#penny pretends to be straight era?

[pennyschool]

Alexa, play Good Luck Babe by Chappell Roan

(also hi I’m the Pam blog mod)

I have never heard of that artist (mod// GIRLIE IS LYING) Ill check her out!

[lilac-rose-writes]

KINDERGARTEN 3: Questions + Crack Theories

(Some done with @charismabee in messages <3)

1. Where are the other kids?

THEORY 1: The correct one. Bob adopted them all. Grabbed as many kids as he could see and took off with them. Their home lives sucked before? That's okay! Now they have a Bob! Unfortunately, despite his large janitor arms, he could only carry six children at a time. And by the time he went back for the others, they had been signed up to a new school and carted off by their parents. How sad. :(

THEORY 2: The Kindergarten one. They've all been kidnapped. Uh oh! They're hanging out with the mysterious disappearing former principal somewhere. Jerome is crying. Lily is furiously looking for an escape. Billy is having a panic attack. Ted "Felix" is being "Felix". Buggs is hitting things. Ozzy is having a panic attack. Things are fun <3

THEORY 3: The silly one! They're in the library. Regis looked at the troublemakers who have killed/want to kill/look like they want to kill people and put them allll in study hall together. And then put Ozzy there too. For funsies! So now they're all being scolded for committing all the murders and/or being Ozzy. Carla finds out she wasn't invited to Murder Club and she is furious.

2. What's up with Felix/Ted??

THEORY 1: After going home on Tuesday, Ted somehow discovered Felix's plans to kill him. Maybe he found the contract, maybe Felix straight-up told him (he is such a terrible liar. The WORST. I will be going back to this point in theory 2). However it happened, Ted learnt Felix wanted to kill him, pulled a Cain's Not Able alt route, and got his own back. He's in his Theodore era now. No more silly expressions. He looks at the space Felix left behind, and slots into it seemingly perfectly.

THEORY 2: The better one. Felix is pretending to be Ted. Felix too was grouped into the intended Murder Club, but he wasn't going to spend all day in study hall. Ew. So, he does the logical thing, and has Teddy fill his place. Felix thinks he's completely inconspicuous- like a sneaky hawk, so to speak. The thing is, he keeps "teehee"-ing between words and doing a frankly terrible impersonation of Ted. Remember all of his smug gloating throughout Cain's Not Able (e.g. "heheh... you have the most important part", the stealing Monty's arm plot failing so badly that Monty somehow knew Felix wanted to steal something from him and that said something was an arm, etc)? Take that and multiply it tenfold. Even the kids he's never spoken to before can tell he's not "Teddy". Meanwhile, Ted is sitting in Murder Club and trying so hard to act like Felix, but the only preparation he's had is switching shirts and he keeps trying to kill Ozzy when no-one's looking.

THEORY 3: Cain's Not Able just carried over through loops. Stevie's bandaged up, we only have one twin. Once again, Theodore arc initiated.

3. Alice & Ms Lovelett are related

THEORY: This one is simply because they are both redheads & Alice is an amnesiac. It's probably not going to be canon considering the amount of staff members' (principals') kids we have so far, but it's interesting to think about! I think it could add a lot of depth & mystery towards Ms Lovelett as a character, as well as giving us something to unpick about Alice's lost memories.

4. What's up with Monty's legs?

THEORY 1: The popular "Monty has Penny's legs" idea- part I. He went down to the lab (bc hey! Secret Lab! That sounds AWESOME for science!) and he found a Penny. A very dead, very robotic Penny. With legs. So, fitting right in with the weird limb rules of this universe, he does what Nugget did with Stevie's arm and takes those legs for himself. After all, it's not like Penny needs 'em anymore. He's being eco-friendly and reducing, re-using & recycling. It sucks that the skirt was also robotic. He could potentially get it off if he tried hard enough but he really wants legs again now and if he did there would be nothing else covering his new legs.

THEORY 2: The popular "Monty has Penny's legs" idea- part II. He still has Penny's legs, but this time, it wasn't his idea. If Applegate can somehow rise from the dead, who's to say that the superior-minded Dr Danner can't? Wouldn't be surprised if he's made himself immortal or something. He sees legless alive specimen Monty and legful dead specimen Penny and goes "hey little boy, want to swap legs with this robot?". Doesn't really matter if Monty wants to or not. His own legs are chopped off & replaced with Penny legs. He's so embarrassed about it. This will 100% ruin his street cred and also he didn't want his one-day broken legs to be gotten rid of forever. Sigh.

5. Romeo & Juliet

THEORY: This one's more of a silly guess/prediction, really. Either "Ted"/Ted gets cast as Romeo or we as Kid do (I like to think Kid will be managing all the behind the scenes stuff instead though :]) and Cindy demands to be Juliet. Only problem is, they're horrendous at acting. Cindy is over-the-top and overdramatic (like the queen she is). "Ted" is and always has been the worst actor to ever act ever. Ted too is pretty terrible at it and completely unused to being in the spotlight for anything. At least one character has stage fright. I can see Ms Lovelett as one of those teachers who start out sweet and welcoming, reassuring them all that they'll have lots of fun and put on a great show. But this is, of course, Kindergarten, so things quickly take a turn for the worse. She quickly becomes overbearing towards the performance, trying to perfect every little thing and criticising everyone repeatedly. With each passing minute, she becomes more and more frazzled. Her love for theatre is "insatiable", and she can't be stopped. The performance ends with the actors of Romeo and Juliet actually dying. Someone is poisoned, someone is stabbed. Maybe Nugget stabs someone. Maybe Nugget poisons someone. He has before. Seriously WHO thought it was a good idea to give him a knife in this game-

6. Regis' Deal

THEORY: Piecing together what we have so far, I'd say it's almost definite that he's the one behind the former principal's disappearance. He's taken on the role of classic Evil Kindergarten Principal, making both drugs and goo, making not just children but adults disappear too (hey K1 principal, imagine only being able to kidnap one child. To be fair he's a pretty sneaky hawk child who likes to hide in places but still. Skill issue).

Nugget's playing in the green goo outside. At lunch, he claims that he's "feeling funny again!", and at the start of the day, he encourages Kid to eat it. Upon doing so, Kid seemingly goes to the principal's office, where he is then sent to the medical room, looking distinctly green himself with a goo globule implying his death inside his last apple. It's safe to presume that this goo is at least somewhat similar to that of the goo in Kindergarten 2. Agnes adores it and it significantly disoriented Bob, so we can infer that it could have addictive/drug-like properties. It can kill people, as shown by the janitor's closet in K2. We know that it mutated people, and sustained Penny. It's dangerous. And there's a great deal of it all over the place.

In fact, there are elements from both of the previous principals' research scattered throughout the trailer. We see:

Green goo in a pool the janitor is cleaning in the cafeteria, a little away from the taped-over "STAFF ONLY CLOSET" door. Who has closets? Janitors. Who's a powerful member of staff? Regis, the former janitor.

Green goo pouring out of some sort of pipe into a puddle right below three tinted windows

The nurse's green cigarette smoke. We can guess that she designed the nurse's office, and therefore the posters within it- including the one discouraging/banning smoking inside of the medical room. So why would she be smoking herself?

A darkened, red version of the door presumably leading to the classroom. Dark, greenish stains cover the entire wall, but especially by that door in particular

The hole Regis drops Kid into for some reason. It has blood streaked down it- has someone been crushed by the closing mechanism before? Was one of the bloodied bags deposited there? Or, of course, did someone before Kid just spray up blood with the same absurd propulsion as a particularly bouncy ball?

IN THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE-

A brown monster with some sort of sword through its head

A bloody bag, perhaps containing the rest of the monster. It's leaked onto the floor, and bears a lot of resemblance to those seen in K1

A sword in a glass case, similar to the guns the principal had encased in K1

What does this all say? Well, I'd take it to mean that we have yet another shady principal/ murderous janitor on our hands. There's something behind those windows, something inside the staff-only closet, a reason why there are goo stains everywhere. Something happened to the former principal. Something's happened to the other kids. And Regis is the one behind it.

But other than that? Atm I've got nothing lol

I'd love to hear your own theories and thoughts on the trailer!! Maybe I'll add more to this tomorrow; the KG3 reveal has thrown me straight into analysis mode. No detail shall escape my scrutiny <3

[reddpenn]

Honest Question: What's your opinion on Kazuichi Souda? Do you like him? What's your favorite straights ships with him?

Look, let’s be honest. Kazuichi is bisexual and hasn’t realized it yet, and therefore by definition no ships with him are straight ships.

I do think he and Sonia got together during the Despair Era in one glorious, toxic, train wreck of a relationship that made them both miserable. This being the Despair Era, that was the point. It is a relationship that is fascinating to explore in fiction and which I would never wish upon anybody in real life.

Do I like him? Kazuichi is my favorite character in the entire Danganronpa franchise. Maybe because I remember being this kid in high school - smart and bookish and neurodivergent and so socially awkward that I basically went through high school without any friends, and so, so aware of my family’s money problems that I wanted to skip anything that cost anything, and with very little self awareness about when I was being annoying, and… look, I can’t be too hard on this kid. I was this kid. I get it.

But anyway, you've opened up this Pandora's Box and now it's Blorbo Time, so let’s talk about Kazuichi Soda.

Here is what we know about Kazuichi.

This kid is sixteen. Puberty is hitting him hard. He has a lot of big feelings and a lot of hormones and not a lot of experience in what to do about that. He does not have a lot of social awareness. He probably has ADHD, maybe on the autism spectrum, almost certainly undiagnosed.

He has a lot of trouble making friends because of his poor social awareness (again, this kid is neurodivergent and awkward and sixteen).

He is very, very smart. Despite how he dresses, he is a nerdy, bookish kid who likes to study. He dresses like that because he is sick of looking like a nerdy, bookish kid who likes to study. He is sick of people pretending to be his friend so they can copy the nerd’s homework.

He has a lot of trust issues, because he’s used to this pattern of people calling themselves his friends so they could use him. He doesn’t even mind if people use him, what hurts him is the way they drop all pretense of friendship afterward. He would be perfectly happy to let them copy his homework if they were actually friends with him.

He has gotten used to assuming that nobody actually wants to be friends with him.

School is not a safe place, for Kazuichi.

Kazuichi’s family lives in poverty. Their family business is failing. The constant awareness of that eats away at him. He admits to skipping a school trip because his family couldn’t afford it. He has probably skipped other things. He has probably skipped meals, skipped outings with friends, walked when he could have taken public transportation (and not gone anywhere too far away to walk), anything that saves money. This has all contributed to his difficulty making friends.

(This is a problem I relate to so intimately, because I remember being exactly this kid. I watched my family’s small business come crashing down during the early 2000s recession. I remember finding out my parents had filed for bankruptcy. I remember being afraid to buy food at school, because every penny increased my family’s financial burden.)

Kazuichi’s dad hits him for skipping things and “making them look poor.” Kazuichi’s dad has probably hit him for other things. Kazuichi does not register this as abuse. It is normalized, in his household, that sometimes his dad gets too drunk and gives him a smack.

Home is also not a safe place, for Kazuichi.

Look at this childmurder death game from Kazuichi’s perspective.

Kazuichi has never been on a class trip before. He has never been surrounded by friends before. He has never even been to the beach before. He has never been away from his abusive home for this long before. Despite the death game going on in the background, being stranded on a tropical island is the best thing that has ever happened to Kazuichi. He has no desire to escape the island and go home. In his mind… is it really that hard to just ignore the death game and not kill each other and have fun?

It's worth noting that up through chapter 2 of the game, his crush on Sonia is that of a hormonal, socially awkward teenager. He likes her a lot and he’s annoying about it, but thus far she hasn’t given him any signals to stop, and he hasn’t pushed any boundaries or crossed any lines about it. His big sneaky master plan in chapter 2 ends with him flat out telling Sonia, “hey I really want to hang out with you, can we please tag along?” Which is what he probably should have done from the beginning, but he was having a lot of fun hanging out with Hajime and pretending to do espionage.

This entire scene at the diner during chapter 2 is my favorite scene in the game. It’s just the cast of this game being such normal teenagers. They’re hanging out and having fun! They’re making plans to go to the beach! They’re goofing off and teasing each other and being entirely too hormonal about each other’s swimsuits!

And Kazuichi, throughout this scene, is having so much fun. He’s riding the emotional high of being a normal teen with normal friends having a fun time at the beach. He has never gotten to do anything like this before, and it’s awesome.

And then, still riding that emotional high, looking forward to playing at the beach with his friends and his crush... he walks in on a girl with her head bashed in.

