestly, if you attract any attention at all from those lowlifes in Lowtown or even the prestigious people in Hightown, he’s nearly livid.

If it’s negative attention, all of a sudden he’s thirsty and asks you to get him some water from the Wet Wick. When you return, you swear you smell a tinge of iron in the air around Vere, but there’s no proof anything happened, of course. He may be violent, but he’s clean; that much is certain.

If it’s positive attention, well… “You wouldn’t mind scooting closer, would you? These disgusting streets are so full of freaks that I can feel a chill in the air. You’re warm compared to this icy breeze. I don’t suppose you’d mind sharing your cloak either, as long as you put those hands to work beneath it.”

Vere with a plus-sized MC is firm and demanding, just as he would be with any lover, but most of all, he adores your curves. It’s something nice to grab onto. More cushion for the pushin’, as they say, and he’ll remind you of that every day for the rest of your life.

[steviewashere]

A Tribulation For Peace of Mind

Pairings: Eddie Munson & Eddie Munson's Mother, Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Brief Eddie Munson & Eddie Munson's Father Rating: MatureTags: Canon Adjacent, Coming of Age (Sort of I Might Be Bad at This), Transgender Eddie Munson, FTM Eddie Munson, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Moments in Time, Different Meeting AU, Pre-Season Two, Post-King Steve, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Gay Wayne Munson, Additional Tags May be Added

Content Warning: Transphobia, Slurs, Mentions of Violence But None Shown, Period Typical Language, Gender Dysphoria

This is just the introduction chapter, sitting at a whopping 6.2k words. And again as a warning, this first chapter is just brief little scenes that will extend more in later chapters, apologies. Also, I'm a trans man, so keep that in mind.

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️ There’s something about her body that Elizabeth Munson can’t quite put her finger on. Something different and wrong. Maybe…Maybe wrong is a strong word, but that’s what it is, she supposes. She had soft areas on her body that she often glared at with disdain. The curves and small pouch of fat at the bottom of her tummy. Which, she doesn’t hate all that too much, her mama told her about how that pouch is protecting her. That it’s meant to keep her insides safe. But she still, very much so, wants it gone. Wants a lot of herself gone. Her long hair, curly and wild—like her mama’s, but it’s prettier, and gentler less ill-fitting on her mama. She wants what her period is giving her to be shunned to another realm. The breasts, as her mama calls them, her smile all nurturing and sweet and doting. But they make shirts sit weird, and they’re kind of heavy, and they remind her too much about having babies. She doesn’t think she wants to have kids, not in the way she was made to have them. That doesn’t feel good to think about, either. Her fingers are long and narrow. Which, they aren’t too bad. Useful to learn the guitar with. But she looks at them and believes that they aren’t what her eyes are meant to see.

She finds herself admiring boys a lot. How they often don’t have to think about their body, unless they’re playing sports. They make her chest hurt. Like a quick staple in her skin. The boys in her school have short hair, first of all. Tidied up, shaved cleanly on the sides, high tapered and shaped nicely to their heads. Boys have lean bodies with defined muscles. They have flat chests and flat tummies, for the most part, and big feet, big hands, thick fingers.

Why did she have to come out looking like herself, she often wonders. Why couldn’t she have meaty muscles and hair all over the place and a deep rasp in her throat? How come she’s gotta smoke cigarettes to achieve the voice of her dreams? Why does she even dream about having a different voice, a different body, even a different name?

When she stands in front of her mirror, much like she does this morning, much like she does every morning, she sees an imposter cloaking her soul. If monsters exist, she believes that they have wrapped themselves around her bones, mutilated themselves to be human flesh and skin toned, and they inhabit her brain. 

Her fingers comb through her hair for the thousandth time, frustrated beyond belief. She can’t make her hair look good or normal or right. 

In a feeble attempt to make some sense of herself, she wraps her palm around her heavy head of hair, tugging it back behind her ears, above her shoulders, and imagines herself without it. What she’d look like. All rounded facial features and pouty lips, her mama’s eyes and her daddy’s crooked smile. Wraps her free arm around her chest, pushing and prodding around until her breasts are practically as flat as they can possibly be. She steps back from the full length mirror of her bedroom, the portal to monsters and Narnia and Wonderland, and sees it for what it is for the first time: A simple bedroom mirror.

Because there, in the reflection where her body once stood, is a little boy with scraggly arms and a chubby little belly and knobby knees. A little boy who’s mama doesn’t know how to cut hair all that well, maybe settles for a bowl cut each time, and each time he thinks she did a great job. A little boy who’s freshly twelve years old and doesn’t want to go to his first day of seventh grade, where the other kids will mock him. This little boy who seems to smile.

And she realizes, dropping her hair in haste at the rapid knocking on her door, she is not a girl. No, not at all.

Elizabeth Munson is a boy.

———— Boys act tough. Boys are rowdy. Boys are stupid creatures.

Elizabeth mimics them as well as he’s able. He still hasn’t figured out his name, not yet. But he knows how to growl and retort. Can take up space with big gestures and act all bothersome at the prospect of sitting like a lady. He can do all kinds of things.

But the one thing he hasn’t been able to do yet? Shake the sensation of his heavy hair.

He goes home one afternoon after a difficult day of school. Where he got called pretty and ugly and chic and darling. Shoved into lockers and teased for not wearing makeup. For stealing his daddy’s flannels and covering himself up, like he doesn’t want to be seen. He sneaks into the bathroom and finds his dad’s shaving kit.

If he can’t go somewhere and request for his hair to be cut a certain way, then he’ll just have to do it himself. He’s not sure how to successfully do it. But he begins with snipping away the ends. Up to his ears. Cuts off his bangs all choppy like. Drags the razor across his scalp. The tufts of hair falling to his shoulders. His naked shoulders. His naked torso still shining like dull copper in the mirror, heavy breasts and curvy waist and slim shoulders.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

And when the razor is unplugged, repackaged, put away for nobody to find. He takes himself in.

There in the reflection, is a…person with a shaved head. He throws on a t-shirt. And sees, truly, a little boy with his mama’s eyes and his daddy’s nose and unruly little scars from being shoved into things at school. 

But he sees a boy. Or the outline of a boy. He sees the imprint, the footprint in wet sand, an initial carved into a tree. Then he thinks about his introductions. About going, “I’m Elizabeth.” The grimace that brings to his face. He holds a hand out to the mirror, his reflection almost mocking his movement. And rolls some names off of his tongue.

“Hi, I’m Allan,” he starts. Maybe he should be named after his father, but that doesn’t taste all that well. Another Allan Munson would be the end of the world. If being a boy in girl’s skin doesn’t kill him, then being the appendage of a criminal would. And he’s already had plenty of close encounters.

He takes a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Sam…I’m Sammy,” he tries. His mama’s name is Samantha, so maybe he should go after her. But if she was considered a hippie basketcase to the rest of Townsend, Tennessee, then he will, too. By default. Seems like maybe going the family route won’t work in his favor.

“George,” he shoots. “Georg—ie.” That’s another option. He wants a nickname.

Elizabeth garners Eliza and Liza and Beth and Bethany.

Allan gets Al. Samantha is Sammy or Sam or Mandy.

But he can’t, for the life of him, think of a single name that fits like a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. Can’t find something sweet, maybe a little sophisticated. Something that rolls. A name that would be easy for himself to remember. Or one that a person could hear in passing, maybe think he said something else.

What about famous artists?

“I’m Jonathan, but I prefer Johnny,” he mutters, thinking of Johnny Cash. He shakes his head and resets on his feet. “John, but I like Johnny.” John Prine is on his mind for that one. Flaps his hand to get rid of the ache from holding out for so long, drops it to his side, switches to the other. “Woody,” he whispers, but that’s not right either. Woody Guthrie has that.

He sighs. Never in his life did he think finding a name would be so hard. Briefly, he wonders how his mama did it. How she remembered his birth name even after heaving and laboring for hours, coming out exhausted and bloody and sobbing. God, he hopes he never has to experience this again. But, knowing his luck, he may as well start making lists—who else in his life may want a new name? Seems like he’s got plenty to pull from the recycling bin.

Holding out his palm again, he thinks about Eddie Van Halen. Thinks about fast music. Thinks about music that bonds him to the floor, that thrums his heart, that boils his blood. He imagines playing to sold out crowds, being called out to the stage. The crowd cheering, voices a concoction of screaming and wailing. “Ed-die! Ed-die! Ed-die!” They shout.

“Eddie,” he murmurs. Looks himself in the eyes. Big and brown. Just like his mama’s. Thinks of her holding his head. Kissing his temple. Folding the collars of his shirts, helping him tie his shoes, teaching him to brush his teeth. Of her saccharine voice like honey on the shell of his ear, sticky and golden.

Her lips to his sheared hair. Holding him by the shoulders. Her eyes watering from pride. Whispering, “You make Mama proud, you hear me Edward? My little Eddie’s gonna make Mama proud.” 

Thinks of her body not ravaged by illness, her tummy fluffy and her arms full, her hair still long and tickling his neck. Thinks about the day she called him to her arms, announcing that she was sick, but that her biggest accomplishment—the thing she’s most proud of—was that she had a wonderful little kid. A brave kid. A tough kid.

“A precious little stone. ’T’s what you are, baby,” her voice had lilted. That Tennessee drawl to her bottom lip. Her nimble hands, just like his, soothing the ache in his sides, showing him how to take care of himself. Where the pads were and how to get blood out of clothes. Of her applying mascara, but nothing more, because less is more. He thinks of her hands on his cheeks. Murmuring all sweet like, “You were almost a baby boy, you know that? How funny that would’a been. But, you wanna know something, angel?” And he had nodded in her hold. “I would’a named you Edward. Cause you are the guardian of my heart. My heart is yours. And you are my heart. And whatever you do in this world, baby, I will be right there with you.”

Her voice against his cheek, kissing away his tears. “I’ll be right here,” she whispers, tapping his heart. “And no matter what you do. No matter who you are. Where you end up. You will always have my heart, my pride, my joy.”

He thinks of her at the end of her life. He’s nearly twelve years old and he’s feeling all too awkward about himself. She holds out her palm. And he takes it. She squeezes, murmuring, “Never change your heart, angel, never change your heart.” Her breath gone. And him, that ache and her palm, but those words being all that was left.

“I’m Edward Munson,” he introduces to the mirror. “But you can call me Eddie, if you’d like.” And yearns like a sunflower in the middle of winter.

———— Turns out with girl’s skin and boy hair, you don’t earn your place in the world. That you get kicked down and shoved in the mud and bloodied until all that’s recognizable is your eyes, fearing and hurt. Well, at least, that’s what happens in 1978; when Eddie’s twelve years old and trying to make his existence permanent in the world.

His dad isn’t proud. Never has been. Definitely never will. He drags Eddie back to their home. Makes him pack some bags. And Eddie thinks, briefly now, how at least he was given the ability to pack his bags, to gather his things. To say goodbye to the shadows that linger; they’re the shapes of Elizabeth and Mama.

He’s put into the back of the car. Told to be silent. To look out the window. Listen to his garbage music. He finds himself in the screeching of rock and heavy drums, of being an outcast on the outside of something great—how alternative rock has shown him that. Finds himself in the vocals, defying normal music rules, of going against all that he should know. Finds himself on the road between Townsend, Tennessee and Hawkins, Indiana. One small town exchanged for the other.

There are no words said as they pull into the Forest Hills trailer park. As the car stops at the end of the drive in a little dusty non-existent driveway. Or as Eddie gets out, bags in hand—a trash bag, one duffel, his school bag. When his dad goes up to the door and bangs like the cops that would show up to arrest him. Eddie almost snorts, almost laughs himself into pissing his pants—to think he’s being dragged away from his home, sent somewhere else, sentenced to this new life—how the tables turn.

Allan’s brother, Wayne Munson, answers. Eddie hasn’t seen him in a long while. They were never really allowed near each other, for reasons unknown to him. Wayne’s a few years older than his brother, tall and lean, dark brown hair that’s almost all gone from the top of his head and barely brushed by grey. He leans out the screen door, one hand on the handle, the other on the door behind him. Wearing a pair of dirtied up light wash Wranglers, some scuffed and muddied works boots, a blue Carhartt heavy duty jacket with holes in the pockets, and an orange and yellow plaid button up. Looks like he’s about to head off for work. Which makes sense. It’s probably somewhere around 8pm here; he works late nights at the plant, for all that Eddie remembers.