I mean... think about the emotional whiplash of that. Put yourself in this sixteen year old kid's shoes and imagine what that does to a person.

Actually, you don't have to imagine. The game shows you. This… breaks Kazuichi. The trauma of this moment is something that, for the rest of the game, he does not ever recover from. This moment marks an immediate, permanent change in how his character is written, the beginning of the downward spiral that makes so much of the fandom hate him.

Let's look at Kazuichi after this moment.

He’s just had a harsh reminder that everyone on this island is trying to kill each other. He was wrong, these people aren’t his friends, so he falls back into old habits. Be useful to them so they’ll keep you around, but do not trust them, because they will betray you. Even Hajime. Especially Hajime. The people who seem closest to you just hurt you the most, in the long run.

He is increasingly on edge, wound up tighter and tighter, waiting to be betrayed. When Nagito mentions to him that Hajime might be the traitor, it feels like the other shoe dropping. Of course Hajime is the traitor, because Hajime was basically his best friend, and betraying you is what best friends do.

And Sonia? The way Kazuichi acts toward Sonia throughout the rest of the game becomes pretty unacceptable, I will not argue against that. I get why people hate him for it. It’s not okay. It really, really sucks for Sonia. It’s also a cry for help which is not really about Sonia.

Kazuichi's obsessive crush on Sonia is a coping mechanism. It is escapism. He is trying to recapture that emotional high. He desperately wants to go back to that moment in the diner when they were all having fun, when this was a normal school trip and they were normal teenagers and he was going to the beach with his friends and Mahiru wasn't lying there with her brains bashed in, in a room covered in blood, and he walked in on it and he set off the body discovery alarm and he ended that sunny, happy, normal afternoon.

This kid is traumatized and trying to cling to normalcy. He is clinging to something that was a part of that moment. Crushing on a girl is normal. He desperately wants normal back.

The school trip is not a safe place, for Kazuichi.

[ambersock]

First Lines Game

Rules: share the first lines of up to ten of your most recent fanfics and tag up to ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

tagged by @yourmadnesswon <3 <3

Chrysalis

The thin, jagged crack of light hovers undulating in the air in a beckoning dance, promising sanctuary on the other side. 

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc

Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution.

He watches Dean pull the scythe back for the fatal strike and closes his eyes, half out of dread, half out of mercy.

Make All of My Nightmares Come True

Kearney, Missouri is miles behind them, and a chasm still fills the space between Dean, behind the wheel, and Sam, pretending to try to sleep on the passenger side. Sam is supposed to be getting some shut-eye so he can take over driving in a few hours, but he’s still wound up and sleep won’t come despite the soft rock Dean put on.

Your own brother trying to kill you will do that.

Threshold

He’s standing at the threshold, but he can’t quite seem to make himself go any further. The double doors in front of him challenge him, judging, questioning, repudiating his worthiness. It’s difficult to find the will within himself to move forward, but going back is not an option. Not anymore.

Enemy Within

Bobby and Sam pull into the drive that leads to the burned-out shell that was once Bobby’s home. The place where Sam and Dean could once turn to when they needed to regroup and lick their wounds. The place that once was the only occasional island of stability Sam knew other than the Impala.

With ice cold hands takin’ hold of me

“I think you’ll want to see this for yourself.”

He doesn’t, as a rule, concern Himself with individuals; they are not in and of themselves important to the whole of the species. They are molecules of water compared to the tide, necessary, providing a medium to shape a pattern, but one more or less has little impact in the grander scheme.

Taking Care of Business

He’s just settled in with a glass of Craig and The Drama of the Gifted Child when the King of Hell is interrupted by the irritating sound of a throat being cleared. He shuts his eyes and pushes aside the urge to disintegrate the offender. There is a delicate balance between instilling the correct level of fear and retaining enough staff to run a functioning court.

Penny for your Thoughts

In retrospect, Garth should’ve known better. 20-20 hindsight is a harsh mistress.

He should’ve known that the automatic fight-or-flight reaction causes muscles to tense, not relax. He should’ve stepped in front of Dean again, blocked his line of fire. He should’ve made sure that the gun was pointed away from Sam before he threw the punch.

Convergence

Bright dim bright dim bright dim

We need bait that fits the demo… Chain around neck choking… I don’t think I want it back…

Filet of Soul

Sam glances across the Impala to the passenger seat to Dean, who has finally conked out, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts in the aftermath of nearly losing him to an Amazon.

“Now isn’t that ironic. And here you thought we were the unstable one.”

Almost alone.

No-pressure tags, just including some folks who I know are writers and might enjoy participating. Apologies to anyone I didn't tag because I can't keep different Tumblr/AO3 handles straight; please consider yourself tagged!

@wilsonthemoose @adirotynd @a-wondrous-thing @petrichorsam @quickreaver @themegalosaurus @trials-era-sam @tigerlilynoh

[maguro13-2]

Darkness Reborn ~ Origins of the Ink Demon Finale (7/10) ~

Penny : If I'm not mistaken that I don't quite put my finger on it. So the New Era Homura created was two years after the Time Eater's vanishing. So how did the Dark Moon Appear exactly?

Sarissa : It happened back a moment ago. Professor Egadd was doing some research that he finds an incredible source from the Dark Moon's power in order to bring those who were trapped inside the portrait. It was called the Dark Light, a new type of magic that has ability to break illusions. It's only an add-on for the Poltergust 5000. Suddenly, King Boo broke the moon into five pieces which caused the ghosts of Evershade to go on a rampage and work under King Boo's scheme.

Ashley : This always has to be his tricks. So the Dark-Light is type of power that has an ability to break illusions and to those spirits that turns invisible. Pretty wicked about breaking illusions by using the powers of the Dark Moon itself. Black Light is Dark Light, that's how it was used for purplish things that are called the Dark Light.

Penny Crygor : You're absolutely smart about that, Ashley. Dark Light is Black Light. But it's still a power source from the Dark Moon and it could be really a good idea. Let's get to the Family Tree and stop that menacing Crona Lawrence.

Death the Kid (?) : I'm sorry, I'm afraid that you girls aren't going anywhere.

Kimial Diehl : Death the Kid! How did you...

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : Hey...Wait a second, that scythe wielded in his hand. That's not Death the Kid, the Death the Kid we know does not exist and didn't Maka said that he was part of the lying of Shinra Kusakabe as well?

Kimial Diehl : Why would say stupid question. What Does Death the Kid has something to do with him that does not exists...(realizing) Oh my God, have I been living in a fantasy the entire time and nobody told us? [To Death the Kid] You! Where the hell is Death the Kid? What on earth did you--[Death the Kid converts to it's true form and it is nothing more than Dracula's servant, apparently, Death himself]

[Showdown - Yutaka Minobe]

Death : The Death the Kid that you've fought alongside with does not exist, he had ceased to exist. I burned him alive while he was nothing more than a portrait.

Kimial Diehl : (gasped in shock) You! You're the one! You're the one took my mother's soul away! You tricked me? So that's why I ran from Tokyo, you were only deceiving us pretended to be Death the Kid!

Ashley : So, you're the one that is behind the DWMA stuff, eh? You're the one who got my people involved.

Penny Crygor : Wait. That Konami character is responsible for tricking Maka into protecting the legacy? So that's why Death the Kid isn't affected by the mad man's influence, he wasn't affected, he was turned into portrait and...

Death : That's right, I was the one who ceased Death the Kid from existence, I erased his essence by imprisoning him in a portrait and threw him somewhere nice and toasty, straight into a furnace!

[Break you Down - Yutaka Minobe]

Penny Crygor : Why you no good...! You Konami dweebs are gonna be the death of us! You set everyone up, hid the truth from letting it to win, get Ashley's people involved, and discovered that the school itself just to make the author Soul Eater get all the stakes he wants for his crazy-mad stories.

Ashley : How dare you keep the truth out of us, you backstabbing soul-stealing cockroach! You ordered everything to destroy the witches, the earth wasn't wrecked by magic, it was the force of darkness. You got everyone involved of the lying, just for protecting legacy!?

Death : Fair wise that tricked Death into believing that the witches are threat to Earth's inhabitants, just to get those wretched Heartless in their attention on destroying it or corrupting it with the powers of this everlasting darkness that is within their reach.

Ashley : What about the Eight Shinigami Legion?

Death : Foolish, girl! There is no Eight Shinigami Legion, that was all made up when Shinra's made up son used the 8 hearts to create a bunch of tools to protect his legacy. The reason that Heroes and Villains of Soul World are nothing but a bunch of fools going into conflict after conflict, making humans and witches being the arrogant species on the planet! [To Kimial] That's what you get for destroying Tokyo, Raccoon Girl. Or should I say "Heir of the Kasugatani Family"! (Laughs Evilly)

Ashley : [To Kimial] You just had to be part of a crazy story, didn't you? This is why Nintendo and Square Enix can't have nice things to each other.

Kimial : I just wanted to be the hero of one's story, I didn't want to become the hero of a crazy-ass story! I didn't know I got myself involved of the lying! Although, I did killed a bunch of bullies when I unleashed a second explosion.

Penny Crygor : [To Kimial] Not if finding out that a bald headed loser named Ox Ford is actually a Magikoopa in disguise trying to get to know you. By the way, he's not your type. You were only into girls.

Kimial : [To Penny] Why thank you, Penny. Although dating men is not what I was interested, but getting into girls is like--

Death : SILENCE! This conversation for Tea time is long enough! Since you girls of Soul World and Nintendo have been in the palm of my hands, I will give you a gift that will utterly crush those who against a true God of Death. This shall be your test of valor and might find it sooner or later! Time for me to pull out the big guns! Come yourself, Relative of Iblis, the Ifrit!

*DBZ SFX : BOOMING+EXPLOSION*

Ifrit : (Biolizard Roar)

[How it Started - Kenichi Tokoi, Runblebee]

"IFRIT : DEMON OF BURNING WORLDS"

Penny Crygor : Woah! Who's the big fella!? Looks like something came out of the book!

Ashley : Darn! He must've brought the Ifrit back to life, the other ifrit that was supposed to be destroyed by Sonic and the others.

Penny Crygor : That is not what I had in mind! Since Eggman Nega has been jailed for all the crimes he have caused, he'll be lucky to be in hell, but we gotta take out that creature right away! It's trying to burn our world away!

Kimial Diehl : Really. Since when did Sonic killed an Ifrit like what, the book of the Arabian Nights?

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : Well, officially. He did defeat a golem back at the evil foundry.

Sarissa : Your good is guess as mine. How on earth did one creature came to Real World AU?

Penny Crygor : Maybe, the Time Eater has something left for us since it vanished from nothingness or it just went back in time to get everything situtated to destroy the last of the Ohkuboverse.

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : As long as we get to the bottoms of this to save our world from ever being destroyed by that monstrosity! When did the last time that tried to burn our world for centuries. *Heartbeat Echoing* (holds head in pain) GAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Kimial Diehl : Jacqueline!

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : Guys, go! Get out of here! Get to the tree! I promise that I'll come back to you as promise! I'll deal with this lifeform eating demon that tries to bring Mobius in Jeopardy. But I will always love you, Kimial

Kimial Diehl : Thanks, babe. I know I will. And of course...(shifts with Iris' voice) Aishiteru yo.

Shinra (Devil Chaos Zero) : Leave this one to me, and to her.

(Clown Kaguya and Shinra appears behind the group)

Ashley : Shinra, Kaguya!

[The Flicker of Hope - Teruhiko Nakagawa]

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : Kaguya the Clown created by the Kishin? But I thought that you were...

Kaguya : Dead? The so-called leader of the Clown Army were just Heartless anyway, I too, have a heart for that Crona Kid.

Shinra (Devil Chaos Zero): You guys go ahead, we'll take care of this creature once and for all! You got Real World AU to be saved from the dreaded forces of True evil itself! That's why villains always attempted to get away with everything, and I will prove everything that a hero's gotta do what heroes gotta do!

Jacqueline O'Lantern Dupre : Heh! Thanks guys, I owe you one! You'll buy us time to defeat that demon and then we'll recruit to save the world! You know a girl always have her way to live up to the title of a hero! I was not to be alone, but I was born to serve and protect those who are needed to be saved! Alright, you guys! Let's get on out of here!

Kimial Diehl : Okay, Jacqueline! Let's move it guys! We gotta stop Sammy Lawrence's son! He's going to plunge the entire world into darkness before he does.

Penny Crygor : But if he joins with the other Crona, he'll become unstoppable! We must prevent that from ever happening!

Ashley : Right! So that is why...WE'RE ABOUT SAVE THIS WORLD FROM THE EVIL FORCES AND THAT'S WHY WE NEVER BACK DOWN FROM A CHALLENGE! WE ARE MAJO DETECTIVES! SERVING THE LAW AND JUSTICE TO ALL VILLAINY! For Salem and it's people!

All : [together] FOR SALEM AND IT'S PEOPLE!

"It's time that we give ourselves the Flicker of Hope!"

"That's what we're really made of!"

"Bringing efforts to take down Villainy once and for all!"

"No one shall lay finger on our world except me!"

"Cause we're strong enough to bring a Hero's duty to save his or her world."

~ 112th Scene : Redemption of the Devil ~

[geminisecrets]

Gemini Secrets' Fic Recs (updated Oct 25, 2022)

Here's an ongoing list of authors and fics that we've really been loving :) *in no particular order!!!*

Please note that most, if not all of these authors are 18+ so please be respectful and DNI if you're underage. Also, disclaimer, we are forbidden twin lane so most of these are going to be Sam and or Jake. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!!

Authors:

@sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine

@dharma-divine

@garbagevanfleet

@godlygreta

@gretavanlace

@arcaneblaine

@jrvanfleet

@alwayzthere

@gretavanfleetposts

Fics:

JAKE

Purity Ring (This ones for anyone who wants to work out some religious trauma. Or just anyone that’s wanted Jake to finger them till they cry. I don’t judge.)

Fuck Buddies (the kiszka’s were your childhood best friends. one of whom just so happened to become a liiiiiitle bit more than that.) this is part one of the series

Chambers of the Heart (Pretending to be in love is probably easier than the real thing, right?) you and Jake are the leads in Josh's film

Virgins Never Die (Jake is your childhood sweetheart who turns out to be a serial killer,��knife play with criminal Jake)

Roses (SMUT, murderer jake, mentions of stalking, possessive behaviour, jake is crazy, but also so is y/n sooo, knife play, blood, graphic content.)

Guitar Fingers Fav Jake fic we've read, we talk about this one all the time! It also has a part 2 :)

Champagne Smiles (Jake’s pre-show ritual is thrown off and improvisations must be made.)

Pool Daze (you spend a summer afternoon in the pool with Jake before he leaves for another leg of touring.)

SAM

Turning Page (Stuck with a seemingly monotonous book as the subject for a final project, you quickly find that the prolific tale of two unlikely lovers is just what you need to pursue your romantic interest in your longtime classmate and beloved friend.)

Seven (Aren’t you a little old to be playing seven minutes in heaven?)

Dirty Little Secret (college au!Sam Kiszka x fm!reader, danny wagner x fm!reader (platonic), rivals to lovers) Part 2 of this one is a Danny/ Sam/ Reader threesome and... oh my god.

My (fake) Boyfriend's Brother (You were the perfect candidate to be your childhood best friend’s date for the weekend with his family… That is until you ran into his brother.)

Clementine Daydreams (sam? eating a clementine? drop dead sexy)

Angel, Straight From Hell

DANNY

Hush a little friends to lovers one shot starring Danny

I’m Yours this was so unbelievably hot

JOSH

Retrograde (You come back to your childhood home to find that your next-door neighbors never left)

Confession (alt au ;), rivals to lovers, fake dating) I am such a sucker for the fake dating trope...and alt josh.

Missing Buttons Fav Josh fic I've ever read! There's also a part 2 :)

Jake / Sam

Royal Secrets (after gaining the throne, queen y/n of altea is arranged for marriage to solidify an ally, prince jacob kiszka of greta just so happens to be next in line for the throne. however, the kiszka boys have grown up since you last saw them. while getting close with jacob, you also got close with prince sam as well. what happens when close becomes too close?)

Jakenstein (The idea behind this is basically that I wanted dark romantic, Victorian era, penny dreadful Jake and this was born.)

Jake / Josh

DISKOURI (a sultry, satanic slow burn, inspired by Greek mythology and witchcraft.) Not so patiently waiting for this one ;)

The Gemini Report (Writing your capstone report seemed to be an intimidating feat to conquer. Who better to study than your favorite twins: the lead singer of a punk band and the football star.)

Sam / Danny

Rhythm Section (there was a reason why everyone called them the rhythm section, right?) we've all had this dream just admit it

All

Unforgettable (a series of unforgettable birthdays) the title says it all. when is it my turn 🥲

An Indecent Proposal (The boys are arguing over who is the best in bed. The reader decides to help them solve the argument once and for all.) The entire Indecent Proposal universe Em created is unreal.

We will continue to update :)

(last updated December 21, 2022)

[moonmothmama]

i'm thinking now of Frank Mundi in regards to the whole, "he beats up suspects" thing that gets said repeatedly by several people and yet we never see him actually do it, though he has plenty of opportunities.

the closest he got was when he went towards those guys who were yelling disgusting shit and harassing mourners at the funeral of the woman he'd previously been engaged to (maybe he's gay but he pretty clearly loved her even if only platonically or somethin. like he wasn't just pretending to care for her. and even if he hadn't that's an absolutely fucking deplorable thing to do), and even then he stopped when Penance asked him. she didn't even have to try that hard, she was just very quietly like 'please don't do this now' and he didn't. plus... that was a funeral he was attending. personally. not as a cop.

then there was when he manhandled Hugo, and physically threatened him, but a) he didn't actually go through with harming him b) it's pretty damn clear that he's there in a personal capacity with Hugo rather than a professional one. he's not there to do his job, he's there because he's fucking sick of the man and he can't take it anymore. also like... they're fucking. or they were, rather, since he says straight up that they're done "across the board." my point being that is most certainly NOT scotland yard business. Hugo practically says this himself, pointing out that someone implicated him specifically because if anyone else were implicated Frank would be out doing his job.

and he defends himself when 'Maladie' attacks him but he just, like, subdues her as quickly as possible, as i recall

so.

we know he's an ex-boxer, with such a fierce reputation that a much bigger dude immediately backs down when he's identified.

does he, has he ever, actually beaten up a suspect? that one guy says he could 'beat a confession out of a tombstone,' Lucy says that he 'likes knocking suspects about, even if they're as innocent as christmas.' but he hasn't actually been shown to hurt anyone, unless i'm seriously forgetting something. so...

is that just a rumor? did it happen once? what's the deal there? are we meant to believe it?

i'm also thinking about that whole exchange between him and Hugo, where Hugo asks him why he took a job that he hates, and he answers "because i work with the people that love it." and how he goes on that whole rant to him in the billiard room about how "if it's not you it's one of them toffs you play chess with," talking about the rich "grinding up" the oppressed for "an extra penny on the pound, or the rights to a patch of sand, or a fuck." and then when that one cop tries to pull a knife on "Maladie" when she's in custody and he slams the guy against the wall threatening to have "badge and balls off any man who tries that."

like this man obviously has some serious problems but is he actually deserving of his professional reputation? with everything we've seen, and haven't seen, i can't help wondering. i want to know more about him, i want to figure this sad fucker out

(and i just wanna say right here yes ACAB, yes fuck the police, but this is a fictional victorian era cop we're talking about here. i'm talking about character stuff and where the story is going, not any kind of real life shit, ok? fuck the irl police)

[charlieknighte]

un jour tu t’en voudras - part 1

Ethan Hitchcock/Maelgwyn

Modern AU - University AU - Fake/Pretend Relationship - Pining - Hurt/Comfort but like significantly more hurt than comfort - french people being terrible

13,060 words

content warnings: terminal illness, drunkenness and smoking, unhealthy family dynamics

For three hundred dollars, Ethan Hitchcock will attend your family's holiday event posing as your shitty art school boyfriend and do everything in his power to wreck the night. Maelgwyn's getting tired of Thanksgiving.

(Featuring art from my dear friend Matt Prairiecryptid!)

For once in his life, Maelgwyn is excited to see Thanksgiving go to shit. 

Nausea always creeps up on him as he moves towards a family gathering, but he’s distracting himself with schadenfreudian thoughts of how much of the night’s chaos and strife is going to be his responsibility this time. They’re going to hate the boy he’s bringing on his arm so goddamn much. Ethan has taken it upon himself to sound like even more of an egregious Quebecois douchebag than usual, like he's cramming a handful of extra vowels into every single word. It would bother Maelgwyn too if it wasn’t a result of an evening back home spent excitedly brainstorming ways to make him insufferable. It’s all Ethan can do to make himself as disheveled and douchey as possible. Maelgwyn’s paying a pretty penny for him to antagonize his parents, after all.

The Hitchcocks rarely advertise their services through anything but word of mouth anymore. Exam cheatsheets, less than legal party supplies, forged doctors’ notes, winning Roll Up The Rim cups—everyone around campus knows there’s not much they can’t get for you if you’re paying. Their acting services don’t come all that cheap, either, but once in a blue moon someone needs to make an ex jealous or fake a family emergency. Maelgwyn had come to them with his dilemma half expecting to be turned down, but they’d just nodded knowingly and named their prices as if they’d performed this particular service a dozen times before. 

So now Ethan’s here in Louisiana with him, blowing cotton candy-flavored clouds into the evening sky as they walk through pretty polished suburbs on their way to Maelgwyn’s grandfather’s house. He didn’t come cheap, even if they gave him a discount for a year of friendship and for the fact that they know how much shit his parents piled on him. Still, Maelgwyn is relieved he’s here. The thought of affronting his family again is much less dread-inducing with the knowledge that he’ll have backup. Ethan is a good friend to have—he’d endeared himself to Maelgwyn mostly by sleeping through the film classes they’d had together and later begging to study with him, then slyly turning their study sessions into outings with his friends. It was one of the reasons Maelgwyn had finally broken out of the lonely shell he’d hidden in through his first year at university.

He can work with him, he knows that much. He just wishes they’d had more time to prepare a plan for the night. Maelgwyn clears his throat. “So, we’re starting off on too good of a footing already. My parents are way too happy to hear I’m bringing home a boy.”

Ethan tucks away his vape and gives him a sideways look. “Aren’t you bi?”

“Yeah, well… I rode out making them think I was straight as long as I could. It pissed my dads off thinking I wouldn’t even consider experimenting.” Maelgwyn pulls a face. “Samot wanted to throw me a coming out party.”

Ethan snorts. “Too much acceptance is really an unusual complaint to have.”

“I know, I know.” Maelgwyn lets the matter slide. It’s a petty thing to bring up, and really the least of his worries when it comes to his parents. “Anyway, you’re also going to get brownie points with Samot right off the bat for being, y’know… good-looking.”

Ethan raises his eyebrows at him and gestures at himself. His Habs jersey and ripped jeans are wildly inappropriate for a dinner party, and he’d purposefully smudged his eyeliner at Maelgwyn’s request. His earrings are even mismatched. “Am I, though?” he says, skeptical.

“I mean your face. You’re not ugly.”

“Oh.” Ethan puts a fist under his chin and pouts at him. “Well, that’s all I get? I’m not ugly?”

Maelgwyn sighs good-humoredly. “Yeah, yeah, you’re pretty.”

Ethan splits into a grin, having gotten what he wanted out of him, and puts a spring into his step. Maelgwyn shoves his shoulder fondly. “Pretty fuckin’ annoying.”

“ Oh! ” Ethan stumbles and clutches his chest. “Is that any way to speak to your beloved? You wound me, mon cher .”

Maelgwyn laughs despite the strange feeling creeping into his chest. He really wishes they’d had a chance to rehearse. Hearing Ethan refer to him so affectionately is strange. Something occurs to him. “Oh, shit. Um, one more thing. My parents are pretty PDA, so we’ll probably have to… 

“Match their expectations so they don’t assume your relationship is crashing and burning?”

“Good way to put it.” Ethan really has done this before. Maelgwyn’s not sure how to feel about that.

Ethan’s hand hovers by his waist. “Can I, then?” 

“Sure.” Maelgwyn lets him put his arm around him and tries to adjust to being held as he walks. It’s not that foreign of a feeling. He’s had to endure the Hitchcocks’ drunken snuggling enough to not be fazed by them being touchy-feely when sober. Still, people don’t usually touch him here. He feels like he’s being flirted with by a spineless frat boy at a party. 

As they near the house, Maelgwyn finds himself nervously hoping he knows enough about Ethan for their false relationship to appear plausible. He knows that Ethan’s the cheery, personable one in relation to his brother, and that his general knowledge of the world is extremely hit or miss. He knows he’s kind enough to once have comforted Maelgwyn as he heaved his guts out in the bathroom of a frat party, and that he lacks enough common sense to have been found passed out in the bushes himself twenty minutes later. Maelgwyn doesn’t know shit about his life before university, but he figures Ethan will fill in the gaps if he needs to. He’s resourceful like that. Spirits buoyed again, he turns them onto the driveway leading up to the house.