“Al, what the hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne greets unkindly. His voice is deep and gruff. Barely has a drawl to it, but it’s tinged with something. Tinged with a sweetness not known in the outskirts of a place like Hawkins. “An’ why’re you bringin’ your kiddo ‘round? I got work and ya didn’t call me in advance.”

“Ya still one of ‘em fags?” Al spits, ignoring the interrogation.

Wayne is genuinely startled by the question. His head rears back, nearly connecting with the jamb behind him. He steps out of the doorway, towering over the both of them from his place on the porch, arms crossed heavy over his chest, a deep furrow to his eyebrows. He’s got wrinkles…and they aren’t the happy ones. “Why the fuck are you askin’ me that?” And in just that sentence alone, the sweetness evaporates from his voice. Replaced instead by a curdled garbling, velvet and rich, coming from the very depths of him.

Al mirrors Wayne. Though, he leans in, like he’s getting ready to sample the knuckles Wayne’s about to send him. “‘Cause, somehow, you infected my little girl. Got some cross-dressin’, confused, little transvestite for a kid instead.” His hand reaches behind him, cupping Eddie’s left shoulder harshly. Enough that there’s a loud smack, enough that Eddie winces, enough that he wants to curl up in a ball and cry. He shoves Eddie forward.

Eddie stumbles onto the bottom step, almost landing in the dirt below with gravel in his palms. He wants to puke or tear out the rest of his hair or rip apart his insides. Everything is wrong and now he knows he’s wrong and nothing’s gonna make this right.

“I ain’t raisin’ no kid like this, Wayne. She’s your fuckin’ prob’em now.” 

And that’s it. Allan turns to leave, Wayne’s hollering after him, and Eddie’s crying down at the bottom step of the stairs. He’s wishing like all hell that he could curl up in bed with his mama, hear one of her many bedtime stories, get his neck massaged by her careful hands, and just sleep. Sleep this off. Sleep until the sun is out and the world has ended and all that’s left is bones. Just bones and debris and wildlife. Bones and debris and carnage.

A gentle palm settles on his back, he flinches at the contact, but settles when all it does is swipe in languid circles. There’s a boot in his field of vision. The speckled mud. Dried and caked. He blearily looks up, tears cascading and burning down his face, eyes irritated from all the cryings and beatings he’s endured in just the last few weeks. He’s got nasty yellow bruises on his skin and new tiny scars on his hairline, etched into his forehead like brands. He knows he’s unsavory to look at right now. But still, Wayne’s looking down at him as if he’s the sun and Eddie’s searching for sunlight.

“Hey, kid,” Wayne murmurs. “Why don’tcha come inside with me?” He offers out the palm not on Eddie’s back. Wiggling his fingers like that’ll be more enticing. And, maybe Eddie’s resolve is completely absent, because the wiggling is enough for him to place his own shaky hand down. For his cold, narrow fingers to be squeezed by his uncle’s calloused and thick ones.

He gets hauled up from the ground, brushed off on the shoulders, a pet to the top of his head. And a little weak smile from Wayne. A barely there thing. A soft and sweet thing, nonetheless. He’s ushered inside to the hideous and dilapidated sofa that was in the background of his better childhood memories. Settled down onto one of the cushions. Wayne gently pries the sneakers from off his feet, sets them down on the carpeted floor. He takes Eddie’s coat and hangs it up on one of the dining chair backs at the breakfast nook. The one closest to the phone, the one Eddie used to always eat French toast breakfasts in. The bags come inside, placed down somewhere distantly.

Eddie’s barely aware of what the hell is happening. Just knows that his stomach is empty and he’s hungry. His head is throbbing from the bruising still there on his cheeks and all the goddamn crying. Chest concave and heavy. So, so heavy. He can only sniffle when Wayne sits beside him. Another gentle palm to his shoulder, the one that Al had smacked earlier.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. Let me say that first,” Wayne’s whispering. Eddie just nods along, eyes unfocused and glazed, tearing up again at the gentle voice being thrown his way. When did everything turn so hard and unkind, a dull part of him wonders. Wayne’s soft voice cracks through his despondency, “But you will always be welcomed here. Gotta warn you, though, I ain’t never raised a kid. And you—uh—you sound like you got a complicated thing goin’ on, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eddie rasps. “’T’s all so…It’s a lot, Uncle Wayne.”

“I know, buddy,” Wayne continues, keeping his voice soft. “Believe me when I say that I know. Been in your shoes before.”

“Are you…You a boy like me?”

Wayne shakes his head. “No, I ain’t. But I—Your daddy—“

“Not my dad,” Eddie butts in.

“Not your dad,” Wayne mutters. He clears his throat. Something about him is congested, too. “But Al wasn’t wrong about me. I’m a fag. I’m a gay man, kid,” he confesses. Continues, “Was thrown out by the collar of my shirt, same as you. But, kid, there ain’t nothing wrong with us.”

His lip trembles. Shakily voicing, “Feels like there’s something wrong with me, Wayne. Why else would I be here?”

“Because you’re different. And you’re unique. And your heart is too big for Al to handle.” He takes a deep breath, rubbing his palm between Eddie’s shoulder blades. “But you stay here. I’ll let you have my bedroom tonight while I’m at work. We’ll unpack you tomorrow. And I’ll figure out your schooling, okay?” Eddie sniffles and nods. “Okay,” Wayne mutters, “What’s your name, buddy?”

Eddie wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and then holds it out. Wayne chuckles, a slight scrunch to his nose, but still he takes it. Something is warm in the way their palms touch. A gentle candle flame. Darkness waning for now. He finds himself softly smiling at his uncle. “My name’s Edward,” he introduces, “But you can call me Eddie.”

“Well, Ed—“ Wayne stops and raise his eyebrows. That okay, he’s asking. Eddie nods for him to continue. “Well, Ed, it’s nice to meet you. Welcome home.”

It wasn’t ideal, how he was forced from his home. But he thinks that it’ll be alright with the way Wayne smiles at him. As if, maybe or definitely, Wayne’s excited to have somebody similar to him in this town. And Eddie is in the same boat.

———— Talking at school isn’t something he’s done in a really long while.

Even back in Tennessee, Eddie didn’t try it. And still, he doesn’t do it here in Indiana, not really. One rural place for another. Conservative for conservative. He’d get worse looks than the scrutinizing ones he already receives.

The other kids look at him a lot. How he dresses. How he walks. He’s been mimicking so many other boys, trying to find that odd middle ground, his gate is all over the place. Some guys walk short and brisk and scurry like rats. Others are slow and suave. He even tries to impersonate any and all mannerisms that the boys offer. But there’s this one seventh grader that disrupts all that Eddie believes is “correct.”

Steve Harrington is an odd kid. He’s jock-ish; meaning that he’s in sports, he plays them, but he’s not very good. And he’s rather quiet, though rowdy with his friends. His friends aren’t good people. Eddie deduces that pretty fast. He’s been shoved out of the way by Tommy Hagan (apparently Steve’s best friend) and called some ugly name, and has to hold onto his bearings as Carol Perkins (Tommy’s little (maybe) girlfriend) pointedly looks towards his chest. But Steve…He’s weird. He walks fast, but suave, though scurrying and intimidated. Hasn’t really grown into his still pre-pubescent boyish body, as if that hasn’t been his body since probably elementary school. He gets excited about cars and history class and books, but flushes sensitive when he’s shot down by his gross friends. And he’s…Steve is kind. Steve is kind.

That’s the strangest thing to Eddie. Because all Eddie’s known is that most men, sans Wayne, and most boys, sans Steve Harrington, are terrible and spitting and mean. They’re the type to get in your face and bully you for your choice in shirt. They’re messy. They’re unruly. At least, that’s what Eddie’s collected. That’s what he’s written down on the fake scroll of rules, his doctrine in the back of his head.

Rule One: Boys are loud.

Rule Two: Boys are gross.

Rule Three: Jock boys are the worst.

Rule Four: Steve Harrington is not a normal boy and this cannot be changed.

Maybe that’s why Eddie gains a liking towards him. Maybe that’s why he wants to be his friend. And he tries. He really, really does. But Steve scatters. He clams up. His eyes are wide and his hair is teased up and his polo is too big for his scrawny collarbones. He can never pick one spot on Eddie’s face to look at, sight often dropping down to the floor. Though, Eddie does catch him looking at his chest once. Just once, by accident. But he quickly looked away, as if Steve knew what Eddie was trying to hide with the baggy clothes he stole from Wayne. The only other times he’s done it, not by accident, have been completely purposeful and oddly…curious, though not in a malicious way. As if, maybe, Steve really, truly wants to know. As if, maybe, Steve can almost relate.

Every time Eddie talks to Steve (his voice pitched low like taking a deep breath and scratchy from recently smoking a cigarette), he gets closer and closer to a real conversation. Less of, “Hey, you’re Steve, right? Maybe we can play—What’s that sport you do? Basketball? We can play basketball at recess—Hey! Where are you going?”

No, he’s close to Steve asking him a question. Though, his eyes don’t stay in one place. He gets weirdly fidgety. And really quiet. And he bolts. Sometimes, if Eddie is there when Tommy and Carol are with Steve, he hears the strangest thing.

Tommy will say something as Steve scatters, something along the lines of, “Run away, Stevie-boy! Run away! You’re good at that!” And Carol will snicker beside him.

But that’s not the strange thing. It’s something Steve responds with that makes Eddie grow curious. “Don’t call me that!” Steve will shout back. His hands tight to his body, trying to cover himself up. And that, well, Eddie knows that no other boy has done that. He hasn’t seen any other guy in Indiana, in little rural Hawkins, in any of his classes, do what Steve does every time Tommy calls him “Stevie-boy.” Can’t help himself from wondering, half the time, why Steve even sticks around these fools.

He backs off, but not without also thinking, Steve is a lot like me.

The rest of his eighth grade year goes by pretty uneventful. There’s the talent show that he attends, playing his guitar for a group of guys that cling to him pretty fast. That don’t make fun of his voice or his clothes. Who show him metal and Dungeons & Dragons, who know all about his Tolkien books, and who align with a lot of his doctrine. They are rowdy and they are gross, sometimes, but they teach him to get his energy out positively. Though, Eddie doesn’t think the gross factor can be fixed. He does lean into that aspect a little bit more, the more he grows comfortable with time. But otherwise, his friend group is small, eighth grade is stupid, and he moves on to high school. And in the rearview is Steve Harrington, who finally figures out how to get what he wants. Who defaults just as Eddie does. And, oddly, still is silently polite to Eddie—still curious with his gazes, not subtle at all. And who is somebody that Eddie learns to be jealous of.

Steve Harrington is a curious case. One to be reviewed. He’s a boy. An abnormal one. He’s attractive and smarmy and nerdy and jock-ish. And he’s somebody that Eddie keeps on his radar for many years.

Though, as it’s been said, his jealousy rears it’s ugly head.

———— In the time between eighth grade and starting his senior year, Eddie learns how to bind his chest with bandages. It’s not the easiest task, but he wakes up early to get it done. The first few times is awkward and deeply uncomfortable and he quickly tore them from his body. Though, he learns. He learns because Wayne gets tips and tricks from friends that he has. Because Wayne had mentioned there were ways to make Eddie feel less self-conscious about his body, at least somewhat.

So he learns. And he’s able to wear less baggy clothes. Though, his shirts still have some give. He still takes Wayne’s old jeans, tears holes in the knees, gets them dirty every time he works on his car or is pushed at school or spills Mtn Dew on them during Hellfire Club meetings.

That’s another thing he’s been able to do. With the small group of friends he gained in middle school, they start a Dungeons & Dragons club, disguised as a board game get together. (Because no way in Hell is a school in rural Indiana with a presbyterian church just around the corner going to let something like Dungeons & Dragons in their realm.) But he recruits some new people. People who are freaks, queers, and geeks just like him. So far, he’s got two sophomores named Jeff and Freak, a junior who goes by Ronnie, and Gareth who is a scrawny little freshman.

He should be at peace with what he has, who he is, what will come of him.

But of course he isn’t.

He learns to bind his chest, wears better clothes, grows out his hair a bit as defiance, but he’s not satisfied with everything he’s got. And that becomes apparent when Steve shows up as a junior on Eddie’s radar. He hasn’t really made an appearance, more background douche than anything, but here he is.

A kid who used to scramble out, nose to the ground, shoulders like Picasso paintings. A kid who seemed polite enough. A kid who Eddie admired a lot of the time. Now, he’s a total douchebag. Joining in on heckling the people around him like Tommy does, silently judging from the sidelines as Carol is prone to do. He’s obnoxiously loud, getting in people’s space, snarky comments, and disgusting belches. Running around like he owns the goddamn high school. As if he wasn’t some nobody with geeky interests only a few years prior.

It makes sense for Eddie to try and match his energy. Roaring about non-conformity and stupid jock parties from atop his table, two holes burning in his back from Steve’s gorgeous and fire-lit eyes. Stomping on mushy slices of square pizza, knocking cartons of chocolate milk to basketball players laps, and taking on his new title of Eddie The Freak. If anything, he prioritizes his queerness and outcast status to shine himself as a spectacle. But that still doesn’t rid of the douchey whispers he can sense coming out of Steve’s mouth at every lunch period.

Though, today is a different day. Eddie, by the fate of the Munson name, starts his period during his class before lunch. Trapped in the bathroom with red stained boxers and shaking hands, tears streaming down his face, squirming uncomfortably in front of the bathroom sink. He’s hidden in the men’s restroom. One near the lunchroom. One that nobody ever uses because then the cafeteria will smell like debris. But here he is anyway. Unable to match his own eyes in the mirror, ready to keel over, and slam his head on the porcelain tile below his—what he notices��dainty little feet. He’s able to see all the parts of his clothes that sit apart from his body, his jeans sagging, and his shirt ballooning. Sneakers that expose the extra room for his toes, able to fully move them up and down in the shoe. He wants to puke.

He thought he could have a moment of silence. To truly think about ditching class for the day. But of course he can’t have this breakdown to himself. Somebody stumbles through the door, slamming it shut behind them, shoes squeaking against the tile, and they’re panting.

When Eddie looks over, it’s to see the man of every hour, Steve Harrington. He’s red in the face, glassy eyed, mouth downward.

“Get out,” Eddie spits.

Steve looks to him. His gaze a thousand yards away. He’s haunting. But he doesn’t say anything to defend himself. And Eddie, well, he doesn’t know if he should repeat himself. Then, more blood gushes from him and he’s keeling over the sink, weak in the knees, going pale.

“Are you—“ Steve pants, “You alright?”

Eddie whimpers. “I can’t tell you,” he murmurs. “Please leave.”

But of course Steve won’t leave it. In fact, he comes closer. Right at Eddie’s side. Arms open and hands floating in caution. “Are you gonna be sick?” He asks. “We should get you over a trash can instead of the—“

“Steve, dude,” Eddie bites, “I’m—Fuck, I can’t tell you what’s wrong, alright? There’s nothing that you can do about it. Just leave me alone.” He briefly looks to the paper towel dispenser, weighing his options. Either he uses toilet paper, paper towels, or completely removes his underwear from the occasion. And these are his favorite boxers. “Actually,” he sighs. “Can you hand me a wad of paper towels? I need to—“ Pain ripples through him and he’s whimpering once more. “Fuck,” he mutters, “I should’a stayed home. The signs were all there.”

“Signs for…Dude, just tell me what’s going on. I can get a nurse or something in here. You’re freaking me out and I’m too worried about you to just leave.”

“Alright, fine,” he grits. “You wanna know so fuckin’ bad, then here’s your answer. I’m on my period.”

“Period? Don’t only—“

“Girls have periods?” Eddie finishes, blood boiling. “Yeah, Steve, they tend to. But I’m not a fucking girl. So, unless you’re in here to hand me a tampon, then you can gladly fuck off before you call me a tranny.”

Maybe that was a little over the top, but what else is he supposed to do? If he can’t be left in peace, then he may as well create it, right? Deter Steve from being in here and hopefully then he can be left alone. Then Steve says, “Oh, okay. I can—Let me get you a tampon from my locker.”

Eddie, startled and on the brink of exploding, blinks in utter confusion. “What. Why does King Steve have a tampon in his locker?”

Steve shifts from side to side. “I—uh—I like to carry them around in case Nancy needs them. Or—well—I guess anybody needs them. Let me grab you one, I’ll be right back.” And then he darts. For a second, in the slow close of the door, Eddie imagines scrawny, seventh grade Steve scurrying about the school.

He groans. Of course Steve is not only man in the ways that Eddie isn’t able to, yet. But he’s also some weird little knight in shining armor. Who the fuck does he think he is, Eddie can’t help but internally moan. He’s filled out nicely, gotten a little bit of muscle, is a bit better at the sports he plays, knows his way around school as an all high and mighty, can get any girl he wants, has the voice of Eddie’s wet dreams, and he’s a gentleman—in some ways.

True to his word, Steve comes back. Hand fisting the plastic wrapper of a tampon. Sidles easily up to Eddie, hand stretched out in offering. “It’s one of the super absorbent ones. Probably the safest bet. I didn’t ask which ones you like. So, here.” And he nudges his fist closer. “I also brought a couple snacks for when you’re done. Y’know, after you change and wash your hands. Do you—uh—do you need some new underwear? I can steal some from the guy’s locker room.”

Eddie stares down at the hand. Tentatively takes the tampon. And looks back up to Steve’s awfully earnest face. “I—Yeah, I need a new pair. But why are you being so calm about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m basically telling you that I’m one of those transvestites that everybody seems to, y’know, fucking hate. And you’re just…You’re being nice to me about this. Thought that you’d have something against that.” He clears his throat. And swallows around the lump of emotion forming. “Dude, I’m a guy with a pussy. Isn’t that—You don’t find that weird?”

Steve shrugs. “Despite what people think, I’m not a bully like that. I know that I—I’ve got problems, Eddie. But I don’t have a problem with you.” He grows wary. “Should I have a problem with you or something? Are you like a racist?”

“What?! No!” Eddie shouts. Quickly he shrinks in on himself, hand covering his mouth. He drops it away with a sigh. “It’s just—I heard that you called Jonathan Byers a queer. Y’know, in that way. And look, I don’t know if Tommy and Carol set you up to—“

“They aren’t my friends anymore.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and nods in slow astonishment. “Ohh—kay. Well, I didn’t think I could trust you, that’s all I’m saying.” He stands up straight from the sink, tampon in hand, and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to, well, you know. If you can actually get me new boxers, that would be…That’d be much appreciated.”

“Yeah, man, ‘course.”

“One more thing, Steve?”

Before he leaves the bathroom, he looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Can you—Please keep this between us. I know you’re being cool about all this bullshit, but not everybody is. If the wrong person hears about this, I could be beat up. Or worse.”

A strange flash of defeat and sadness spreads across Steve’s face. He tenses. Shoulders going up to his ears. Eyes downcast at the floor. Nods in understanding. “Yeah, Eddie. I can keep that to myself. I understand.”

“I don’t think you do, Steve. Please, I mean it.”

Steve nods again. “Trust me, I know,” he murmurs before he’s gone.

And though he does come back with underwear, stands by as Eddie nibbles on some dark chocolate for the iron as Steve mentioned, and makes small talk—Something in Eddie twists. Steve knows now. He knows. And he’s oddly empathetic about everything. Part of him wonders if Steve is like him, exactly like him.

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️ I don't know how long until the next chapter, but I hope this suffices. Let me know what you think about it :)

[warpweighted]

bev keane was embezzlinggggggg SO blatantly from st patricks if you look at her costume it is OBVIOUS from her first appearance she consistently is wearing the best quality best fabric all around nicest clothing out of absolutely everyone like LOOK at her matching cloak and beret that is a high percentage wool blend at LEAST and im leaning towards pure wool and that thing is in IMPECCABLE condition look at this shit

[ID: Two images from behind of Bev Keane from Midnight Mass, wearing a circular gray wool hip-length cape/cloak, with a collar, a detachable plaid-lined hood, and a matching gray wool beret. There is no sign of wear on the cloak or beret.]

like im not saying you could never find this in a major clothing retailer, or a thrift store (as if bev keane would be caught dead in a thrift store) bc i certainly havent been keeping close enough track of mainstream fashion trends, and im definitely not saying that someone can't save to buy fewer and better quality pieces over their lifetime, or even inherit really good clothing. but what i am saying is that (a) everything she wears is crisp and vibrant enough to be like-new and (b) almost everyone else's outerwear looks like this

[ID: Leeza and Wade Scarborough from Midnight Mass. Leeza wears a white cable-knit sweater, on which is layered a pink zip jacket, on which is layered a muted yellow zippered and hooded windbreaker. Wade wears a gray plaid button-down, on which is layered a dark gray zip jacket, on which is layered a greenish-gray zippered and hooded windbreaker.]

sensible! practical! layered! and a damn sight less expensive per item than a woolen cloak and beret set that I don't recall her ever wearing past that first day. not to mention that bev is never caught dead in a windbreaker, her equivalent is a woolen peacoat.

and it continues on like this throughout - bev's outfits are consistently a step nicer than anyone else's. this isn't a commentary on how feminine the outfits are, because erin's outfits are on a similar level of femininity while being noticeably less expensive*. and it's not that bev's clothes are impossible to find at major retailers but at least in my experience (and maybe it's different in crockett island's region! my fast fashion experiences are not universal) it's going to be way easier to find something like erin's sundresses and cardigans. like, look at these shots

[ID: three stills of the school board meeting from Episode 3 of Midnight Mass. The first shot, of the parents from the front, shows most of the parents in muted plaids, henley shirts, denim, and other fairly plain and utilitarian clothing. The second shot, a wide shot capturing both Erin Greene and Bev Keane, shows Erin in a dusty pink maxi dress and a midweight gray knitted cardigan. The third shot, a closeup on Bev, shows her in a saturated, dark-colored paisely collared button-down full length dress, a pale yellow lighter-weight knit cardigan, a string-of-pearls-with-golden-hooks cardigan clasp, and a gold cross necklace. In all three shots, Bev's yellow cardigan is easily the most saturated thing in the room.]

and like. okay. a fucking gold(-colored metal) and pearl cardigan clasp? a fucking cardigan clasp? something specifically made to keep your cardigan on your shoulders when you wear it like a capelet? a thing that is only necessary when you refuse to wear your cardigan like a cardigan because your nice crisp dress has bishop sleeves that puff a little at the wrist.

bev's clothes are substantially nicer than any of the parents', and also definitely nicer quality than erin's (and better-fitted! her clothes often have more structure to them, whereas erin's comparable dresses are usually slouchier and more likely to be knit and/or just plain less substantial fabric. these are markers of likely greater care, complexity, and quality materials going into bev's clothing).

even mildred at her most stylish (from a lifetime of accumulated clothing she clearly takes pride in, no less!) isn't quite on the level of pearl and gold cardigan clasp. bev is embezzling without a doubt. she is not solely responsible for crockett island's decline, but she is absolutely hastening it.

*although actually it is noticeable that bev favors long, usually pleated skirts. firstly bc these are in my experience harder to find in big box stores than your average thinnish maxidress (my one, treasured ankle length pleated wool skirt was very reasonably priced at forty dollars from the thrift store**, and I have never seen its like sold firsthand), and secondly because bev's style very much reads to me as the Women Should Never Wear Pants flavor of American fundamentalism. obviosuly that strain of fundie is Protestant, not Catholic, and I dont know if Catholicism has an equivalent flavor, but the fact that she Literally Never Wears Pants combined with the determinedly modest long skirts and high collars combined with the insufferable self-righteousness reads that way to me.

**I know. it's my most expensive thrift by far but a comparable quantity of just the wool fabric was fifty dollars three years ago.

[blessyourhondahurley]

Suptober day 4 - Commencement

Castiel completes his training with Rowena, and it all goes very fast after that!

A new part to my 2019 series Rowena's Shop

Suptober prompt: Nimbus Flufftober Prompt: Cinderella Moment Fictober Prompt: “Do you even know what this means?” Inktober Prompt: Dodge

(Read on AO3)

“Oh, well done, Castiel! Very well done, indeed! You've gotten it exactly right! Look!!”

Comfy and dozing in his overstuffed armchair, Dean can hear Rowena's words of effusive affirmation drifting in through the curtained doorway to the back of the store. The cooing, approving tone of her voice is one she's never used with him, of course, but Cas has been drawing it out of her more and more often lately as he's neared the completion of his studies. From the sound of it, he's just ticked another box on the list of spells he needs to master before he “graduates,” whatever that word means for a literal sorcerer's apprentice in the Year of our Lord 2023.

He's starting to doze off again when his boyfriend comes bursting through the doorway, a wide, gummy grin on his handsome face.

“Did you hear?!? I did it!!” he trumpets.

Dean stands to give him a hug. “I heard, honeybee! Nice work!! Does that mean you guys are done for the day, or are you taking a break? Maybe we could go grab a late lunch...?”

Cas gives him a firm, full-bodied squeeze, then pulls away, shaking his head. “No, beloved, I did it. That was the last one. I'm finished. Do you even know what this means?”