Samol’s mansion is deceptively quaint, vines creeping over its two-story columns and cheerful flowerboxes and porch swings decorating the wrap-around deck. You would imagine it had been purchased for a pittance and passed down through generations. In reality, the house had been built as a wedding gift a few years before Maelgwyn was born, and the charming plant life and Victorian-era aesthetic was a result of careful curation. Maelgwyn still doesn’t know if he’s relieved or resentful over his parents giving it up. 

American Thanksgiving has always been Samol's domain, which Maelgwyn is constantly grateful for. He couldn't survive his parents' dinner party posturing again after having to endure it once in October. He doesn’t think Ethan could survive a polite evening in their mansion without snapping either, based on the three-room shithole apartment the Hitchcocks share. It might have inspired him to ask for more money too, which Maelgwyn couldn’t afford without going through the mortification of asking his parents. It’s much better to be here, where their wealth is plausibly deniable. Maelgwyn knocks on the door and braces himself.

There’s a distant hubbub deep within the house as his family politely argues over who’s going to answer. Ethan pops some gum and starts chewing obnoxiously, getting on Maelgwyn’s already frayed nerves—but he supposes that’s the point. Finally, a flash of blond hair approaches through the frosted glass on the door. Samot swings it open, flashing his campaign-trail grin. Maelgwyn’s excitement for his parents to balk at his disheveled, offensively casual boyfriend starts to wane a little as he tries to estimate how much Mayor Samot’s qipao of black silk and golden gilding must’ve cost the taxpayers of Toronto. His hair is in an elegant updo that he must’ve paid an equally opulent amount for.

“Maelgwyn!” Samot says, delighted as if he had no idea that his own son would be attending the family dinner he’s pressured into year after year. He steps out and wraps him up in a perfumey hug, earrings tinkling. Maelgwyn pats his back to participate without having to hug him back. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” Samot effuses, stepping back. “Come in, come in. Everyone’s been asking after you, sweetheart.” 

Maelgwyn lets himself be shuffled into Samol’s nicely decorated if overly floral foyer. It’s pointless to fight Samot when he’s turned into an overwhelming cloud of energy and charm in his determination to do something. Ethan steps in after them, and Samot looks to him like an apex predator zeroing in on movement. His smile gets a little wider, showing more of his painfully white teeth. “You must be Ethan.”

“Yeah. Hi.” Ethan takes one hand out of his pocket and shakes his hand. Samot’s sharp smile dulls a little as he takes in his outfit. Still, the fact that it stays on his face instead of dropping away entirely means Maelgwyn was right to say Ethan would pass his standards for appearance. He feels a twinge of annoyance. 

An unfavorable twinge passes across Ethan’s face too as Samot’s deceptively slender fingers crush his hand. “Samot,” he says, smile back up to its maximum brightness. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Maelgwyn wishes his parents didn’t feel the need to establish authority over every single person they meet, but then again he wishes a lot of things about his parents. Every interaction with them is a fucked-up give and take exchange mired in the complicated politics of their family.

There are heavy steps behind him, and his heart sinks. He turns unwillingly. Samothes is making his way down the hall with a drink in one hand, as tall and stern and regal and terrifying as he was when Maelgwyn last saw him. That was some time ago. The golden embroidery down the chest of his sherwani matches the pattern on Samot’s qipao, and Maelgwyn has to resist rolling his eyes. He steps out to meet him, wanting to get it over with. “Hi, dad,” he says, and doesn’t deign to add anything else.

“Glad you could come,” Samothes says, hesitating for a nearly imperceptible moment before he pats Maelgwyn’s shoulder heavily. His gaze goes past him and visibly grows darker. He leans in and asks under his breath, “What is this?” As if Maelgwyn’s brought home a stray dog he doesn’t approve of.

“This is my boyfriend.” Maelgwyn turns so he doesn’t have to interact with him further and marches over to take Ethan’s arm firmly and interrupt whatever invasive questions Samot was trying to wheedle him into answering. Samot smiles innocently. Samothes comes to put an arm around his husband’s waist, frowning openly at Ethan. Maelgwyn can watch him doing Ethan’s job for him and making a dozen unfavorable assumptions about him already.

Ethan raises his chin at him in greeting and snaps his gum. “What’s good?” he asks. He’s discreetly wringing out his hand from Samot’s handshake.

“This is Ethan, dearest,” Samot says, leaning into his husband and drawing himself up to his full height to rest his head on his shoulder. His eyes are getting narrower and narrower as Ethan’s dreadfully inappropriate outfit and lack of manners already start to outweigh his pretty face.

“Ethan,” Samothes says, and doesn’t make any attempt to welcome him. Ethan puts out his hand, realizes there isn’t a handshake waiting, fumbles and puts it down. Maelgwyn can see him start to take on a tinge of genuine nervousness. He feels like he should’ve warned Ethan in some way, but there’s really not much more he could’ve done after telling him my parents are politicians. Samothes, who relishes in his position as senator of Ontario largely because of his lack of contact with the public, is really the worst one to have to impress.

Then again, Ethan isn’t really here to impress. “Um, Samothes, I guess?” he says like he’s only half-interested, getting even more insufferable about his gum-chewing.

“Mm,” Samothes grunts, still glaring at him. Maelgwyn imagines how terrifying his parents must seem from Ethan’s point of view, tall and beautiful and hostile in that courtly, dismissive manner of theirs. Making them hate him is going to be easier than he thought. 

“Let’s not keep everyone waiting, yes?” Samot says, nudging his husband and sweeping them back off to the foyer. He throws Maelgwyn a look that says they’re going to talk about Ethan’s outfit later. Maelgwyn can’t wait. 

He kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his coat, throwing it over the rungs of the staircase to the second floor for lack of available racks. “Well, that was hostile,” Ethan remarks, following Maelgwyn’s lead with noticeably less care. “They’re very—”

"Don't joke about how hot my parents are,” Maelgwyn snaps.

Ethan raises his eyebrows at him. "I didn't say anything."

"I know. I’m just saying. I didn’t want to tell you in advance and hear a million dumb jokes from you and Edmund."

"They made a good-looking kid. I didn't really need a warning."

"You can’t deflect from calling my parents hot by flirting with me. That just makes it worse . " Maelgwyn jabs a finger at him accusingly, and Ethan raises his hands.

"I didn't say anything ,” he insists.

Maelgwyn sighs and leads him through the dim foyer and into the bright, bustling living room. The adults are dressed as if they’re attending a formal gala. Adults—Malegwyn hates that he still calls them that unconsciously. They throw a few judgemental glances at Ethan out of their cloud of cocktail dresses and tailored suits. Ethan’s jersey had set him back a few hundred bucks, but no one here would find that an exorbitant sum. “Well,” says Ethan, insolently refusing to be intimidated, “should we make the rounds?”

“Yeah,” Maelgwyn says, though he’s reluctant. He can see his grandfather in his usual rocking chair, swimming in a stark white dress shirt that used to fit him perfectly. He’s laughing at something his sister is saying. Maelgwyn makes a beeline for him, pulling Ethan along by the arm.

Samol catches sight of him and eases himself up, smile so wide and genuine it crinkles the corners of his eyes. He holds out his arms for a hug, and Maelgwyn leans into him much more gladly than Samot. “Hey, grandpa.” He puts his arms around him and feels a moment of protectiveness at just how frail he is.

“It’s been far too long. I hope they’re treating you well up north.” Samol steps back and grins over his shoulder. “And this must be the famous Ethan.” 

“Yeah, hi,” says Ethan, putting out a hand. Samol ignores it and pulls him into a hug, too. Surprise quickly flashes across Ethan’s face, and then he hugs him back politely.

“Good to meet you. I have to say,” Samol says, pulling away, “we haven’t heard all that much about you, son. I’m looking forward to getting to know just who you are.” He smiles, easy and kind. Still, there’s an edge to the statement that Maelgwyn doesn’t quite understand.

“Um, you too,” Ethan says. He can’t bring himself to be rude to Samol, as most people can’t, but he looks slightly discomforted by the idea that people have been wondering about him. Maelgwyn doesn’t blame him when it’s these people.

Samol holds out a hand to the rest of his family. “This is my sister Severea. Her partner Galenica. My… brother of sorts, Tristero.” Severea and Galenica glitter as always, and Tristero’s in his signature jet black suit. They give Ethan smiles in varying shades of politeness as he shakes their hands in turn. 

"Pleasure," he says, greatly enjoying his aggressive Quebecois shtick. Tristero narrows his eyes. His handshake looks painful. 

"Likewise," he says, with his perfect Parisian lilt. Maelgwyn can see the exact moment Ethan stops enjoying himself. Tristero snatches away his hand like Ethan has the plague and turns to speak to Severea in mainland French, abruptly cutting him out of the social circle.

Ethan stands there for a moment, taking furious breaths, and then he turns around to round on Maelgwyn. "You didn't tell me you were French."

"All sorts,” says Maelgwyn. “I said we were all sorts."

Ethan puts his hands over his face and mutters a long string of curse words that contains tabarnak no less than four times. Some of Maelgwyn’s family members look at him strangely, but none of them really grasp what he’s saying. “We’re in Louisiana,” Maelgwyn reminds him. “What did you expect?”

Ethan puts his hands down, but he’s still sulking. “Your family has a hell of a grip,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, it’s from all the political grandstanding.” Maelgwyn puts an arm around his shoulders and turns him away from the adults’ corner of the room and its dozens of empty martini glasses. “You wanna meet my cousins?”

Ethan nods miserably and lets himself be led over to where the Tristé siblings are sprawling across the couches texting. Adelaide is draped across the length of one couch, head propped on her arm, and Angelo is aggressively manspreading at the other end to try to win back some space. They aren’t dressed extravagantly, but they still drip in brand names and good taste and organic locally-sourced handpicked vegan textiles. 

Angelo rolls off the couch and hops up to give Maelgwyn that shining grin that he shares with his father and hates so much. “Bro,” he says, pulling him into a hug and slapping his back, “where’ve you been? Tristero’s made me go on a humblebrag parade around the room, like, five times. It’s your turn, Oscars boy.”

“Oh, god, I hope not.” Angelo’s been out of the house much longer than Maelgwyn has, but Maelgwyn knows he resents his father treating him like a child at these gatherings as much as he does. He punches Angelo’s shoulder amicably. “Nice to see you.”

“This your boyfriend?” 

“Yeah—yeah. Uh, Ethan.”

Ethan jolts to attention and steps in to slap Angelo’s hand. “Hey,” he says, a shade more friendly than he was with most of the family. He seems relieved not to have to shake another hand. Trusting Angelo to be polite unsupervised, Maelgwyn turns his attention to the other Tristé sibling.

“Hey, Adie,” he says, leaning down to give her a one-armed hug. “You guys look great.”

Adelaide squeezes his shoulders. “And your boyfriend looks terrible. You’re trying to piss off Samot, aren’t you?” Maelgwyn gives her a pleading look, and she raises her hands. “My lips are sealed. Enjoy whichever game you’re playing.” 

Maelgwyn breathes a sigh of relief and drops onto the couch across from her. He appreciates that the Tristés consider him to be enough of an ally in the political landscape of their family that they’ll call him out on his shit instead of pretending to fall for it. He and Ethan chat with them during the long lull before Samol announces dinner is served. Maelgwyn mostly sticks to small talk and half-listens to Ethan enthusing about his fencing team with Angelo. It’s completely unsurprising that they get along well. He just wishes he hadn't given Ethan free license to exaggerate his accent. It's already getting grating. 

It’s not even halfway into the night, and Maelgwyn’s weary and itchy and uncomfortably warm. He wishes desperately he could be home, not for the first time and not for the last. At some point Ethan leans over and asks if he can put an arm around his waist again. It helps to have some time to parse the feeling of Ethan’s arm around him in a place he usually hesitates to let people touch. It’s not so bad once he gets used to it.

Finally, Samol comes back from checking on his food and announces that dinner is served. The slow shuffle to the dining room starts, and Maelgwyn endures nearly ten more minutes of laughter and milling about and seats being scraped back and forth. Ethan’s arm around him starts being less of a touch he’s tolerating and more of a grounding sensation. Finally, the seating arrangement is established, with Maelgwyn sitting as far from Samothes as he possibly can and ending up by Samol, who’s taken up the other head of the table. His grandfather smiles at him for a moment before they say grace, eyes merry and twinkling between wrinkled lids. Maelgwyn can’t help but smile back. 

Samothes settles himself in his seat with gravitas, looking gravely out over candlesticks and seasonal decorations and heaping plates of Louisiana home cooking. "Dear lord," he begins, projecting his booming voice. There’s a flutter as hands are clasped and eyes are closed. "Thank you for this food. Bless the hands that prepared it. Bless it to our use and us to your service—"

Ethan suddenly shoves back his chair with a loud noise, makes sure people are looking as he spits his gum into his hand, and gets up to throw it out in the kitchen. The table sits in stony silence until he returns. Maelgwyn desperately holds in laughter. When Ethan returns, Samothes says in a low, dangerous voice, "Would you like to finish our grace, Ethan?"

He freezes. "Me?"

"The lord seems to have moved your spirit." 

There's a nervous chuckle around the table. Ethan's squirms, waiting to see if it's a joke that will blow over. It isn't. He opens his mouth and hesitates. As if someone else is saying it for him, he mumbles distantly, "And help us to give you glory each day through Jesus Christ our lord."

An amen goes around the table, and dinner properly begins. Samothes looks grimly pleased. Ethan rips apart a dinner roll violently. Maelgwyn briefly worries that Samothes has genuinely upset him, but Ethan's anger seems to evaporate a moment too quickly. Or maybe he’s imagined it. It’s never easy to tell what Ethan’s thinking. Too many of his actions are the result of one facade or another.

Either way, Ethan eventually pulls himself up from his childish slouch to serve himself like everyone else. He goes for his dinner fork, hesitates and purposefully picks up his dessert fork instead. Samot goes to say something, seems to think better of it and just purses his lips. Maelgwyn has always noted that Ethan has strangely impeccable table manners when he wants to, and he’s thrilled that he’s deciding to use his knowledge of etiquette for evil. He picks up his own dinner fork, because to do otherwise would be a little too suspicious, and digs into his food enthusiastically. Samol’s jambalaya has often been the only thing getting him through this fucking holiday.

"So, Ethan," Samol begins, smiling warmly, "where do you spend your Thanksgivings when my grandson isn't dragging you out to my neck of the woods?"

Ethan gives him a small, polite smile. Samol is too hospitable for anyone to stay standoffish when speaking to him. "At friends', with my brother." To tell the truth, Maelgwyn is tremendously envious of the friendsgiving he’s constantly missing out on. For Thanksgiving to be a pleasant night and not a drawn-out affair of family drama and faux-politeness would be a dream.

"Not with family?" Samot asks from across the table, masking judgement with concerned curiosity.

Ethan snorts. “Wouldn't know where to find them for it, and wouldn’t care to see them." They have the opposite problem, really. Maelgwyn has too much family, and Ethan has next to none. Ethan has never seemed to give much of a shit about it, which Maelgwyn envies tremendously. He wishes with all his heart and soul that what his family was doing didn’t bother or affect him.

Samot takes a slow sip of wine. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes are intense over his glass as he watches Ethan rub at his eye, purposefully smearing his eyeliner a little further.

Ethan shrugs and shovels more shrimp in his mouth. Samothes gives him a narrow-eyed, skeptical look Maelgwyn’s learned to fear, but Ethan seems completely unfazed by it. “This is great,” he says as an aside to Samol, mouth is full of shrimp. Samol smiles brightly, and Samothes moves on, having recognized that Ethan is outplaying him by winning his father’s favor. The strain between them tightens a few fractions more. 

“ Puis-je avoir du sel? ” Tristero says, gesturing to the salt shaker at Ethan’s elbow. 

“ Ouais, ” says Ethan, leaning unnecessarily hard into the a to make it absurdly clear that he isn’t saying a proper oui. He reaches out and drops it into Tristero’s hand. Tristero’s eyes widen as if horribly offended, and he straightens his back self-righteously. Maelgwyn braces himself for one of his insufferable speeches on table etiquette.

“ Il ne faut pas passer le sel de la main à la main, ” says Tristero, growing steadily more hostile with each word. “It should be set down on the table in front of your neighbor so they can pick it up for themselves. I just thought I should let you know, seeing as they don’t seem to teach etiquette up in your country.”

“Oh,” Ethan says, reaching the point of hostility much faster. “I see. Well, let me put this in a way you’ll understand, since there seem to be so many cultural stumbling blocks between us. Je m'en fous.” 

The table quiets slightly, everyone finally able to understand Ethan’s profanity (except for Samothes, who keeps eating his rice in blissful ignorance). Maelgwyn and the Tristés try to suppress snickers and smiles. Samot goes to snap at Ethan, finds himself in the position of not wanting to discipline a stranger, and instead says in exasperation, “Maelgwyn!”

Maelgwyn tries to stop smiling and look appropriately serious, but is only halfway successful. “Ethan,” he says, touching his arm.

“He started it,” Ethan says sulkily.

“I know, babe.” Maelgwyn finds himself rubbing Ethan’s shoulder and feels foolish both for acting like his father and for using a term of endearment for the first time. He should’ve rehearsed it earlier, as Ethan had. He drops his arm and goes back to his food, hoping he isn’t red in the face. Samot looks disappointed in him for taking Ethan’s side, but he doesn’t instigate the matter further.

“Well, it was always said that passing salt de la main a la main would cause a quarrel,” says Samol good-humoredly. There’s some reluctant chuckling around the table. The matter having been smoothed out enough to ignore, they continue picking at their plates. Still, there’s a considerable strain underpinning the evening. Ethan and Tristero keep trading blows, though neither escalate as far as the spat over the saltshaker. A steady, dull pain grows in Maelgwyn’s chest, and he starts desperately avoiding speaking with his parents. He almost thinks he’s home free when Samothes abruptly clears his throat and asks, "How are your films going, Maelgwyn?"

Maelgwyn swallows. "We don't really put out anything till third year, dad." 

It’s not technically true, but he doesn't feel like explaining the intricacies of his projects to his father and watching his eyes glaze over. He waits for a followup question and gets none. Samot touches Samothes's arm, making it clear to Maelgwyn that he told him to ask, and then he speaks up instead. "What about you, Ethan? What do you study?"

“Performing arts,” Ethan says, sounding appropriately contemptuous and uninterested in regular human interaction for someone of his major. Maelgwyn can see Samothes’s face completely drain of hope that he had brought someone normal home. Samot progresses to rubbing his arm comfortingly. It’s awfully early in the evening for him to be doing that, which is a good sign.

“I see,” Samot says, “and do you know what you plan to do with your degree?”

“Perform art,” Ethan says flatly. There’s a chuckle around the table, mostly from the Tristé siblings and Samol. Ethan splits into a shitty grin. “I’m joking. You can’t do shit with an arts degree. It’s join the army or marry rich.” 

The table finds this less entertaining. Samot’s hand goes still on his husband’s arm, and Maelgwyn can see him digging in his nails. Ethan sips his drink peacefully like he was just making pleasant conversation and as if Samothes isn’t staring daggers at him less than a day into knowing him. Maelgwyn finds himself wishing he hadn’t been thrown under the bus by association, but he still has to respect the balls Ethan has to have to act so unbothered by his father’s ire.

Samot lets out a fake, tentative laugh, pretending this is a joke to give him an opportunity to backpedal. Maelgwyn realizes he might’ve had too much wine. “But you… do have goals other than that.”

“Well, marry rich. I already said that.”

“That’s not…” Samot sighs. “Maelgwyn’s going to make films. You haven’t considered acting in them?”

“Sure.” Ethan drops his cutlery and pushes back his chair with a harsh scraping noise. “I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, you seem to be doing well enough for yourselves to look down your noses at me. I’m sure you’ll bribe someone to give your son a few dozen mil, right?” Samot’s mouth drops open in indignation. Ethan sits back, gesturing around at the dining room in all its faux-antique charm. He’s smiling one of his most horrible smiles. “Hell, I’m sure some portion of all this is willed to Maelgwyn, and your tête de la famille will keel over soon enough, won’t he?”

If Ethan’s previous outburst had quieted the table, this one completely kills all activity around it, forks clattering still and jaws pausing mid-chew. The silence is murderous. Adelaide chokes on something politely and brings a hand to her mouth. Samot sits back with his wine, staring at Ethan with open, intense malice for the first time in the night.

Samothes holds his knife like he wants to slice Ethan open with it. “What did you say?” he says, voice low and dangerous. It’s redundant. Everyone knows what he said. Ethan blinks at him.

“I said you’re doing well enough for—”

“No, you know what I mean. How dare you?”

Ethan slides back down, looking less confused than pissed off now. Maelgwyn tries to say something, but all that comes out is a squeak. It’s still enough to get Samothes’s attention, and he fixes him with his awful stare instead of Ethan. “How do you manage to be with someone like this? How could you trust him enough to tell him?”

Maelgwyn wants to disappear. He can’t even slink down in his seat, he’s so frozen with fear. The table hovers in its silence, no one daring to breathe. Samothes’s directed malice fades to an aimless fury. “You didn’t tell him,” he says quietly. It’s more of an accusation than a question. Maelgwyn shakes his head wordlessly. He feels like he was just plunged under six feet of water. Samothes sighs and looks to Samot. “Tell your son—”

“ My son?” Samot snaps, sitting forward again and sloshing wine onto the tablecloth in his indignance. Maelgwyn stares down at his plate and pushes around some rice, chewing mechanically without tasting his food.

��Aw, don’t kick up such a fuss,” Samol tries to say, but he’s spoken over immediately.

“I’m sorry, what was I not told?” Ethan says, something hostile about his tone even though Maelgwyn silently begs him to stay soft. He might’ve been pushed too far. 

The table becomes abruptly quiet again. Samot and Samothes sit looking at each other, not knowing how to break the news. They’ve never known how to talk about it. It’s like the mere mention of it has plunged them back into grief as fresh as the day the news was first broken to them.

“It’s stage four,” Samol says softly. Ethan blinks at him, opens his mouth to ask a dumb question, and then understands and slowly melts into horror.

Samothes pushes his chair back with a horrible screech and gives Maelgwyn a look before leaving for the kitchen. The blame is shifted to him as always. Maelgwyn didn't do enough, didn’t behave properly enough, wasn't enough. He should’ve better informed Ethan about his family’s history, and yet he should never have brought it up—or brought him home—to begin with. Tristero stands up in a huff and completely leaves the room, slamming the door to the back porch. Angelo and Adelaide jump up to go after him, giving Maelgwyn looks of apology and pity. Severea regards her brother with a deep sadness, and she and her partner rise and follow them out more slowly. The festively decorated table suddenly seems ridiculous and inappropriate in the sober atmosphere. Maelgwyn feels like slinking under it, pressing his head into a corner and hiding for the rest of the night. He can hear Samothes washing dishes aggressively, trying to regain some sense of control over the world. The way he bangs each dish brings Maelgwyn back to the arguments that used to echo through this house in his childhood, and how badly he would flinch at every little noise.

Samot rises from the table, still fixing Ethan with an openly malicious look. He walks around the table slowly, scaring Maelgwyn more with each step. "You've got a little something," he says, and then hauls Ethan up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten and scrubs vigorously at the corner of his eye. He drops him just as quickly, looking furiously satisfied, and storms off to the kitchen after his husband. Ethan sits there, blinking and stunned. When he looks at Maelgwyn questioningly, he can see that Samot had wiped off the eyeliner he's been so insistently smudging towards his temple. 

It almost makes Maelgwyn laugh despite everything, and then the hissing whispered argument beginning in the kitchen reaches him and all mirth he could’ve summoned evacuates his body abruptly. He took this too far. He knows that. He sinks down in his chair, every harsh consonant he can hear hitting him in the stomach like a blow. There’s nothing he can do. There never has been.

He, Ethan and Samol are the only ones left at the table. "I'm sorry," Ethan says, soft and genuinely regretful.

"It's alright, son. You didn’t know." Samol gets up and claps him on the shoulder. Maelgwyn watches Ethan re-evaluate how frail he is, how much trouble he has getting himself upright. For a moment Maelgwyn wants to burst into tears and rest his head against his grandfather’s bony shoulder and tell him everything, lay out their whole horrible scheme and try to explain why he thought it was a good idea. 

He remembers confessing the fear and unease of his home life to Samol when he’d been a child in the midst of his parents’ impending separation, and the relief of Samol telling him he’d take care of it and letting him sit in his Marlboro-scented car as he walked into the house to chew his fathers out. Maelgwyn aches for the same sort of relief, but he still can’t bring himself to speak. He watches Samol make his way across to the door out to the back porch and rest his hand on the handle. “I’ll smooth things over,” he says in his effortlessly comforting manner, and steps out. 