Dean watches, mouth agape, as he murmurs a few sibilant words and flicks a finger. The cozy glow of the shop's chandelier dims as a nimbus of luminescent power gathers around Cas's head. The blue highlights in his hair coil and eddy, then the color surges, flowing down the man's body and draping it in a floor-length brocade cloak that perfectly matches his gorgeous eyes. It's a Cinderella Moment if Dean's ever seen one.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

“Indeed,” Rowena intones sarcastically as she walks into the room. “Eloquent as ever, I see.”

“Hey, screw you, Broom Hilda,” Dean snipes back. “Forgive me for being in awe of my boyfriend the fucking wizard.” He rolls his eyes at her and turns back to Cas. “So, what happens now? Can we celebrate? Go out for a nice dinner? Or should we just skip to dessert?” It's a cheesy line, but God help him, that little display of power got him so freaking turned on. If Rowena wasn't here he would 100% be on his knees right now.

Cas seems to be on the same wavelength, because he's got a dirty smirk on his face. He opens his mouth to respond, but Rowena throws up a waggling finger.

“Ah ah ah, there'll be plenty of time for that sort of business later. Right now I need your help with the last o'my cases.” She gestures behind her, at a teetering pile of steamer chests that definitely was not there a minute ago.

And the same-wavelength thing must still be in effect, because the two of them reply in unison, “Wait, what?”

“I've been stuck here long enough, boys. Now that you're ready, Castiel, I'll be goin' walkabout for a bit.” She points again at the trunks, an imperious quirk to her brow, and the two men scramble to fill their arms.

Rowena herself picks up the tiniest, daintiest little handbag and leads them, shuffling under the immense weight of her luggage, out the side door to the alley. Her car, like her a sporty little compact number of indeterminate age, make, and origin, seems much too small to hold so many massive cases. But of course, like magic, it all fits neatly into the boot, with ample room to spare.

Dean slams the lid down, then rounds on her. “So, what, Cas finished his training five minutes ago and you're getting outta Dodge? How long are you gonna be gone? What's gonna happen to the store? Wh–”

Whatever other question he'd been about to ask dies on his tongue when she snaps her fingers. (He's honestly not sure whether she did a silencing spell on him or he's just terrified of her.)

“It's tradition, you utter gowk. I've nothing more to teach our Castiel, and the shop practically runs itself, has done for centuries. And, much as I loathe to admit it, you've become quite an exemplary assistant in all the years you've been lollygaggin' around here waiting for your fella to do his lessons. The pair of ya'll do fine. And I'll be back around, in a few months or years or... Well, eventually. Cheerybye, boys!”

And she's gone, in a puff of sweet-smelling exhaust.

Dean and Cas stare at each other for a full minute, slack-jawed and stunned. Finally, Dean gathers himself enough to break the silence.

“Honeybee,” he says hoarsely. “What the fuck.”

[kindlystrawberry]

Comfortable Intimacy Prompt!

Let's go with [ injury ] sender cleans receiver's wound and patches it up. (I'm always so weak for a little wound care)

Can't pick a ship tho, so I'll let you pick who you think fits best with it.

PROMPTS FOR COMFORTABLE INTIMACY (accepting!) THANK YOU for this prompt, I'm also weak for wound care so this was an absolute joy to write. I think I may have written a slightly similar scene in Blue, but oh well, my heart yearns for it. Also, please suspend your disbelief a little at why they didn't just cast 'Return' to get home and drag Frey to the clinic. Let's say they were worried about moving her or something. AO3 link

! Content warning for some mildly gory injury descriptions in this one !

The ice is chilled beneath Frey’s hands, where her fingers curl into the ground to try and stifle the pain shooting up her leg. Still, there’s a layer of softness before it’s just sheets of ice and rock, likely from the fresh snowfall the night before. 

Despite the rest of the crummy nature of the afternoon, the soft snow is a nice texture, at least.

She sits with her legs sprawled out in front of her, and the sun shining in her eyes as it rests uselessly over the border between the Sechs and Selphia. In front of her kneels Arthur, who is dutifully tending to the injuries sprawling up the length of Frey’s left leg. 

Despite the sun, she’s shivering quite thoroughly, though absently Frey wonders how much of that is the weather and how much of that is the blood loss… 

Either way, she’s grateful for where her lover had laid both his heavy cloak and his button-up coat around her shoulders, even if she’s worried about how he’s doing.

“The weather is helping coagulate the blood, at least,” Arthur murmurs, seemingly more to himself as his utmost attention is focused with clinical intensity on her leg. It isn’t a pretty sight, as dark red globs of crimson stain deep into the snow.

Thankfully, the princess isn’t too squeamish. It would be hard to be, after all the adventures and battles that her time in Selphia has taken her through, and all the (albeit, temporary) injuries she’s suffered in the meantime. 

Still, this injury is particularly… not great.

It’s far from the worst that she’s gotten, but the great gashes of bite marks ooze blood in severe amounts.

“I need to disinfect it before performing any healing magic,” Arthur explains, voice lacking any of the ease of conversation that it usually carries. He pulls out some cloth from his bag and a bottle of clear liquid. “Otherwise the healing may close the infection inside the wound, which would not be ideal.” 

“It’s good you came prepared,” Frey adds with a forced laugh, as her eyes trail from Arthur’s downcast face to his bag full of supplies.

He simply says, “Yes, it is,” before beginning to clean down her leg.

It hurts like absolute hells, of course, and the antiseptic that Arthur is applying adds to the overall pain. Regardless, Frey does her best not to wince or groan too much. She’s handled worse. 

And, well… She doesn’t want to draw too much attention to herself right now.

For the last few minutes as the hurried haze of battle wares off, and as Arthur had quickly ran to where she collapsed and started performing first aid, Frey has had the sneaking suspicion that the blonde might be mad at her.

Even through its sheen of focus, Arthur’s face is pinched with displeasure in a way that it rarely ever is. His shoulders are stiff (so much so that they’re not even really shivering despite Arthur being in his undershirt), and his voice is curt whenever he has to ask her to move a certain way, or brace her for the next step he’s about to do. 

She could attest all of these things to him simply focusing of course, as well as to being concerned, but even though Frey’s sure those are true, she’s convinced there’s something else too.

His face is less polite than his usual expressions almost always are; she wonders if it’s the cold environment, or maybe the adrenaline of a difficult battle leaving them both dazed, but Arthur almost seems more raw around the edges than normal. 

His composure, almost always polished to perfection, now looks frayed, like rope on the verge of snapping.

And Frey thinks it might be her fault.

“Listen, Arthur,” she says carefully, unable to stand the silence any longer. Silences with Arthur are supposed to be comforting, relieving, romantic. Not tense and horribly awkward like they are now. He doesn’t lift his eyes, but she knows he’s listening. “I’m sorry that today didn’t go all that well, but everything’s going to be—“ she has to fight back a hiss of pain as he cleans a particularly deep gash— “f-fine. I’ve had worse, and—”

His curtain of blonde hair is blocking most of his expression from Frey’s sight, but she can hear that lance of something in his voice hot and clear now as he snaps, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

“I—” Frey’s eyes widen in shock. “What?” 

“Knowing that the person I love has been hurt even worse than this is meant to be a comfort to me?” His voice cracks like a whip, not particularly loud but wound tightly like he can barely keep it under control. His hands don’t pause in what they’re doing, but when Arthur looks up at her his crimson eyes flash with a mix of pain and anger.

Ah. Yup. She knew it. 

Somehow, the confirmation doesn’t make Frey feel better. It also doesn’t make Arthur’s anger go away.

Still, she finds that she can’t do much more than gape at the unusual shock of his outburst.    

“I would hope,” he continues, voice more controlled now but still tense and simmering, “that at the very least your other injuries weren’t for reasons as careless as this one.”

“‘Careless?’” Now it’s Frey’s turn to sound upset, her voice turning indignant. “I knew what I was doing, it’s not my fault that the wolves ambushed—”

“You were being foolish.”

“I was protecting you!”

For the first time since Frey’s known him, Arthur’s voice raises to a shout. “And you shouldn’t have!”

The sound rings out across the mountainous caverns of ice and rock. Immediately Frey and Arthur freeze, both turning their heads to take stock of their surroundings. Thankfully, the alcove of rock they found seems to still be well-hidden enough from the main road, and there also doesn’t seem to be much activity on the border anymore. That, of course, was why Frey had thought it would be fine to let Arthur tag along while she foraged for materials today, but…

In front of her Arthur sighs, drawing her attention back to him. 

His expression is pinched again, though this time more with regret than anything else. “I apologize.” His voice is still a little too stiffly formal, which Frey has always thought is one of the (admittedly few) tells that Arthur isn’t in a good mood. “I should not have raised my voice at you like that. And of course, I know you are not to blame for what happened today with the sudden monsters, but…” 

He lifts his head, and once again the raw emotion in his eyes shocks Frey to her core. This time, however, they’re flooded with pained concern. For the first time, she realizes that Arthur is trembling now, but she’s not sure if it’s the cold or something else. 

“Arthur…”

He casts his eyes down, focusing on her leg again. Having set the cloth and bottle aside, he spreads his palms wide and a green glow of magic dances beneath them. The relief is immediate, pain slowly starting to fade as magic aids Frey’s leg in stitching itself back together.

“If something were to happen to you—” Arthur cuts himself off as a tremor threatens to rise in his voice. He takes a deep breath, magic glowing stronger, and purses his lips. His voice is calmer when he starts again. “I loathe the idea of anything hurting you, in any capacity. If something awful were to happen, and even more so if it’s due to an effort to protect me then I… I don’t know if I could forgive myself.” 

Despite the fact that Arthur’s speaking almost at a whisper now, and despite the icy winds howling in the distance, Frey catches every word. 

She raises a hand to cup his cheek, and her heart aches at the way he leans into it. “Arthur… I feel the same way about you. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I want to get hurt, but… I just can’t help it. When I see you in danger like that, of course I’m going to throw myself in front of you.” Here her voice drops to the utmost sincerity. “I would do anything to protect you.”

Arthur finally smiles at that, as small and wry a thing as it is. “Of course, your selflessness is one of the things I love most about you, Frey. And yet… I can’t help but wish that sometimes you were a bit more selfish. At least when it comes to taking care of yourself.” A pause. A self-deprecating chuckle. “I do realize this sounds quite a bit hypocritical, coming from me.”

“Yeah, a bit.” A bubble of laughter passes through Frey’s lips, and her heart delights in how Arthur’s smile grows minutely.

With one last bright flash of green, Arthur’s magic goes out, leaving Frey’s leg almost completely healed. There’s still some scarring and scabbing here and there, but nothing that either Jones can’t fix or that she doesn’t already have somewhere else on her body. 

“How does that feel?” Arthur asks, sitting back. His face is pale from exertion, and there’s sweat pooling on his brow, but otherwise he looks much calmer than he did a few minutes ago.

Frey shifts her leg, trying to put some weight on her ankle at this angle to test it. “Pretty good! Let me see if I can…” she starts to stand, though Arthur is quicker to jump to his feet and offer his hand in assistance. “Thanks,” she says, with a fond smile and something of a blush, even at the smallness of the gesture.

Arthur’s cloak and coat fall off her shoulders, but she is able to stand and put weight on the leg with only a lingering weight behind it.

“Practically good as new,” she says, turning a bright smile on him as they both bend down to pick up his fallen clothes. “But if you don’t at least put your coat back on, you’re going to die of hypothermia before we make it back to Selphia Plains.”

A wry smile lightly touches Arthur’s lips. “Alright, but I insist you keep the cloak. If you don’t wear something over that dress in this cold then I might just die of worry first.”

They both laugh at that, picking up their bags and things, and as easily as ripples form in a lake their hands drift towards each other, fingers intertwining. 

“I apologize again for raising my voice like that,” Arthur says regretfully, as they start to make their way back the way they came. “I shouldn’t have added to your pain, when you are already injured.”

“I forgive you. And I’m sorry for worrying you like that. And…” She takes her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing a bit at the cold, chapped skin. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but… I promise to try and be more careful.” She whirls on him, pointing a finger at his chest. “If you promise to, too!”

Arthur’s smile grows. He grabs the hand that’s pointing at him and raises it to his lips, pressing a cold but tender kiss against her knuckles. “I promise. I love you, Frey.”

“I love you too.”

[gwennafran]

Pale Lights, Book 2 chapter 3 - Thirteenth brigade Temporary Reference Sheet

Because I’m a dork wanting a baseline while doing other fanarts. Will probably be updated a few times over the next few weeks.

Two versions. Because cloak.

Watch Fashion speculations and ramblings under cut

Fortuna got a full Renaissance gown. A couple of different decades got combined to get big sleeves top and massive collar combine with the sleek skirt (Look, everything is relative. Have you guys seen what happened with the skirts around this time?!? This is the sleek version).

I translated her capelet to a sexy partlet. I found at least one source referring to partlets like that. I guess you could have turned the partlet into also having a big collar. But… This is Fortuna. We all know she’s extra extra.

I’ve been playing around with Watch uniforms, and ended with basically three different types as a starting point.

Maryam is described wearing a tunic with silver buttons. Other times, Watch members have been described wearing cloaks. And those two things does not mix historically.

Then I remembered Tristan in Book 1 wearing a black tunic the same length as Maryam’s. Also described as a kirtle. And a black cloak later. So I figured he had frankensteined together several pieces of discarded Watch uniforms (even his boots were Watch boots).

So, I made Maryam’s tunic more kirtle-like. With the buttons on the sleeve and nice inbuilt boob-support. What is not added is a maybe/maybe-not existing prosthetic for her missing fingers.

Song got a more Renaissance look built around a doublet. Because I like those. Then I added a Musketeer Cloak on top.

We don’t know if Angharad is in a Watch uniform yet, but she definitively likes cloaks, and there are some of the uniforms with cloaks. So I gave her the full version of Tristan’s other half of his uniform.

And Tristan is, well… Tristan. He hurts my eyes.

Then EE dropped by in the Discord and confirmed there’s three different types of Watch uniforms. Regular Uniform, Fighting Uniform and Formal Uniform. Also, it seems I got pretty close to the three. With Tristan wearing a mixed abomination. Haha.

[slifarianhawk]

Chapter 37: an old grudge

I stalked through the caves. Slowly following Excella with my hand on my samurai edge. Jill and Gale walked beside me.

Albert's voice rang out in my mind, "Take Jill and Gale with you to the meet-up. I don't want Arias to try and take you away from me again, dearheart. Not to mention the natives are less than friendly."

I stare at the heavy ring on my finger. No way in hell was I about to let that happen again.

"Pay attention, you three!" Excella snapped as I sent Gale off to find a good sniping post, "We need to try and mend our relationship with Mr. Arias. He is one of our best buyers and one of our major clients!"

I felt a growl building in my throat. Arias, the fact I would have to play nice with him left a bitter taste in my mouth. Not only for the fact he saw me be an utter embarrassment to Albert by being captured by the B.S.A.A. but I think he was one of Sergei's suppliers. I'm not too sure on that one, though maybe I'd ask. There was also the fact he tried to kidnap me as well. 

I felt a buzzing on my neck, "My comm is going off."

Excella sighed and walked ahead.

"Pheonix here," I said pressing the speaker on my choker.

"No need for codenames with me, my precious lotus," Albert said, his voice echoing through the comms.

"Wesk," I sigh hesitantly scratching the back of my neck, "are you sure me being here is the best idea? I feel it could lead to trouble the last time. The last time I saw him I was our daughter now I'm your wife and partner."

"Don't sell yourself short my dear. Just be your usual cheery self, my love. Just reintroduce yourself as who you truly are." He said a slightly sour note to his tone of voice.

"Of course, my treasure. I shall" I smiled his voice giving me confidence as I heard a chuckle over the line.

Ugh, the fucking mushroom!

"Galeforce! Are you in position?" I snap.

He laughed almost shouting over the comms, "Of course, I'm in fucking position! What do you think I am a dead pigeon!"

Sighing I groan, "Don't listen to mine and Wesker's conversations over comms."

"Now now boss, don't let me blow away the romance." Game said cocking his kar98.

"Tabitha let's hurry. Excella is already at the rendezvous." Jill said behind her mask and cloak. 

"Right. Love you Wesk see you in a moment." I said hanging up the comms and marching on.

Within five minutes we were at the dock. I watched as Irving pulled in with a certain man with white hair. His minions are beside him. I was paranoid something was going to happen. I just felt it deep inside.

"Ah lady Excella, I see Dr. Wesker didn't escort you this time, " Arias said kissing her hand.

"He is making sure everything is perfect for your visit Glen." She said smiling.

"And who are these lovely people with you, Excella? One is certainly familiar." He asked motioning to me and Jill.

"One is the new bodyguard that Wesker assigned to me. The other is..."She started to stammer.

I quickly bow slightly,  "My apologies lord Arias, we have indeed met before although I was reticent about my true identity. When we last met I was using the identity of my deceased daughter,  Alistar Lancaster."

"Ah yes, I remember you now. You were captured by the B.S.A.A were you not? How ever did you manage to escape?" He asked eyeing my form suspiciously.

"Escape would be the incorrect term. They let me go under the UN's orders. As you have your resources, I have mine. If you would allow me the honor of reintroducing myself, I would be most grateful." I said pushing my loose hair back.

"Please indulge me. What is your actual name?" He said facing me completely now.

"My full name is Tabitha Elise Redfield Wesker. I am the matron of the Phoenix Corps., head of security, and the wife of Albert Wesker." I bowed fully this time my mid-length hair draping my body.

"So I tried to capture Wesker's wife?" He said in a stunned tone of voice, looking paler than he did when he arrived.

Raising my body I had a gentle smile on and with a lie on my lips I spoke,  "I harbor no ill will towards you hun."

Taking a moment to examine me, Arias faced his minions and lowered his hand, "Diego, Maria stand down we are among kindred spirits here."

The girl as well as the masked B.O.W relaxed in expression. I turned on my comms and looked down the dock. A certain mushroom perched atop a shack his scope shining in the firelight.

"Stand down galeforce, turns out I was just paranoid," I spoke to the choker speaker.

A loud groan rang from the comms as Gale jumped down from the little shack to the dock, "You need to get that in check boss. Can't be a walking ball of paranoia forever."

"Who is this gentleman?" Arias asked walking up to me. 

"This is Galeforce, my guard. He is also my best sniper. " I say escorting Mr. Arias toward the cargo elevator.

"You had a sniper trained on me? Clever girl you are Alistar, I mean lady Tabitha." He said walking beside Excella.

"My apologies, my husband was worried an incident would occur and this assuaged him," I state spotting a figure in a black trench coat ahead of me.

"You are quite right Glen our lady is as smart as her husband," Irving said nasally.

"With the B.S.A.A. temporarily off my trail mine and my husband's plans are more likely to proceed without a hitch," I say walking up behind Albert and stroking his well-defined neck.

"For you to be so trusting of me after I had four of my trained soldiers train automatic weapons on you. It is quite impressive." Arias said as Albert faced him.

"She has more training than even I do Glen. She is a fine gem amongst all the common trash we have for soldiers.  Also, welcome to our home." Albert says cordially offering his hand. This action surprises me. He despises most touch. He wasn't enjoying this just like me. It reminded me of the old Umbrella balls we were forced to attend as researchers.

"Dr.  Wesker,  thank you for having us. After all the bloodshed last time, I believe it is best if we bury the hatchet." Arias said taking Albert's hand and giving it a firm shake.

"So long as you don't try to kidnap my lotus again.  I believe we shall be fine." He said placing a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"Of course and please allow me to apologize, Lady Wesker.  I should not have been so bold as to assume someone as fine as you weren't already taken." Arias said motioning his crew to board the freight elevator.

As I board I think about Alistar and Sergei growling, "If I had wanted everyone to know who I was it would have been known. After all, parading around as one's dead daughter isn't the best for one's sanity. I had planned to stay as her awhile longer however Ms. Gionne found her original grave and I had to alter my plans." I sigh placing my head on Albert's chest.

"It's always devastating when we lose family. How old was she?" Arias asked looking at me and Albert.

"She died not even a month after her twenty-second birthday. Killed by my uncle, her great uncle.... our commanding officer at the time.... Vladimir Sergei." I spoke growling when I said the bastard's name.

Albert lightly draped an arm around me when I noticed the masked B.O.W. staring at the girl with a sorrowful expression in its eyes. they were father and daughter more than likely. I felt a ripple of sorrow.

"He killed her right before my eyes and walked away laughing.... she bled out in my arms. She died getting me Umbrella's entire intel network and our new computer system. My U.B.C.S. agent I'd was seven hundred forty-eight. Sergei's right-hand slave to say sadly, his prized bitch."

Arias put his hand up, "I thought I recognized you the last time we saw one another. I'm surprised you didn't recognize me. I was the one who supplied the Russian base with weaponry. I remember when I met the infamous Agent Seven forty-eight and her prodigy student One Zero forty-nine. How he described you as what you just called yourself and the other a perfect follower. He went into..."

"I would stop there Glen. My wife is a very easy-going and forgiving woman who has almost limitless patience. But trauma is a cruel mistress who should not be pushed especially when it comes to Sergei." Albert said in a dark menacing voice.

"My apologies lady Tabitha. I did not mean to cause any offense." Arias backpedaled sincerely.

With a sigh, I step away from Albert and shake my head, "There is no offense Arias and I must apologize.  I don't remember you. You see Sergei installed technology onto my spinal cord creating what is known as a sleeper agent. I have holes in my memories from October ninety-eight to February two thousand and three.  The activating phrase was prized bitch in Russian.  I even almost killed Albert here while I was activated. I live through them when my mutations deactivate. I dread the day I relive her death."

"I understand, my wife died in front of me. I couldn't imagine having your daughter die in your arms. My condolences, was she yours as well Dr. Wesker?" Arias asked as the elevator arrived.

"Yes, she was. She was our firstborn although we had to give her up. I wasn't there for Tabitha when she passed. If I knew what Sergei had done there would not have been a corpse, but a pile of ground flesh." Albert growled out.

"Deep breath my treasure, we can't let old grudges be it from our past or with ourselves, rule our lives," I say reaching up and stroking his hair.

"You are immensely wise lady Tabitha," María said.

"Please let us dispense the formalities.  Tabitha is formal enough." I said leading everyone onto the elevator and pressing the down button as I stood beside my husband.

As we descended Albert moved to the front of the moving freight elevator placing a gloved hand on my back "Now dearheart please introduce and detail your research to Mr. Arias."

"Yes show us what I have given you hasn't been a waste," Excella said snobby like.

"As you wish my treasured god." I look up at him ignoring Excella, "Mr. Arias if you would, please lend me your complete and undivided attention. Allow me to walk you through my gift to this disappointment of a world, The Angelis Virus."

I smile wide and bright. Wicked thoughts filled my head and that smile turned into a smirk. Albert stared a me a proud smile on his face. He was showing me off like a prized jewel and I was on cloud nine.

Hey everyone slifarianhawk here and we are moving decently ahead the next chapter is going to be a decent length. So be prepared my dearhearts. The next chapter will be out within the week. Until then my name is Silfarianhawk and I'm not so far away.

[osric-giroux-ffxiv]

Fireside Chat

The gardens of the Cress Estate were not a location Osric had given much thought to, nor spent much time in. 

Cold as Ishgard’s climate was since the calamity, it was difficult to get anything to grow, besides the occasional cedar, and yet the gardens were full of plants and statues…he could easily have imagined the vibrant expanse that would have occupied the space when a warmer climate claimed the land. 

But that wasn’t the case now - it hadn’t been for some time. Which meant few people visited the gardens.

Except for him.

He’d happened across what looked liked it had been perhaps a fire pit at one time, and after a few trips to the estate, and a questioning look from Wyland….and Bruce, he’d returned to the spot, adequately dressed, a warm fur-lined cloak settled around his shoulders, a blanket beside him on the bench, and went about starting a fire in the small fire pit. 

Wyland, catching on, had eventually brought out a small Ishgardian stove, leaving a kettle and two cups - though why two, Osric didn’t question, before leaving the younger man to the garden, the fire pit, and his racing thoughts - replaying events of the last several days as he watched the flames dance and listened to the crackle of the wood, a much-needed reprieve from the sounds of hammer against stone.

The sound of footsteps came from behind Osric as Valeria stepped towards the pit, curious about what the ruckus outside had been for some time along with hushed voices. She had her answer the moment she happened upon her brother-in-law, “I can’t remember the last time that had been used.” she spoke.

He hadn’t been expecting anyone to brave the cold, and so her voice drew him out of his thoughts - he turned his head enough to catch a glimpse of Valeria as she approached. 

Valeria was warmly dressed, her hair loose in long waves and a pristine falcon of soft greys and whites had been on her shoulder, its blinders kept its eyes covered. There must have been some level of trust there as the bird seemed content in trusting Valeria enough to lead them safely. Many of those within the manor itself wouldn’t have known of the lengths she had gone to bond with the bird itself and more often than not, she opted to keep Clotho uncaged, unbound. Free.