Maelgwyn feels a fraction better, but only that much. Even though there's no one left at the table, he finishes his dinner silently. Ethan sits there for a few more moments, then follows suit. He seems unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t think it would come up,” Maelgwyn says when he can be verbal again. It feels like a woefully inadequate excuse. Ethan looks up at him from his dish. He doesn’t seem angry with him, for which Maelgwyn is awfully grateful.

“I guess it worked in our favor,” he says, but he sounds unsure. He pushes his food around a little and then looks up again, eyes anxious. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t—Don’t worry about it.” Maelgwyn doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He stabs a piece of shrimp a little too hard. It’s quiet for a few minutes as they finish their food. The argument keeps gaining traction in the kitchen, growing more and more heated. Samol is coughing outside. Something about the harshness of the sound makes something in Maelgwyn snap. 

He gets up abruptly and slams open the door to the porch. It’s darker than he expected it to be, none of the porch lights on and the suburbs glittering in the moonlight in the distance. Samol is sitting on the edge of one of the porch swings, a lit cigarette between his fingers as he rests his hand on his knee. The Tristé siblings lounge on another of the benches, looking sullen. Their father leans against the railing at the edge of the deck. They all blink at Maelgwyn’s sudden, violent entrance.

"You're not supposed to smoke anymore,” Maelgwyn snaps at his grandfather.

"Maelgwyn," Tristero says warningly, but Samol waves at him and goes to stub out his cigarette.

"Naw, he's right. C’mon, Tristé, ain’t there been enough unpleasantness tonight?” Tristero glowers at Maelgwyn, but relents. He shoots an even dirtier look over Maelgwyn’s shoulder as the door opens. Ethan steps up beside Maelgwyn and puts a hand on the small of his back. Maelgwyn isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a comforting touch or just a part of the act, but it makes him feel better to have someone at his back. 

Tristero takes a step towards the staircase that leads down to the backyard as if Ethan’s very presence disgusts him. Ethan takes bold steps out to meet him, hand outstretched. "It's was good to meet you.” Tristero regards him with a moment of wary disdain, trying to figure out what he's playing at, before he clasps it.

"Have a good rest of your night," he says, enunciating his accent pointedly. The moment he lets go and steps away, Ethan jams his hand in his pocket like he wants to get rid of the feeling of touching him. Maelgwyn appreciates his dedication to his job, even if the rivalry he’s trying to embroil himself in might be a little bigger than his paygrade. 

Tristero descends the stairs and walks off across the lawn into the dark. Galenica and Severea wait for him by a streetlight. Samol stays behind, rocking back and forth on his porch swing quietly. Maelgwyn wonders if he hates the family falling apart because of him as much as he does. “Where’s everyone going?” he asks Samol. All the venom has gone out of his voice, and he sounds small and tired.

“Just to take a breather,” Samol says evenly. Maelgwyn wouldn’t be surprised if he was lying to spare his nerves. His grandfather’s guitar is leaning against one of his rocking chairs, and Samol hobbles across to sit in it and pick up a quiet tune. Even if it doesn’t quite match the situation, it’s soothing. Maelgwyn crawls onto the porch swing he just vacated and sways back and forth miserably. 

(Read part 2 here)

[collecting-stories]

Enchanted - Crutchie Morris

A/N: canon-era newsies fic. Based on AKB’s Crutchie cause he’s too cute. 

///

There was no denying that Crutchie, with his strawberry-blond hair and effervescent smile, was a sight to behold. The last bit of light illuminating a room through a window and warming anyone who stood in its path. Perhaps a little blinding at first glance but nevertheless beautiful and welcomed amidst the gloom of everyday life in New York. A vast and overpowering city, it was want to make you miss the farm you’d worked on before this but Crutchie made it a little more bearable, even if you only saw him briefly as you grabbed the paper and groceries for your employers.  

“I really am starting to get used to the market,” you mentioned, bright and early as you skimmed the front page of the paper you were sure to purchase.  

“I can’t believe theys don’t have ‘em up north.” Crutchie replied, sparing a smile for a lady that was passing. She slowed and he waved a paper in her direction, seeming to reel her in with it the way one might reel in a fish.  

“I’m sure they do but there’s no need for them where I lived, didn’t make a lick of sense to be selling eggs to people who can already buy eggs. Not even milk delivery came ‘round.” You confided as you finally pulled a nickel from your coin purse.  

“That’s too much,” Crutchie insisted, as he always did.  

In truth it did cut into your income to pay him a full nickel or dime instead of the penny it cost for the paper but you weren’t bother led by it. The family you were in service to now boarded you in their home and you had no one to send your income to so it was solely yours.  

“It’s a tip,” you insisted right back, “your smile is like the sun on a winter day Crutchie.”  

Crutchie flushed a red so deep it looked threatened to match the beets in your basket. It dusted his ears and his freckles disappeared completely.  

“Yous got a way wit words.”  

“I’ll see you tomorrow Crutchie.” You promised,  tucking the paper under your arm and heading in the direction of your house.  

You looked nice enough, plain of dress but he didn’t think anything of it. You had never said you were in service to the household where you lived only that you lived on Poplar street and Crutchie knew it to be richer folk. Not the Katherine Pulitzers of the world, surely, but richer than Davey’s family by leaps and bounds. All you had told him was that you had moved here from up north. You regaled him with tales of the white winters and the beautiful summers in the farming community. The woods and the vast amounts of green pastures everywhere. It sounded like a fairytale, a place too good to be true, like Jack’s Santa Fe. Why should anyone trade such an ideal for the overcrowded streets of New York? He was want to ask but it knew it wasn’t his place. He didn’t know you like that.  

Crutchie has met you the first time you’d gone to the market, walking home frustrated and completely lost, you’d flagged the newsie and asked directions. He’d been hooked ever since. Jack told him that he gave too much of himself to others and that he ought to be careful.  

“Tread lightly.” Were his exact words.  

But Crutchie couldn’t be bothered listening. He was sitting up late at night scrubbing stains out of his vest that had been there since it was sewn. There was no convincing him to go about things slowly.  

“Extra! Extra! Gold found in New York!” Crutchie shouted, waving his arm as he held the paper up. Down the street he could hear Racetrack shouting about a baby born with two heads. Impossible but Racetrack was just sure enough of himself to convince a person it might be true.  

“Least gold makes sense, all those folks moving to the gold towns out west.” Crutchie had joked earlier that morning as he split a stale bagel with his housemate.  

“Theys ain’t stupid, New York ain’t got nothing but rats and garbage.”

“But theys supposed ta believe a baby wit two heads?”  

“I can’t argue wit the people Crutch. They like crazy stories.” Racetrack replied, stuffing the rest of the bagel in his mouth and swallowing it down with water.  

“Just don’t go spreading ya stories on my corner. I’ll have ta soak ya.” Crutchie teased, pretending to whack his friend with his crutch.  

Race was far enough away that he wasn’t pulling any business from Crutchie but he could still hear the over-sensationalised story being advertised to the folks of New York. Both boys would age of the lodge, and of newsie work, soon and they’d been talking about splitting rent with Finch and Mush somewhere near by. There were more than a couple tenement buildings around and Finch had already gotten a second job running machines at a factory near the Hudson. But before Crutchie threw in the towel on being a newsie he wanted to see where his chances sat with you. If he wasn’t hawking papers every morning you’d have no reason to see him, unless you wanted to.  

That was the thing that Jack was warning caution with. Asking you out, confessing his feelings, it was all nice in theory but you had better prospects than a homeless newsie, especially one depended on a crutch.  

“Crutchie!”  

He sold off another paper and pocketed the penny before spinning himself to see you walking his way, waving as you got closer. You waved the way people waved ships out of the harbour, excited and joyful.  

“Here for the pape?” He asked, already pulling one out.  

“I am, I heard a story about a baby born with two heads but I suspect he was lying.” You announced, “what’s yours say?”  

“I’s got gold in New York,” Crutchie offered, handing over the paper that did indeed speak of gold-fever outside the city.  

“Golds tricky business. If it’s there it’s good but if it’s not...” you trailed off, your usual smile faltering just a bit as you took the paper from him.  

“Ya ever seen any?”  

“No, can’t say I have.” You perused the paper as usual, reading through the front page as Crutchie continued to sell.  

“Before ya head off,” Crutchie began to say, drawing your attention away from the paper. “I’s wondered if I could escort ya home sometime?”

“I would love that,” you couldn’t help the smile that spread on your face. You’d been stopping to chat up Crutchie for a while now because you liked the newsboy. He was cute and charming and funny and while you were sure he flirted with everyone you liked when he smiled at you and flirted with you. “You could uh, walk me back today?” You offered.  

You had been in the city long enough that you knew both the longest and the quickest route to get home. You took Crutchie the long way back, walking slowly as you did. All the rules about flirting you had learned from the kids at your last service. The shy looks, the accidental brush of a hand or a trip over air only to hold his hand, a sweet smile and laugh at everything he said. You disregarded all of those rules though, instead taking Crutchie’s free arm and walking with him along the street.  

“Do ya like the city so far?” Crutchie asked.  

“It’s nice...it’s always busy. I do like that this house has less kids, and less land.” You replied, “walking to get some eggs at market is a lot easier than wrestling with a bunch of chickens every morning. Or milking a cow!”  

“Oh,” Crutchie said, “I thought yous lived on Poplar.” He was surprised to hear you say that you were in service. But more than that he felt a little more hopeful.  

“I do, but I live in the servants’ rooms, off the kitchen.” You explained, “it’s a pretty nice job, all things considered.”

“I’m sure it beats being a newsie.” He replied.  

“For me certainly, I’d be a lousy newsie...no one would ever buy a pape from me.”  

“I would.”

“You’re too sweet to me Crutchie.”

“I mean it, nothing sells a paper faster than a beautiful face.” He replied, blush staining his cheeks.  

“That’s why you sell so many,” you teased, leaning over quickly and kissing his cheek. You pulled away just as fast, watching the smile that took over his face.  

The two of you walked the rest of the way back in silence, stealing quick glances at each other. When you arrived at your employer’s house on Poplar you led him to the side entrance, in the alley. The kitchen door was open and a few of the other workers were inside, pretending not to look at the two of you but glancing over curiously.  

“Thanks for escorting me home Crutchie, I really enjoyed walking with you.”  

“Maybe I could walk you tomorrow too?” He offered, holding your hand.  

“I would really like that.” You said, kissing his cheek once more, “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“See you tomorrow.”  

Crutchie took the quick way home, heading straight for Racetrack’s corner to tell his friend that he owed him a dime. Racetrack had bet Crutchie that she would be too upper-class for him but two kisses and the promise to walk together tomorrow told Crutchie otherwise. He had won, more than just the dime he was already planning on using to buy you a bouquet of flowers for tomorrow.  

-

More newsies. 

[signify-nothing]

8 Artists Who Have Impacted My Creative Development

I just watched the Armistead Maupin documentary on Netflix and it made me think a lot about the artists who have had the biggest impact on me as a queer writer. I decided to list them here below. While the list is admittedly not as diverse as I would’ve hoped – the majority of artists are white gay men – it was important to me to accurately document the reality of how I’ve become the writer I am today, even if I am still evolving towards a more diverse perspective.

1.       Amanda Palmer

I’m not going to pretend I’m in the dark about the controversies surrounding Amanda Palmer. A lot of people absolutely despise her, and if someone is looking for cancel-worthy receipts, they will likely find them in abundance. However, I can’t think of any queer woman more influential on my artistic evolution than Amanda. From introducing me to cabaret and burlesque at the tender age of fourteen to helping me learn the art of asking through her amazing Ted Talk and book, she has opened my eyes to countless things I would never have found on my own, such as what a revolutionary queer female sensibility can look like when it exists almost entirely outside of the male gaze.

2.       John Logan

I can’t pretend I fully support everything John Logan does. His depiction of people of color in Penny Dreadful was horrendous and don’t even get me started on City of Angels. However, years ago, watching his creation—Vanessa Ives—battle with issues of good and evil as well as her own sexuality as I was coming out changed my world entirely. Reading his interviews about growing up gay during the AIDS crisis also helped me understood why monsters always felt like the best metaphor for my own emotional experience of coming out.

3.       Richard Siken

Whenever I feel like I’ve lost my voice, or I’m burnt out on reading, my first step is always to reread Crush. No poetry collection or other work of literature has ever touched me in such a profound way. Siken always reminds me of the pure and simple power of the right phrase to reach out from the page and squeeze your heart until it feels like bursting.