With the freedom came loyalty and trust.

“Why would you rather be out here in front of the fire than inside? It’s much warmer indoors.” Valeria spoke again and she drew closer, looking down to the fire and then to Osric, the orange glow of the flames brightening her cloaked figure.

“It is…” Osric nodded slowly, rubbing his hands together for a moment before reaching down to grab a piece of wood from the nearby pile, tossing it into the pit before shifting on the bench to fully face her. “...and maybe it’s because I’ve been spending so much time at the barracks over the last couple of weeks but inside just felt…stuffy today. I thought some fresh air, even if it was a bit cold, might do me some good.”

“So I came out here, found this, and here I am.” He looked up with a small smile before motioning towards the bench beside me, “Would you and your feathered friend like to join me? We’ve been living under the same roof for weeks now, and I don’t think we’ve shared more than a few passing words here and there. It really is quite nice by the fire…”

“Walks are usually good for that,” Valeria spoke softly as she watched Osric warm his hands. She of course wasn’t feeling much of the cold or bite from the air with mittens and being bundled quite warmly. Normally she would have objected to the invitation and preferred the toasty warmth of the indoor fire and tea or a book, but she wasn’t raised to be rude and so….Valeria slowly settled along the stone bench before the fire, Clotho on her shoulder shifting at the change in stance and the warmth of the small fire she undoubtedly felt.

“Apologies, I know I’ve been quite the recluse. I’ve been trying to catch bits and pieces of my memories. Been doing a lot of reading and a bit of soul-searching coupled with trying to be more social. I’ve made a friend or two – or so I like to think! And then there is my work within the archives. I keep busy but always within my limits. I’m glad you decided to marry my sister, these halls are better off with a bit more life in them now. You, Wyland and on occasion your sister or business partners coming and going. It’s…well it’s really nice.”

Mindful of the temperature, Osric reached over and carefully gathered the kettle off the small Isghardian stove, pouring its contents into one of the small cups - tea…because of course, Wyland would prepare tea - and then into the second before replacing the kettle to keep the remaining contents warm. He offered one of the cups over to Valeria. “You don’t have to apologize…I could have taken steps to sit and speak with you and it’s good for you to keep busy. And there have been, -” he trailed off, looking around the gardens for a moment, “- so many changes in the last few weeks. I think it fairly understandable that there’s an adjustment period.”

“For all involved, really but I don’t mind it so much.” she smiled gently and took the offered cup. Again, there was that small smile before he took a sip of his drink, his gaze turning towards the fire. “I am glad to be here, and that in being here there’s been more activity in the halls. The hope was that things changed for the better…not to make things more difficult.” He licked his lips quickly before giving a small shake of his head. “But tell me a bit about this soul-searching you’ve been doing, hm…or about your feathered friend here. Your sister mentioned a pair had been gifted by lord Gray, I take it this is one of the pair?”

“I can’t see how they would make anything difficult. The house is big enough for a small village it feels like on some days.” she paused and blew across the top of the cup to take a quick and careful sip from the rim. Instantly the warmth found her bones. Nodding, her free hand lifted and the crook of her knuckle stroked gently at the front of Clotho’s feathers, “Mmmhm! This is Clotho. She’s sweet. Very much still growing and I’ve really gotten used to taking her almost everywhere with me. The company is…well, it doesn’t seem like a lot but it’s nice and really comforting.”

She held her smile and bi-colored eyes drew back across to her brother-in-law, “Well… getting to experience the things I couldn’t before when I was both away from home and then being bedridden. I guess I have a little bit of a new outlook on life.”

“Well, for what it’s worth - I’m  glad you’re getting to experience new things and have a new outlook, and it doesn’t have to seem like a lot to anyone else.” He lifted his cup and took another small sip. “...when one doesn’t have any company even the smallest company can be incredibly comforting - I can certainly understand that.” Again, he gently cleared his throat, “You…um, mentioned also working at the archives, yes? You seem to stay incredibly busy…” Was it an attempt to keep the focus off of him, maybe?

There was a small twitch to her brow as they downturned, her attention settling on her mug and how awkward the response had been with the small pauses in between. She really wasn’t certain how to bridge that gap of empathizing with someone she barely knew. So, she reverted to the only thing she knew and that was to offer a reassuring, small smile despite him pointing out the obvious, “Not quite, but it’s enough for me at the moment. I enjoy the work. Books and relics, artifacts, and the like. It always fascinated me.”

Osric blinked slowly. “Really? My uncle…” the way he said the word had the slightest hint of malice, but it was quickly glazed over as he continued, preferring to speak of other matters besides his deceased kin, “- often brought back artifacts, books, relics, things of the like from assignments - they were rarely accounted for. He was not a ‘by the books’ type of man. I believe I brought many of them with me, if you’d like to have a look through them, see what may be valuable, or at the very least interesting.” 

He balanced his cup in one hand, the other reaching up to rub the back of his neck - a habit. “I’ve no idea what’s worthwhile in the collection, versus what isn’t…it would be nice to have someone with a keen eye for such things take a look at it.”

"Perhaps. At the very least you could showcase these artifacts of yours. Have them conserved if need be and you could even donate them to galleries I'm sure if they're not an interest to you – by the sounds of it, they're just items collecting dust." Valeria looked over and she drank her tea once more.

“At the moment they are, yes.” His statement was accompanied by a small nod. “Maybe sometime when you’ve some downtime we could sit down and go through the lot - I didn’t think it would be right to leave it at the estate…well, now the barracks, to be destroyed, but telling what was worthwhile versus what wasn’t - that was more Kenward’s interest than mine.” There was a quick shake of his head. “But those items aren’t going anywhere…” His attention turned back to the falcon, “-Clotho, correct? What type of training have you been doing with her - she seems quite comfortable with you.”

A small knit came to Valeria’s brow as she quietly listened to Osric speak, trying to absorb everything, “Alright. I can go through it but I’m not entirely sure what you want done with the items. I certainly have no use for them, though I know the archives would be happy to take any and all artifacts donated.” she would have elaborated more but the conversation quickly changed and she smiled, finger lifted to brush at Clotho’s feathers once more, “Yes. Damien named her for me and it’s been her name since.” she looked back to Osric and nodded lightly, “Small game hunting, Damien has given me steps on how to let her hunt, naturally and I can send missives with her. That’s just about it so far but she’s mostly been getting to know me, and I am with her. Feeling comfortable with one another is a work in progress but there is progress so that’s the main thing.”

Noticing the change in her demeanor he exhaled, deciding that the change in topic was clearly the correct choice. He hummed thoughtfully before taking another sip of his tea. “It seems earning the trust of a falcon is quite the challenge. How often are you getting to train with her? It sounds like the progress is moving along at a fairly steady pace the way you describe it.”

He reached down and picked up another log, tossing it into the fire pit before reaching over for the kettle to refresh both his tea and hers which Valeria had gently declined with the motion of her hand.

“I’m training her right now. Being outside and her on my person – she’s quite relaxed. Damien has been teaching me quite a lot and I’m learning as we go. I’ve learned about the things she’ll eat, the type of things she can do, and even how she sees the world around her. Damien has trained her before he gave her to me but I had to put in the rest of the work.”

Valeria lowered her hand back to her lap and aimed to finish the remainder of her tea to set the empty cup aside. She knew that she had felt well enough and the tea was nice enough to warm the bones but being outside for too long – while her body still recovered – could have been one wrong choice away from contending with sickness in bed. Not something she had wanted to endure while so weak and still recovering.

Slowly the cloaked woman stood and she smiled down to Osric who remained seated, “Try not to stay out here too long, you won’t want to catch your death. I’ve almost forgotten how quickly the weather in Ishgard can change on a gil.”

He glanced up with a small smile and a nod. “That it does.” He turned his cup between his hands, a particularly brisk breeze blowing through at that moment. “It was nice getting to chat with you, Valeria…I do wonder though…” He lifted his cup, taking a sip as he gathered his thoughts for a moment. “How has Damien been teaching you these things if you’re supposed to be keeping away from him?”

A gentle chuckle escaped the woman, “He taught me when he gave me the bird before your wife shut me in. Plus, falcons can deliver letters and I happen to have wonderful penmanship.” she offered a small joke as she bowed her head down to Osric.

“Pleasant evening, my Lord.” With poise, the Cress twin turned heading towards the house, a finger coming up along the front of Clotho’s chest to stroke at the soft plumage there.

Collab writing with @spirit-speaking

[sweetfirebird]

A Suitable Bodyguard!! only six days away!

I forgot to do a ONE WEEK!! screaming post so please enjoy this SIX DAYS!!!! screaming post.

Several hours had gone by when he and Tahlen began to pass heavy thickets of green vines off to the side of the road, some full of chattering birds happily feasting on the dark berries that must not have been ripe enough to pluck when the rest of the berries had been harvested.

Zelli turned his horse in that direction without thought. He slid from Lemon Blossom’s back in his excitement and was gathering blackberries over the sound of Tahlen’s bewildered, “You’re berry picking?”

Zelli had hunted for berries before in his life, although the small bushes down in village were nothing to the wild bramble in front of him, so tall that Tahlen would likely have to stretch to see over it. Zelli stood up on his toes to reach berries deep within the tangle, snagging his sleeves and then his hands on nearly invisible thorns. He ate some berries before gathering more, then, after fighting with the thorns to get free, brought spilling, sun-warmed handfuls over to Tahlen, who was standing beside Starfall and giving Zelli that odd look again.

“The last of summer’s gifts,” Zelli said, holding his hands up so Tahlen could take some berries. “It’s not childish,” he added when Tahlen hesitated. “We need food, and they’ve already harvested this patch, else there would be berries everywhere.”

“You’re bleeding,” Tahlen observed, but let Zelli fill his palms with blackberries.

Zelli’s hands and wrists were bleeding, in fact, but only in two places. The purple stains on Zelli’s fingertips more than made up for a few cuts.

“Barely,” Zelli dismissed this before devouring several more berries. “If a beat-of-four can wear a sword and risk being killed by one, I can bear a few scratches and have purple fingers for a while.”

Tahlen pulled in a long breath. “I wish more of them had your ideas.”

“No!” Zelli poured the remaining berries into Tahlen’s hands and pushed them up toward Tahlen’s face to fill his reckless mouth. “No wishing!” he ordered, not teasing, then snatched his hands away. “I should… I should offer some of the berries to them, though they can pick their own.”

He hurried back to the thicket, offending a few birds by taking more of their berries. No offering place was obvious, so Zelli brought his handful to a stunted and bare apple tree nearby and set the berries on the ground at the base of the trunk. “No wishes,” he told any listening fae, “only a greeting. We are family, after all.”

He’d known that. Everyone who saw Zelli knew that. But no one had ever called them that until Tahlen, and then two outguards. Even Grandmother usually only spoke of their shared fae blood, not of their shared fae family.

“Zelli, come back here, if you please,” Tahlen requested gruffly, all his berries gone, his lips only hinting at a darker color. Zelli looked apprehensively at the corner of Tahlen’s cloak, which Tahlen had soaked with water, thinking Tahlen was going to tell him he had blackberry juice all over his face. But Tahlen took Zelli’s hands, one at a time, and washed away the trickles of blood and the worst of the purple.

It would stain the cloak, but Zelli would see it replaced if it could not be cleaned.

Tahlen focused on his work, so Zelli studied Tahlen’s bent head and the length of his braid fallen over his shoulder, and how he had to stoop to get near to Zelli’s level. Tahlen had nice ears. Zelli fantasized about covering them in cuffs like the one that outguard had worn. Not gold for Tahlen, though Tahlen deserved it, but a shining metal like silver or platinum. Necklaces and cuffs and bracelets, with jeweled clasps climbing his braid.

Then Tahlen’s eyes came up and Zelli thought warmly that Tahlen needed no decorations. Maybe Zelli could pay a trader to bring him moonrise vine seeds so he could plant them and see the blooms for himself. Maybe, if his alliance turned him into the sort of beat-of-four to wear jewelry of his own, he would commission clasps in the shape of flowers, so he could imagine them in Tahlen’s hair.

Imagine only, he reminded himself. He pulled his hands from Tahlen’s grasp and smiled shakily.

A Suitable Bodyguard--April 22nd in ebook and paperback!

Is there a plot? Sure. But who cares when you have mutual care and hand-feeding your beautiful hunky guard some blackberries????

[fourseasonsfigs]

Niuniu Wants to Fight

Niuniu of course is Zhang Zhehan's character Duke Su, our noble Xu Jin, from The Blooms at Ruyi Pavilion.

Niuniu means "cute little girl" and is the very affectionate nickname for the very cute Xu Jin. Niuniu figs tend to be quite popular in the Junzhe Extended Universe fandom, so I'm building up a collection of them!

This particular fig was inspired by this absolutely beautiful costume:

And some great behind the scenes photos of him in this costume:

Since none of these pics give us a full length view, here's a video showing us this whole magnificent costume:

If you've been reading this blog, you know I love my armored warrior figs! I really like the battle-worn ones in particular, but I'm delighted to also have a few pristine pre-battle figs.

Look at all that gorgeous golden armor!

I really love how the fig maker rendered his eyes. Not only are they beautifully shaped, but they pick up the color of the robes in the iris and also the corner of the eye.

Look at the ornate detail on the arm! I am in love with it. We also get a nice full length side view of his cloak.

I don't have a lot of figs with cloaks, which is a shame, because they're effortlessly fantastic!

This may be the only guzhuang / ancient costume fig I have that doesn't have a guan. I feel two ways about this. On one hand, I like the plain look of the hair - there is no time for hair crowns when you're off to battle! On the other hand, if you already look this fancy, what's a little more gold for the hair?

In reality, Zhehan's face is so gorgeous that the clean hairstyle actually suits this costume best. It sets off his face and costume to best effect.

I love the motion in the cape here.

Now THAT is a sword. Pre-attached, so no worries about it fitting in his hand, and nice and solid. There is some heft to that sword! Most of the PVC swords I get bend in shipping, since they are slim and therefore are quite flexible (and I'm not just talking about A-Xu's Baiyi!). This one didn't bend a fraction of an inch.

I love the 3-D effect with the cape fastening to his breastplate..it looks so polished that way.

He stands very well - the sword and the cape don't put him off-balance. Maybe they cancel each other out!

This is a nice angle to see the effect on the cape at the shoulders, and also of course the slight flare at the bottom.

The plain topknot is definitely growing on me! I don't mind some variation at all.

This Niuniu is definitely going on my battlefield display with all my battle-worn (and not so battle-worn) warrior figs!

I really do love getting the printed boxes - I miss those on all the white-boxed resin figs!

Material: PVC

Fig Count: 454

Scene Count: 30

Rating: Niuniu is so cute it may stop all fighting!

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

[steviewashere]

Trans Eddie Munson WIP

There's always demand for some trans ftm Eddie Munson content. And today I offer the first section of my wip fic.

I'm hoping to have this whole fic finished by the end of the first week of March, we shall see. But I thought that I could focus on trans Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington works during the month of March. If that's something people are interested in.

CW: General Dysphoria, Referenced Minor Character Death, Deadnaming (him figuring things out)

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️

There’s something about her body that Elizabeth Munson can’t quite put her finger on. Something different and wrong. Maybe…Maybe wrong is a strong word, but that’s what it is, she supposes. She had soft areas on her body that she often glared at with disdain. The curves and small pouch of fat at the bottom of her tummy. Which, she doesn’t hate all that too much, her mama told her about how that pouch is protecting her. That it’s meant to keep her insides safe. But she still, very much so, wants it gone. Wants a lot of herself gone. Her long hair, curly and wild—like her mama’s, but it’s prettier, and gentler less ill-fitting on her mama. She wants what her period is giving her to be shunned to another realm. The breasts, as her mama calls them, her smile all nurturing and sweet and doting. But they make shirts sit weird, and they’re kind of heavy, and they remind her too much about having babies. She doesn’t think she wants to have kids, not in the way she was made to have them. That doesn’t feel good to think about, either. Her fingers are long and narrow. Which, they aren’t too bad. Useful to learn the guitar with. But she looks at them and believes that they aren’t what her eyes are meant to see.

She finds herself admiring boys a lot. How they often don’t have to think about their body, unless they’re playing sports. They make her chest hurt. Like a quick staple in her skin. The boys in her school have short hair, first of all. Tidied up, shaved cleanly on the sides, high tapered and shaped nicely to their heads. Boys have lean bodies with defined muscles. They have flat chests and flat tummies, for the most part, and big feet, big hands, thick fingers.

Why did she have to come out looking like herself, she often wonders. Why couldn’t she have meaty muscles and hair all over the place and a deep rasp in her throat? How come she’s gotta smoke cigarettes to achieve the voice of her dreams? Why does she even dream about having a different voice, a different body, even a different name?

When she stands in front of her mirror, much like she does this morning, much like she does every morning, she sees an imposter cloaking her soul. If monsters exist, she believes that they have wrapped themselves around her bones, mutilated themselves to be human flesh and skin toned, and they inhabit her brain. 

Her fingers comb through her hair for the thousandth time, frustrated beyond belief. She can’t make her hair look good or normal or right. 

In a feeble attempt to make some sense of herself, she wraps her palm around her heavy head of hair, tugging it back behind her ears, above her shoulders, and imagines herself without it. What she’d look like. All rounded facial features and pouty lips, her mama’s eyes and her daddy’s crooked smile. Wraps her free arm around her chest, pushing and prodding around until her breasts are practically as flat as they can possibly be. She steps back from the full length mirror of her bedroom, the portal to monsters and Narnia and Wonderland, and sees it for what it is for the first time: A simple bedroom mirror.

Because there, in the reflection where her body once stood, is a little boy with scraggly arms and a chubby little belly and knobby knees. A little boy who’s mama doesn’t know how to cut hair all that well, maybe settles for a bowl cut each time, and each time he thinks she did a great job. A little boy who’s freshly twelve years old and doesn’t want to go to his first day of seventh grade, where the other kids will mock him. This little boy who seems to smile.

And she realizes, dropping her hair in haste at the rapid knocking on her door, she is not a girl. No, not at all.

Elizabeth Munson is a boy.

————— Boys act tough. Boys are rowdy. Boys are stupid creatures.

Elizabeth mimics them as well as he’s able. He still hasn’t figured out his name, not yet. But he knows how to growl and retort. Can take up space with big gestures and act all bothersome at the prospect of sitting like a lady. He can do all kinds of things.

But the one thing he hasn’t been able to do yet? Shake the sensation of his heavy hair.

He goes home one afternoon after a difficult day of school. Where he got called pretty and ugly and chic and darling. Shoved into lockers and teased for not wearing makeup. For stealing his daddy’s flannels and covering himself up, like he doesn’t want to be seen. He sneaks into the bathroom and finds his dad’s shaving kit.

If he can’t go somewhere and request for his hair to be cut a certain way, then he’ll just have to do it himself. He’s not sure how to successfully do it. But he begins with snipping away the ends. Up to his ears. Cuts off his bangs all choppy like. Drags the razor across his scalp. The tufts of hair falling to his shoulders. His naked shoulders. His naked torso still shining like dull copper in the mirror, heavy breasts and curvy waist and slim shoulders.

He shakes himself off like a dog.

And when the razor is unplugged, repackaged, put away for nobody to find. He takes himself in.

There in the reflection, is a…person with a shaved head. He throws on a t-shirt. And sees, truly, a little boy with his mama’s eyes and his daddy’s nose and unruly little scars from being shoved into things at school. 

But he sees a boy. Or the outline of a boy. He sees the imprint, the footprint in wet sand, an initial carved into a tree. Then he thinks about his introductions. About going, “I’m Elizabeth.” The grimace that brings to his face. He holds a hand out to the mirror, his reflection almost mocking his movement. And rolls some names off of his tongue.

“Hi, I’m Allan,” he starts. Maybe he should be named after his father, but that doesn’t taste all that well. Another Allan Munson would be the end of the world. If being a boy in girl’s skin doesn’t kill him, then being the appendage of a criminal would. And he’s already had plenty of close encounters.

He takes a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Sam…I’m Sammy,” he tries. His mama’s name is Samantha, so maybe he should go after her. But if she was considered a hippie basketcase to the rest of Townsend, Tennessee, then he will, too. By default. Seems like maybe going the family route won’t work in his favor.

“George,” he shoots. “Georg—ie.” That’s another option. He wants a nickname.

Elizabeth garners Eliza and Liza and Beth and Bethany.

Allan gets Al. Samantha is Sammy or Sam or Mandy.

But he can’t, for the life of him, think of a single name that fits like a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. Can’t find something sweet, maybe a little sophisticated. Something that rolls. A name that would be easy for himself to remember. Or one that a person could hear in passing, maybe think he said something else.

What about famous artists?

“I’m Jonathan, but I prefer Johnny,” he mutters, thinking of Johnny Cash. He shakes his head and resets on his feet. “John, but I like Johnny.” John Prine is on his mind for that one. Flaps his hand to get rid of the ache from holding out for so long, drops it to his side, switches to the other. “Woody,” he whispers, but that’s not right either. Woody Guthrie has that.

He sighs. Never in his life did he think finding a name would be so hard. Briefly, he wonders how his mama did it. How she remembered his birth name even after heaving and laboring for hours, coming out exhausted and bloody and sobbing. God, he hopes he never has to experience this again. But, knowing his luck, he may as well start making lists—who else in his life may want a new name? Seems like he’s got plenty to pull from the recycling bin.

Holding out his palm again, he thinks about Eddie Van Halen. Thinks about fast music. Thinks about music that bonds him to the floor, that thrums his heart, that boils his blood. He imagines playing to sold out crowds, being called out to the stage. The crowd cheering, voices a concoction of screaming and wailing. “Ed-die! Ed-die! Ed-die!” They shout.

“Eddie,” he murmurs. Looks himself in the eyes. Big and brown. Just like his mama’s. Thinks of her holding his head. Kissing his temple. Folding the collars of his shirts, helping him tie his shoes, teaching him to brush his teeth. Of her saccharine voice like honey on the shell of his ear, sticky and golden.

Her lips to his sheared hair. Holding him by the shoulders. Her eyes watering from pride. Whispering, “You make Mama proud, you hear me Edward? My little Eddie’s gonna make Mama proud.” 

Thinks of her body not ravaged by illness, her tummy fluffy and her arms full, her hair still long and tickling his neck. Thinks about the day she called him to her arms, announcing that she was sick, but that her biggest accomplishment—the thing she’s most proud of—was that she had a wonderful little kid. A brave kid. A tough kid.

“A precious little stone. ’T’s what you are, baby,” her voice had lilted. That Tennessee drawl to her bottom lip. Her nimble hands, just like his, soothing the ache in his sides, showing him how to take care of himself. Where the pads were and how to get blood out of clothes. Of her applying mascara, but nothing more, because less is more. He thinks of her hands on his cheeks. Murmuring all sweet like, “You were almost a baby boy, you know that? How funny that would’a been. But, you wanna know something, angel?” And he had nodded in her hold. “I would’a named you Edward. Cause you are the guardian of my heart. My heart is yours. And you are my heart. And whatever you do in this world, baby, I will be right there with you.”

Her voice against his cheek, kissing away his tears. “I’ll be right here,” she whispers, tapping his heart. “And no matter what you do. No matter who you are. Where you end up. You will always have my heart, my pride, my joy.”

He thinks of her at the end of her life. He’s nearly twelve years old and he’s feeling all too awkward about himself. She holds out her palm. And he takes it. She squeezes, murmuring, “Never change your heart, angel, never change your heart.” Her breath gone. And him, that ache and her palm, but those words being all that was left.

“I’m Edward Munson,” he introduces to the mirror. “But you can call me Eddie, if you’d like.” And yearns like a sunflower in the middle of winter.

🏳️‍⚧️—————🏳️‍⚧️ More to come later, but here's your first serving.

[octokinesis]

Stop Your Internal Dis Track

On August 8th & 9th at 6PM and August 10th at 5:30 PM you can join me live at Urevbu Contemporary to experience the delight of a good emotional scrub. Come ready to sweat.

The Call

This series is for you if:

You have recently noticed that you complain a lot…ALOT ALOT;

You have trouble enjoying your wins;

You would rather organize yourself around creativity, collaboration, and pleasure;

You care deeply about your peeps, but have conversation patterns that keep getting in the way.

I invite you to let it all go on the spiritual dance floor. Maybe get free of a few habits of mind that have you trapped in your poise. Let’s get loose. Let’s get deep in those sinews and pull out all the old stories that you tell to get that dose of Dissatisfaction that holds you down and back. Let’s become present to what is and discover the safety and power of joyful, radical acceptance.