4.       Olly Alexander

I still vividly remember the first time I saw Olly Alexander’s guest performance as Fenton on Penny Dreadful. I was fascinated by his physicality. His depiction of horror was so queer, so embodied, so theatrical, I would replay the clips just to try to get a better sense of how he was accomplishing all that he was in his scenes. As I followed his career into music and coming out to become a gay icon, I only grew to love him more, and continue to think of him as one of my greatest queer inspirations today.

5.       Bill Skarsgard

It seems strange to include Skarsgard in a list of mostly queer icons, but when I think of my creative evolution, I think of it in two different eras—the stories I wrote before I saw Bill Skarsgard act, and the ones I wrote after. He so entirely embodies the idea of a switch – someone who appears dominant one moment, and heartbreakingly submissive the next. It set my imagination on fire that someone could confound heteronormative roles like that. Even if Skarsgard himself is not queer, his depiction of the canonically bi Roman Godfrey was a life changer for me. On a more superficial level, I am also completely fascinated by his appearance, which seems to teeter between traditional good looks and a sinister ‘other’ in a way that still gives me shivers.

6.       Chuck Palahniuk

The strange thing about this one is that I have not read one of his novels in ages, and they’re not ones I frequently think of as my favorites. But when it comes to sheer artistic influence, I can’t think of anyone who gave me greater permission to break the rules and say the unthinkable. Stephen King once said that if you want to be a great writer, your days in polite society are numbered. I think Palahniuk’s work is a perfect example of this. Whenever I’m afraid something I’m writing is too controversial, I just remember “Guts,” and suddenly it’s easy to keep going.

7.       Ryan Murphy

I hate myself for even admitting this, but American Horror Story has had a huge impact on my writing. At least two of my novels were majorly inspired by his work, and my favorite academic essay I’ve probably ever written was also heavily influenced by his narratives. His sensibility for queerness and horror is in many ways unparalleled, and gives me the courage to explore the relation between queerness and horror that I have always felt compelled to examine in my work.

8.       Joanna Russ

After reading “How to Suppress Women’s Writing” everything I’d ever believed about art suddenly seemed up for debate. How do you define a good story? A compelling character? A worthy critic? I’d spent years studying the academically approved, canonical answers to these questions. And then Joanna’s work asked me to reconsider and try to find answers to these questions that felt authentic to me as a human being, and not just as a member of a culture dominated by straight white male gatekeepers. While I haven’t yet figured out all the answers on my own about what defines great literature to me, her work helped me start a lifelong inquiry into the subject, which now forms the base of my current practice.  

[magicianmew]

Low magic, gender, ceremagi, a big clusterfuck pie...

So this is something that has been gnawing away at me for damn near the entirety of the time I've been firmly planted in my practice, but especially since the whole this-is-douchecanoe thing went down (they're not worth my tag).

A few days ago I reblogged this post, which talks about how this-isn't-sparta is clearly coming from an occultist background, and seems to be embodying all of the sexist, ableist, elitist, and dogmatic crap that we've come to know and love from a particular and unfortunately vocal segment of that community.

But then this happened.

These practices within themselves are very male-centric. They seem more left brain than right. More confrontational than accepting.

Wait, what?

Now, I am not trying to call anyone out at all here. I ain't mad. I just wanna unpack this a little bit and actually look at it. 'K? I’m only using this because it's a convenient and ready-to-hand example, but the mindset is absolutely everywhere in the magical world.

Why do we as a community view low magic as being an inherently a "feminine" and "illogical" branch of magic? Why do we view it as something that is yielding and disorganized and void of the sort of study that can go into ceremonial magic? Even the people who practice it seem to accept this stereotype, even as they're surrounded by books and attempting some extremely punishing hedge work for the 34928057498th time.

I actually don't know. Because none of that is remotely true, in my experience of practicing primarily low magic.

Also note: I continue to refer to it as "low" for the same reason I continue to self-identify as "witch." In both cases, it's a practice usually associated with the underclass, which is an important part of the history of these practices. And I don't want to erase that. It keeps me humble. Anyway...

Let's talk about low magic. Folk magic. Po' people magic. Community magic.

Obviously there are thousands of different varieties of low magic -- several just for every culture in any given era. But they share a few broad things in common.

Firstly, they have an absolutely vast knowledge base. In order to effectively work most historical or true traditional forms of low magic, you need to have a working knowledge of botany, geology, history, cooking, distillation, the food web, migrational patterns, astronomy...

Learning how to perform the full body of work of most low magical traditions literally requires a full interdisciplinary education, fam. They involve a shit-ton of left-brain thinking, knowledge acquisition, and logical work. I have learned more about science from my practice than I did from my formal education, ok?

Even if you try to whatabout modern, novel forms of low magic, it still stays true. A tech witch, for example, might require a damn near photographic knowledge of the grid of their city and a couple of different coding languages, in addition to several of the disciplines above.

Let's keep something in mind, here. Low craft is the mother of modern medicine. The magician and the healer were the same person throughout most of history, and if you look back on what few ancient low magic books exist, you will find medicinal concepts that we still use to this day.

Low craft is, and has always been, a deeply research- and knowledge-based way of working. It couldn't possibly have given birth to something as expansive and world-changing as medicine if it weren't.

What is different about low magic compared to ceremonial, and I think where this concept of it being "less disciplined" comes from, is that low magic is performatively flexible. Because it is a craft developed and used by people with unpredictable access to materials, time, or places, it is meant to be adapted to a non-ideal situation pretty much on the fly. That is exactly why it has such a vast body of knowledge behind it: because the more you know, the more ready you are to do the work you need no matter what situation you might find yourself in.

Ceremonial magic is, well, what it says on the box: ceremonial. And because the experience of watching a ceremonial working seems much more procedural than watching a low magic working, people have somehow concluded the low magic involves less knowledge. That is not remotely true. The knowledge just comes in at a different point in the process, i.e. how they even got to the point of doing a working at all, when they had nothing but a spoon, two pennies, and a waxing moon at their disposal.

Hell, low magicians even adapt ceremonial magic. Hoodoo workers know all about the Seals of Solomon, and they make them work beautifully even without the usual prescribed ceremony.

Now let's talk a little bit about these... gender ideas. This is a whole complicated ball of icky, slippery worms.

There's two concepts going on here:

That ceremonial magic is "male."

That "male-ness" is confrontational and intolerant.

Ok. *rubs temples*

It is undeniable that ceremonial magic is dominated by men, and it always has been.

But that does not mean that low magic is "a woman's practice." That is not even remotely true, and it never has been.

Low magic has historically been communal. In many places, it still is even now. Practitioners have always been both male and female. Sometimes they held different titles, sometimes they didn't. Usually, deference was simply determined by age and length of time practicing, not gender or anything else.

As a matter of fact, magical practice was one of the few places where we continued to see relative gender equality even after patriarchy began to take over many societies in the world. Magic continued to be a practice of merit and communal assistance, not something where your gender decided your competence or your station in the magical community.

From Britain's cunning folk to black root doctors, both African and diasporic, both men and women have always been magic workers in low practice, and there is little to no evidence of them disrespecting each other, or assuming one's magic is inferior to the other's because of their gender alone. There is no black man who ever wanted to cross a root working woman, I guarantee you!

Ok. So now let's tackle this "male-ness is confrontational and intolerant" thing.

No. Toxic masculinity is confrontational and intolerant.

So then why do we see that particular problem more often in ceremonial magic, which has always been a male-dominated practice?

Because ceremonial magic is not just male-dominated. More specifically, it is dominated by white, Western, higher-class men, who are also usually straight and virtually always cisgender. Let's just get that right, here.

This isn't a problem with "male-ness." It is a problem with the people at the very top of the kyriarchal totem pole, and it's the same problem we always see with this group of people, whether we're talking about Congress or gentrification. It's no different.

Ceremonial magic has historically been the property of powerful, wealthy men who were part of the ruling class. From popes to aristocrats, the development of ceremonial magic has grown directly from that power system.

"Male-ness" does not dictate one's personality. "Male-ness" does not inherently make one intolerant of other people. Unexamined, unchecked privilege is what does that. "Male-ness" means nothing other than the state of occupying a male-identified gender and/or body.

The strong and persistent community of men that has always been present in low magic alongside their female counterparts is no less male. And we shouldn't degrade the potential and decency of men who work at these things by assigning them a personality without even examining it for truth first.

We also really need to stop defining everything feminine as yielding, weak, or illogical -- the implicit opposite of the strong, dominating, and procedural "male" practice. It doesn't lift up women to define their work and their encyclopedic knowledge as being somehow lesser or weaker like that.

I know that, most of the time, people don't mean it like this because it's just beaten into our heads to think of female-ness this way, to the point where all of us will, at some point, just parrot it back without even thinking about it (me included), but it's a back-handed defense at best. We need to acknowledge the power, knowledge, and work of the magic women do. We need to get better at examining those assumptions within ourselves that their work isn't as good.

Just as a general concept, we need to stop trying to shoe-horn the gender binary and its tired stereotypes into the way we see ourselves as magic workers, and the way we see our magic. That’s as true in low magic as in ceremonial.

And finally...

I can pretty much hear all the ceremonial magicians who are mad as fuck at me right now and ready to bang away at their keyboards about how they're female or disabled or queer or whatever.

Ok, stop for a second.

I know.

'K?

I know that. I know there are lots of you coming from less privileged backgrounds, struggling for the spoons to do your work, etc.

And I really hope you're going to use that to take back ceremonial magic from that ugly history, and turn it into something that's for everyone and works equally for the magical empowerment of all people.

You can totally do that, now that we have this here thing called the internet. And I follow several people who partake in problematic practices with the specific intent of re-envisioning them as something better. Great. Wonderful. Please do that.

But in order to do that, you have to recognize the roots of where it came from. You can't tackle these problems by pretending they don't exist, just like you can't be an ally to black people without acknowledging the problems of whiteness.

It's not personal. It's a fact of both the historical and present-day climate of that community.

We need to acknowledge that people like this-are-donut are pretty common in that community. And in order to make it a better space for you, it's to your benefit to fight back against that degradation of other people just as much as we do in the low magic community. I mean, let's be real, those people don't respect you any more than they respect me. What do you gain out of defending them? Nothing. If you won't do it for any other reason, do it for you.

To those of you already cleaning house, thank you.

To those of you who are gonna say my community has problems too, yes, I know. Name me one time ever that I've denied that or not come out against it whenever I see it, from racist crafters to Nazis in paganism. So please just... don't. Today we're talking about ceremagi's laundry. I talk about mine plenty, ok?

So anyway.

TL;DR If you're a low magician of any sort, your knowledge is just as deep and hard-won as that of any ceremonial magician. Stop accepting the premise at face value that it is somehow a lesser practice.

We also need to stop associating low magic as being "for women." Low magic has a rich history of gender inclusion, and in some societies even LGBT inclusion. Men have shown themselves perfectly capable of working peaceably with us. There is no reason they can't in ceremonial magic just as they have in low magic.

In the spirit of the holiday, let's try to keep this productive. I've really tried my best, here.

Happy Ostara for my pagans buds, and Happy Easter for my Christian witches. Have a good'un.

[emperorghali]

“Global tithing And God?”

Still on the issue of giving to the less privileged not society. that isn’t actually the same.

This givens has taking it’s own kind of music since man's music changed too. Too many “ how to's” and “ I want to’s” give this and that and how to give this and that articles abounds every in the internet. People are advised by almost all the articles to give as much as they can, maybe because that is what good people do or supposed to be doing.

My question as usual is: so since man’s music changed, they suddenly became better tune, right?--- holier than eight years ago.

I repeat, know who you’re giving anything and manner you even give anything no matter in the building you are. Something is spiritually wrong with this given music since ten years now. It has nothing to do with heaven or God any more in many occasions but Satan. Nothing to do with being selfless or selfish.

Excess occult powers are floating around in many fashions and sounds these days. No one is ever sure where his alms are heading to physically and spiritually and more importantly, the type of blessing coming from there.

Excess snakes and infusions of every kind everywhere these days. Even if snakes created by God is giving birth every seconds, they would not be able to have produce the amount of snakes floating everywhere these day. So is humans and what looks like them.

It’s advisable to know who you’re handing over your pennies these days and where the appreciation and blessings is coming from. You might be contributing to upkeeps of occult group, economy, project and countries you never know.

I strongly believe that it’s era of ‘monkey work, baboon chop' occult system at work nowadays.

This giving jingles that is every where is really ringing bells in the suspicious part of my brain. It’s really tickling me.

The idea of giving people what they don’t ask for or cunningly make them to ask for it.

Why should an honest and straight forward person spent sleepless night cracking their brains on the best way to contaminate their own fellow man and country?