The Offering

Usually here the coach or class leader will tell you how much value they are going to provide. Because this is as much a spiritual undertaking as it is a physical one, so I am going to tell you what you need to bring to and leave on the altar of transformation. You’ve got to give to get.

You will need to bring an open mind.

You will need to bring the willingness to be uncomfortable.

You will need to bring your attention.

You will need to bring your biggest bag of emotional garbage you keep dragging around.

You will need to bring that Tea Coat of Arms.

You will need to bring your Cloak of Dissatisfaction.

You will need to come prepared to sweat.

You will need to bring your go-to, multipurpose diss, beautifully written out on a nice piece of paper

You will need to bring any physical receipt that reminds you that you need to keep playing small.

The Preparation

It’s important to decide how many nights of the process you will engage.

Each evening is one hour in length, addressing a specific aspect of the way we create stories to justify hiding our shine under criticism. I have developed a full week long program, but for our first altar call in Memphis, I am offering three of them. Here they are.

Night 1: Imposter Syndrome

Let’s investigate releasing  the need to send oddly worded email replies that require that your colleagues, clients and cheer squad decipher them. Let’s release the apologetic sigh “because you just can’t tonight” once again with your alleged squad. Let’s repair the urge to vanish behind a wall of to-do lists and calendar reminders. Let’s accept that we have nothing to prove to anyone.

Night 2: The Devil is in the Details, A SAH Method Session

This evening’s session might as well be called, I Ain’t Mad With You. Tonight we let go of needing an imaginary villain to fuel our success.

Night 3: Abandonment Issues, A SAH Method Session

As you have developed your techniques of practice and survival, you changed, and by necessity, so have some of the scenes and people that can be with your Genius. Maybe you went back to school or took a certificate program that had you buzzing with hope. Or maybe you took that big trip you were always talking about but not all the homies could go. This practice is designed to allow you to grieve your maturity while allowing you to accept the gifts that it brings if only we celebrate it.

Maybe they all speak to you or maybe there is one in particular that you would like to take. Know that each night, the classes build on each other, giving you the effect of an energetic deep scrub. This is the workout that will work you back into alignment with your destiny.

What is Somatic Activated Healing™?

Created by Sah DiSimone, the SAH Method™ is a movement experience designed to alleviate the stress and trauma of living in an extractive economy and culture. It is a radical, spiritual body technique that is practiced like interval training using movement, breathwork, meditation, affirmations, and ecstatic dance to create a circuit. A session can include as few as one circuit or as many as 5. 

This radical wellness practice — championed by Deepak Chopra, and heralded in Forbes, Vogue, the Daily Mail, and more combines science-based healing modalities to clear emotional blocks, build resilience, and reconnect with your innate and powerful essence.

Our students consistently rave that the SAH Method™ offers profound psychological, physical, and spiritual benefits including:

Reduced depression and anxiety

Reduced physical pain and lethargy

Increased sense of resilience

Increased joy and inspiration

Improved physical health and energy

Improved mental health and clarity Deepened connection to authenticity and self-expression

What is involved?

Each session addresses a particular state of mind that prevents true acceptance of yourself as you are right now. At the start of each session, a brief introduction of the title and intention for the class will be given as you are invited to direct your attention inwards as we set our intention for the class. You will be guided through the combinations each session by a certified Somatic Activated Healing™ Coach. You are free to move at your own pace, take the class from a seated or prone position, and hydrate when necessary. We ask that you arrive at least 3 minutes before the session and wait to be admitted from the waiting room. Late arrivals can be distracting to others and detrimental to your health.

What will happen?

That’s entirely up to you and your body. In SAH Method™ we ask that people arrive with no expectations for an outcome, but that you drop the story and stay with the feeling. Typically, people experience muscular and emotional releases during a session. You can expect to sweat A LOT. A session is like interval training for your mindbodyspirit. There will be loud music and encouraging shouting and laughing from the instructor. Your muscles will get a workout. You will learn and use specific breathing techniques. You will be guided through ways to meditate that flow with your life. You will dance like no one is looking. You will change. We cannot control the change that occurs, only accept it.

Is there a dress code?

The invitation is to take the class in bare feet, but if you have foot issues you can wear athletic footwear that allows you to dance. This is key as many shoes prevent the foot from sliding and spinning, to prevent accidental slipping. Your body will be in charge of the moves you make, so dress accordingly. Be sure to take your clothing, hair, and jewelry out of the equation: if you are constantly having to pull up your pants or adjust your top, hair or jewelry, you will be too distracted to fully engage the sequences. You can serve a lewk (we love to see it), but make sure it is not in your way!

Ok, this sounds wild, I am in!

Great! To join us for all three nights the investment is $275. If you just want to try out one class, the cost is $100. Feeling generous? Pay it forward and provide a scholarship for someone who cannot mess with their cash flow at this time by registering at the $125 level! Scholarships will only be available at the level of the gift pool. 

A Place for Joy LLC will hold 5% of your investments to donate to protect elder trees in our community.

FAQ

What is Somatic Activated Healing™?

Created by Sah DiSimone, the SAH Method™ is a movement experience designed to alleviate the stress and trauma of living in an extractive economy and culture. It is a radical, spiritual body technique that is practiced like interval training using movement, breathwork, meditation, affirmations, and ecstatic dance to create a circuit. A session can include as few as one circuit or as many as 5. 

This radical wellness practice — championed by Deepak Chopra, and heralded in Forbes, Vogue, the Daily Mail, and more combines science-based healing modalities to clear emotional blocks, build resilience, and reconnect with your innate and powerful essence.

Our students consistently rave that the SAH Method™ offers profound psychological, physical, and spiritual benefits including:

Reduced depression and anxiety

Reduced physical pain and lethargy

Increased sense of resilience

Increased joy and inspiration

Improved physical health and energy

Improved mental health and clarity

Deepened connection to authenticity and self-expression

Do I need to be a trained dancer?

Not at all! In fact, trained dancing--using choreography--is a type of storytelling that may get in the way of experiencing a full somatic release. You are invited to move however your body can move as long as you are respectful of the bodies and personal space of others.

What happens if I start crying?

You are invited to allow your tears to flow. This is a non-judgemental safe space. If you have the sense that you will become very emotional, bring your favorite blanket and pillow to swaddle and squeeze. It's gonna be alright.

Will there be food?

Light organic snacks and juice will be provided after each session. Please do NOT eat a large meal before a session.

Is this 420 friendly?

While all fantasies can be lived, we find that coming to a session with only the plant medicine or allopathic medication you require in your system is the best choice. Please do not light up as a way to go deeper in a session. The dancing, sweating, breathwork and music is designed to take you where your body needs to go.

Can I skip my therapy that day and do this instead?

Somatic Activated Healing is NOT a substitution for psychological and psychiatric treatment. While we do believe the body has the power to heal itself, it does so in community, with the trained support of an array of providers.

Can I just sit and watch?

Short answer, no. This is a participatory, communal experience anchored in trauma-informed delivery and practice. Having an audience is simply not cool.

I'm feeling a little sweaty and stuffed up. Can I still come and sweat it out?

Alas my love, the days of sweating it out because it's just a cold or flu are long gone. If you feel under the weather, please stay home and take a COVID test. Be safe!

What do I need to bring?

You will need to wear comfortable clothes for sweating and moving.

Bring sneakers for dancing in case the floor bothers your feet.

Sweat towel

Refillable water bottle

Blanket or wrap

Pillow

Yoga Mat

A change of clothes if you sweat a lot and...

You will need to bring an open mind.

You will need to bring the willingness to be uncomfortable.

You will need to bring your attention.

You will need to bring your biggest bag of emotional garbage you keep dragging around.

You will need to bring your Cloak of Dissatisfaction.

You will need to come prepared to sweat.

You will need to bring your go-to, multipurpose dis, beautifully written out on a nice piece of paper

You will need to bring any physical object that reminds you that you need to keep playing small…cause you don’t.

[malakasaroobie]

A Beginner's Guide To A Great-looking Apparet

A Beginner's Guide To A Great-looking Apparet

If you’re like most people, you probably have an app in your smartphone that you use on a regular basis. Maybe it’s a fitness tracker, or a to-do list manager. Chances are, if it’s popular enough, there’s a good chance it has been designed by someone outside of the design field. In this blog post, we will introduce you to some of the basics of design and give you a beginner’s guide to creating a great-looking app. From understanding user input to optimizing your designs for the best performance, read on to learn everything you need to get started in the world of app design.

What is an Apparet?

An apparet is a type of garment worn by both men and women. It is a wide, full-length garment with a low neckline and long, flowing sleeves. The fabric is usually silk or cotton and it can be worn as a dress, tunic, or cloak. Apparets are popular in many cultures and can be very versatile, adding an elegant touch to any outfit.

What are the Different Types of Apparets?

There are many types of apparel, each with its own set of benefits and drawbacks. Here are the different types of apparel and their purposes: Clothing: Clothes provide insulation against the elements and can protect you from harmful UV exposure. Clothing can also enhance your appearance, by creating a sense of style or by providing comfort. Shoes: Shoes help you stay mobile and protect your feet from damage. They can also add an element of style to your outfit. Accessories: Accessories can make or break an outfit, depending on their quality and how well they complement the other pieces of clothing in your wardrobe. Accessories can include jewelry, hats, scarves, belts, and sunglasses.

How to Choose the Perfect Apparet for You

When it comes to finding the perfect apparet for you, there are a few things to keep in mind. First and foremost, it's important to figure out what type of apparet you want. Do you want something that is classy and elegant, or do you prefer something more casual and trendy? Once you know the style of apparet you're looking for, the next step is to consider your personal fit. Do you have wide shoulders? Are your hips smaller than average? These factors can help determine which apparet is best suited for your body type. After all of that, it's important to find an apparet that fits your budget. Apparets can range in price from $20 to $500+, so make sure to go ahead and get pricing information before making any decisions. Finally, be sure to check the reviews before making a purchase. There are often times where people misjudge an outfit because they don't read the reviews first. That being said, always take into account what other people have said about an outfit before deciding if it's really worth purchasing. With all of these tips in mind, finding the perfect apparet shouldn't be too difficult!

What to Wear With Your Apparet

When you are shopping for your new apparet, it is important to remember to take into account the occasion and the weather. For example, if you are going out for a night on the town, it might be a good idea to dress up a bit more than if you are just going to work. Additionally, it is always nice to have some versatile clothing options in case the weather changes unexpectedly. Below, we have listed five outfits that will work well for different occasions. Whether you are dressing up or down, each of these outfits can help make you look great! Dress Up: If you decide to dress up for your occasion, choose something that shows off your best features. A great way to do this is by wearing something fitted and high-quality like a blazer or skirt. Make sure not to go too crazy with the makeup or accessories though; simply adding a touch of eye shadow and some sleek earrings should do the trick! Dress Down: If you want to go more casual when dressing for your apparet, consider opting for an outfit that will still look professional but is less restrictive. A great option for this is a jumpsuit or sundress; both of which can be easily dressed up or down depending on what you add underneath (a blazer, necklace, etc.). Again, make sure not to go overboard with makeup or accessories; just keeping things simple will give your outfit a polished look!

How to Care For Your Apparet

If you are looking to give your apparet a fresh new look, follow these simple tips. Firstly, make sure you have the right tools. Apparel dye is not the same across brands, so it’s important to get the right color for your garment. If you are using a permanent dye, be sure to remove all of the excess dye with a soap and water mixture before laundering. If you are using a non-permanent dye, be sure to wash in cold water with mild detergent and then rinse thoroughly. Once your garment is clean, it’s time to prep it for dyeing. To prevent staining or bleeding, be sure to pre-treat any areas that will be dyed with fabric conditioner or liquid Fabric Softener. Be sure to apply pressure when prepping garments; this will help achieve even coverage and reduce wrinkles in the fabric. Now it’s time for the fun part! Pour your chosen color into a bucket or sink and wait for it to reach a light shade before stirring. You can also add some white vinegar or rubbing alcohol if needed while stirring; this will help brighten up your color faster. When the desired shade has been reached, carefully pour the dye mixture over your garment while maintaining pressure on areas that need it (especially around buttons, zippers, and seams). Let the garment sit for 20-30 minutes before rinsing off in cool water and

Conclusion

In today's world of high-tech gadgets and ever-changing fashion trends, it can be difficult to know where to start when it comes to finding the right apparel. Whether you're a beginner who is just starting out in the fashion world or an experienced shopper who wants to make sure that every piece of clothing matches your personal style, we've put together a guide full of tips and tricks on how to find outfit staples that will help you look your best. From belts to shoes, we have everything you need to get started in shaping up your wardrobe for all seasons!