Some of this people spent their monies on loans and projects in the name of helping less privileged countries.

Why should a man giving you alms contaminate you first to position you before going on loans sprays?

Why would a man shouting give, give be good on one department spent time on another contaminating you?

Why must a good man want to rechannel your thinking ability not to understand clearly anything while thinking you do.

Why has this give, give taken another dimension this past decade from the same people we listen to their utterances every day?

What happened to the humans of 11 years ago?

Did God changed with humans?

Rationalize their utterances and actions know from where this give, give jingles are coming from. Then, compare. They spread their tentacles every where in the world nowadays, every sector then sat behind laughing their heads off.

Human nature now was never changed through airborne anything, or infected by mosquitos but deliberate human action. Out of the seven billion walking the face of the earth previously humans, maybe about seven millions remains the same. Others are pretending that all is well and going along with their give, give Clarion call.

Giving might be expression of faith in the God of harvest like they said then, am not sure nowadays.

They’re manipulating the world.

Give to organized body to give them, don’t give in person. Nothing wicked there, just precaution.

[akrasiaxxx]

“so.” “soooooooooo?”

in the history of awkward dinners she’s been forced to sit through … this one may be the worst. but it’s done at the request of her brother. still in the dark to months shared between the two individuals now sat across each other. make peace. find common ground. so when the big day comes, he doesn’t have to find himself standing on a line. heart pulled in two directions. making excuses to one and casting aside the other. he doesn’t know what happened. only that something turned them from the occasional acquaintance to enemies. and he’s made it pretty clear -- he doesn’t care what transpired. just that it needs mending. immediately.

but he’s looking at her the way he once did. like there’s a spark both are afraid to touch. if she gets too close, she’ll burn. and hasn’t enough damage been caused by his hand? clearing of her throat. trying to settle on the right words to say only leave her wondering if she’ll say the wrong thing. when was the last time the two of them had been alone? not they’re secluded now. not like so many nights, curled up inside his apartment. laughing over dumb cartoons meant to amuse children. or screaming back and forth over another episode of true crime that’s got them fighting to see who can solve it first. she never realized how far back the memories went. how so many good moments packed into the few months they’d gotten to share.

“are we gonna talk about it?” “about what?”

she feels silly .. playing the fool who has no idea what he could possibly be talking about. as if the matter that brought them to this very meeting into weighing down on her. every breath another pound dropped. part of her is waiting for it to drag her under. deep beneath the earth until she is nothing but molten ash within it’s core. maybe that would be easier.

“how great you look. and i mean it callie, you look… amazing.”

without words, there’s a share look of congratulations. accomplishment of how far she’s gotten. six months clean under her belt. no drug stronger than a cup of coffee. and she’s almost starting to lose the taste of tequila from her lips. the road has been more difficult than expected. the first month filled with rock slides down the path of relapse. she had passed the 30 day mark more than she would ever admit.

and as far as broken promises go… his to be by her side when she was ready cut the deepest.

not that she had given him a chance. their decision to cut ties, only speaking in passing when jules had summoned them together, had happened longer before that. when the time came and she realized how far she had fallen … they’d moved on. they lived lives completely separate of each other. which seemed a weird way to phrase it. they had never been entangled. only caught up in stolen minutes when the moon rose high above their heads. they’d never had a shared life.

“thanks,” she mumbles. her gaze dropping away from his before she loses herself. in his eyes. in his smile. in the gentle calm he makes her feel, despite rippling anxiety that wants to push her from the restaurant. she isn’t supposed to be this hung up on him.

and she’s not. it’s seeing him for the first time. in such a long time that’s got her shaken.

“so is this the part where you tell me i’m not invited?” penny in the air. “do you even wanna come?” and the penny drops.

as if the world around them falls silent. she is keenly aware of how deep his breathing has become. the way he swallows down the lump in his throat. she wasn’t supposed to ask that. it was a simple answer -- either of course he was. or of course he wasn’t. he would deal with the consequences of both after he’d be given his sentence. now he had to face the reality of it. did he want to be in attendance? how important was she to him even after it all?

it deafening. the way he doesn’t answer right away. only leans back in his seat and allows his gaze to shift over her features. to follow along every curve to her face. and linger on spots where scars would normally stand out. if they weren’t hidden beneath layers of make up. covered by the sweater that’s less revealing than clothes she used to wear. she sits before him a completely different person.

but still equally enamored with him.

“hm.” “hm isn’t an answer, becker.” “ooh. becker. i must be in trouble.”

devilish hint behind smug grin will be her downfall. in a singular moment, time locked in the booth that seems cut off from the rest of the world … he finally relaxes. she can see the way his shoulders slump. not heavily. but enough to feel the tension melt off him. while she is treading water, struggling to stay afloat, he has found himself back to a simpler time. when they could joke. and laugh. able to be just the two of them. free of judgment.

“i’m serious. i need to know.”

putting her foot down … with him more than most, is difficult. she can’t walk a straight line without wanting to dip her toe over. to fall into him. to let him whisk her into euphoria and a laugh so deep her belly hurts.

“do you want me there?”

and just like that her patience fades. anger boils beneath the surface. tearing her apart as a storm does anything in it’s path. how easily she is reduced to violence trapped in human skin. he pushes her to the same edge his friends once had. when she snapped. and reminded them of their place among the elite. how the little people suffered at the hands of their decisions. she hadn’t been able to get this angry. not without the mix of alcohol and god knows what else fueling the fire in her stomach.

“is that your answer to everything? push it off and make someone else decide?” “cal, that’s not-” “answer the damn question then.” “it’s not that easy!”

echo of words spoken through a door hit her like a truck. if she hadn’t been sitting already, knees would’ve collapsed beneath her. falling onto the carpet. if she’s lucky, knocking her head on the way down. anything that pulled her from this conversation. that kept her heart locked away from him. and his mind free of her games.

that night is a plague upon her memories. there’s a long list of moments she is able to block out, to fully erase from her conscious memory. and yet that one … never goes away. each word. the kind and caring tone of his voice as he tried to make sure she was alright. as if he hadn’t stepped on her heart.

“this time callie, it’s not about me.”

this time. because when he’s previously run away from the difficult decision, it had been about what he wanted. to keep his friendship with jules intact. knowing that allowing himself to fall in deeper with her would be disaster. the end of an era. he could have her -- a broken, addicted, trashy stripper who had fallen from grace. or he could have jules. the man who had been his rock for longer than she had been a conscious thought in his mind.

the longer it sits with her.. the more it makes sense of him to ask. he isn’t rejecting the question. the shift in it’s direction truly isn’t as simple as backing her into a corner. or avoiding the responsibility of being the one to take a stand. he’s trying, in his own way, to be selfless. to allow the importance of it to fall on her shoulders. and to keep her as comfortable as he can without outright saying as much.

why does he have to be so good even when he’s pushing all her buttons?

“i didn’t,” she doesn’t get to finish her thought. not without seeing his shoulders sag again. this time in defeat. his back resting against his chair. and gaze falling from her own. “at first. but i thought about it. a lot. and… it wouldn’t be right. we have to stop pretending like we mean nothing to each other, beck.”

“we talked about this.” “no. you talked. i listened. now it’s your turn.”

tension is now partner to her beating heart. conversation has been praticed time and time again. spoken to a mirror. or a nearby stuffed animal with all the time in the world to listen. how often did it end in tears? smashed glass once or twice. bear thrown across the room, only to be picked up when comfort was needed. she is no stranger on how to start the words. it’s getting them to stop that’s the challenge.

“you decided i wasn’t worth it. and i get that your friendship to jules is everything to you.. even if you won’t say it. but you didn’t even give me a chance,” she pauses. taken breath the singal to silence his comments. twitch of his lip giving away his need to interrupt. “it’s not like i would’ve asked you to give him up. but you made me fall in love with you. then shoved me out the door.”

is that the first time she’s said it out loud? that word. that one word which carried more weight than any other in their language. in all the times she has gone over this conversation .. she’s never had the courage to admit it. she had fallen in love with him. so far gone from the childish crush that kept her coming back for more. needing to see his smile. desperate for that glimmer of pride in his gaze when he looked at her. she had walked away from the puppy love and straight into something real.

but real didn’t mean forever.

“all i wanted was for you to acknowledge what was happening. to tell me you felt what  i was feeling. because you can’t spend that much time together.. have the conversations we had and not feel something! i just needed you to tell me  it wasn’t one sided!” there’s a bubbling of tears. emotions getting the better of her. but as she swallows them down, keeping her gaze locked on the curve of his forehead … his head lifts. his gaze syncs back to hers. and all the color drains from her cheeks.

“no, it wasn’t.”

the clarity isn’t nearly as commending as she so often worried. instead it carried peace with it; spread to the corners of her soul that hadn’t known rest in longer than the issue with beck had been a problem. she hadn’t been falling on her own. he had been there, right along side her every step of the way. walking their path side by side, hand in hand. even if it was only for a brief twinkle in the stars of their life… what they had shared hadn’t been in her head.

his big talk of feeling nothing. the speech he had prepared to push her away … had been just that. a practiced effort to deny the truth. does that mean it had hurt him just as much?

“but we can’t--” “no. we can’t undo it. and we can’t ever tell jules. i’m not asking that. but i can’t keep doing this. do you know how hard it’s been to not call you when i thought i was gonna fall off the wagon? or when i got a promotion?” “you had dmitri.” “yeah, but he’s not you.”

words taste wrong. they are misplaced across her tongue. because the last thing she means to do is discredit the importance of dmitri in her life. but that didn’t diminish the gapping hole beck had left in his own absence. she had room for both of them. separately. different in every sense. but they both fit.

puzzle pieces that mended her heart.

“and maybe that’s a good thing.” “beck. stop! i’m not asking you to whisk me off to vegas for a shot gun wedding. but.. i need you in my life. i need to know when things are tough i can call and you’ll answer.”

answer isn’t immediately delivered to her ear. he’s nonverbal for a solid few minutes. the seconds ticking by like grains of sand along the shoreline. getting swept back back into the ocean. each breath a wave more violent than the last. but before she loses it completely … the light goes off behind his gaze. like he’s finally able to see her point of view. he feels the beating of her heart. and the pain is carries from losing him the way she did.

her life had never been made of absolutes. or certainties. everything had hung in the balance, depending upon her work ethic and thick skin to carry her to great heights. the once assumed loved her life had knocked her further into the ground than she thought was physically possible. that moment capsuled in the loss of her belief in love. or soulmates. and then one man had showed her both were possible.

too bad they were only ever destined to be star crossed.

“okay, okay. deal. and before you hop on your high horse … it hasn’t been easy for me either, cal. he talks about you all the time. how proud he is. how happy you are. it’s like you were there and i couldn’t reach you.”

would it be too subtle to remind him he’s had her number? or to mention the billion missed calls, voicemails, and texts? because getting clean had meant facing her demons. each one of them. of course.. nobody had told her that her biggest one would come without closure.

“so that brings us back to the question -- do you want me there?”

smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. the resolve is more peaceful and honest than she ever could have imagined. but it’s also an ending. bittersweet in the nature of it’s design. her next words will forever shut the door to what could have been if they hadn’t been afraid to try. sealed tight with neither of them holding the key. in this moment … with all the cards on the table, she’s not sure if she’s ready to say goodbye.

“i do… we do. which is why i’m here. it was a lot of talking and arguing and explaining why. but i think he gets it now.” “he never did like me.” “can you blame him?” “yeah. could’ve stolen his girl any time i wanted.”

the words are dressed in humor. laugh filtering into the space between them and breathing life back into the restaurant. the world comes back with a hard slap. metal against fine china. the clinking of glasses as fond words are shared. even the buzz of mindless chatter that carries into the high ceilings. how long had they been lost in each other?

nervous energy twists the ring that sits on her finger. she never thought she’d be here. never saw her life coming to this. and somehow being happier and more miserable than she’s ever been. she knows it will fade. she will walk away from this conversation in shambles. but when she slips back into her apartment and curls into the arms of the man she loves .. everything will fall into place. she will remember why she said yes. she will remember how far she’s come. and while love for the man across from her now will never fade, she knows they’re just not meant to be.

“okay. please promise me that won’t be in the speech.” “oh it’s definitely going in.” “uh huh. changed my mind, you’re not invited.”

conversation redirects to a soft tone. the genuine catch up of two friends who hadn’t seen each other in the longest of time. but the heaviness lingers. both their minds scattered and hazed with what if’s and could we’s. but they remember themselves. the promises made to others. it will take time. she knows that without it being said. but something in his laugh tells her.. he’s equally happy to suffer through having a piece of her than not having her at all.