bandit king of lunch and string

oh, it was in reply to me saying "some celtic songs are drinking songs, some are crying songs, and some are drunk crying songs."

 

ugh, i'm coming down with something and i feel awful. i'm in such a wretched mood. have been for days. seebs and i have been watching voltron, and we just found out about season 8 being an absolute clusterfuck, and gave up watching it, and it was kind of the last straw somehow. i've been having such a hard time finding positivity since then. like, fuck staying positive, i can't even get positive for a few minutes. :(

i want to ask for fanfic recs but i've already read basically everything in my usual fandoms, up to about the 10th page of ao3 results by kudos, that was remotely my jam. and i haven't gotten into any new fandoms lately. i just don't really trust movies and tv to take me anywhere i want to go. too many times i've gotten attached to a show only to have it switch genre on me, or turn my favorite character into an asshole, or pull some hateful trick or other.

is cryosleep viable yet? can i just get frozen for a few years? i'll write a sticky note for you to put on the door: "wake me up when there's no nazis in the white house, there's a treatment for osteoarthritis besides More Painkillers, and movies/tv don't wad up the plot and stuff it down the toilet in a panic at the faintest whiff of chemistry between male characters."

that won't fit on a sticky note will it.

ugh i feel rotten. like a mooshed vegetable.

 

Not sure if you've already heard of this and it isn't fanfic, but urbanAnchorite/Tamsyn Muir just put out her first book, Gideon the Ninth, and it's pretty delightful. I've been having a hard time reading not-fic, but this book is very much like her fic writing style and was a fun read that went down super smooth and kept setting off fun homestuck alerts in my head. Our heroines are part of a space bone religion where they paint their faces like skeletons, there are a suspicious number of six-letter names, and you know what, I am just this moment realizing that going god tier is a legit plot point, WOW.

Anyways, no worries if it's not what you're up for, but in the author's own words:

Spoiler

GIDEON THE NINTH is the story of seventeen dolts in a space shack trying to become God’s dead best friends. Here are some of the traditional heroic tropes I went with.

* GIRL FALLS FOR SICKLY COUGAR

* BAD LITTLE LEMONGRAB BOY STEEPLES FINGERS, A LOT

* ASTEROID JUGGALOS HAVE A BONE RELIGION (That old chestnut!! - Ed.)

* TWINS BUT ONE TWIN IS A BEEFALO AND THE OTHER TWIN IS A POT OF YOPLAIT ZERO PERCENT YOGHURT

* HERO’S QUEST TO BECOME A NECROSOLDIER SPACE HUNKETTE ENDS PREMATURELY WHEN NO-TIDDY GOTH WITCH TRICKS HER INTO THE HUNGER GAMES (Biblical - Ed.)

 

well, shit. i think i'm depressed.

 

that is a pun worthy of me, i approve

 

this sounds very fantrollish... :D

 

oh wow, that cracks me up, because based on my extremely vague dragonlance memories, it is hilariously accurate. in this case, the twins are a lady beefalo and a lady zero percent yoghurt, but I would have been much more invested in dragonlance if caramon and raistlin had been ladies, so this works out perfectly for me XD

 

https://jumpingjacktrash.tumblr.com/post/180421717904/rainbowbarnacle-thanksgiving-at-studiohouse

pumpkin custard recipe for my own reference

 

outside: I HEARD U LIKE SNOW

inside: making turkey stock; dyed some yarn with onion skins & turmeric (gonna make CURRY SOCKS); had leftover pilaf with leftover gravy and mixed italian cheese; seebs & barb snuggling with cats; green plants; keith the toad

life: pretty darn good

 

i forgot to rating this when i saw it but it cheered me greatly, otter squeaks are wonderful things

 

Spoiler: some jack saturday for gui

I can hear voices and music through the door. Sounds like there's quite a crowd in there. I was hoping most of them would be out on the town, but I guess it's too late in the night. I pause with my hand hovering over the doorknob, trying to match voices to faces. Michelle's throaty chuckle is easy to pick out, as is the rumble of the dude Rick broke in half when they came to get Kiki back. I think his name is Mike or Mack or Mick. And there's the belligerent twink, still poncing around with that fake accent -- hell, I can't remember what stupid thing he was calling himself, I want to say Adrian but I know that's not it. A woman I don't recognize, sweet and deferent, like a housewife hostess from an old TV show. And one other male voice, which is a little familiar but which I can't put a face to.

Whew. At least five of 'em in there. If I don't play it cool, there'll be a bloodbath. A bloodbath is not on the agenda. Be cool, Jack.

Jacob is scared. I can feel it through the bond. A cold nasty low-down feeling, like an oyster in your underwear. I thump him encouragingly on the shoulder, trying to send him big-brotherly reassurance: relax, trust me, we'll be all right. Then I open the door.

No conversations stop, no heads turn. Eyes slide toward us, then away, as they all go on chatting as if we're no big deal. That tells me they were expecting us. I hook my thumbs in my pockets and stroll in half a dozen steps, then stop and take in the scenery while I wait for their move.

This is the biggest room in the house; probably used to be the ballroom. It's bigger than the mainroom of Rick's club. There's a great huge fireplace at the far end, and the long left wall is all windows. Several sets of glass doors lead out to where a swimming pool glimmers under the flocks of bugs attracted by the patio lights. I see two people swimming, two people lounging; I get the impression they're breathers, but it's hard to tell through the glass. Donors, probably.
To my right is a sort of bar setup, which doesn't look like anyone ever uses it. To my left, pool table, foosball, and suchlike amusements. Big Mike and Fake Brit are playing a very posed game of -- well, I don't know what they think they're playing. Just as I glance over, Fake Brit sinks the eight while there are low numbers all over the table, which is a foul in any game I know, but Big Mike just lines up for his turn like it's all good. Maybe they're playing 'bend flirtatiously over the pool table'.

At the far end, the right quarter is the big TV-and-stereo setup. There's some scratchy old jazz playing. The far left quarter is a seating arrangement like you see in hotel lobbies, couches and armchairs and little tables all over the place, and that's where everyone else is. They've got drinks and cigarettes and are lounging around like it's being filmed. I see a couple plates of cake, too, and I assume those are for the breathers in the pool until a sort of red-haired Mary Tyler Moore picks up a fork and takes a bite.

Urgh. That's just gross.

My count of voices was off. There are seven vampires in the room, not counting me and Jacob. The male voice I couldn't quite recall, I recognize instantly now that I can see him. He's the only one of Michelle's pets I actually find attractive. He's a tallish native Hawaiian with a beach queen physique and really long wavy black hair. I got the impression last time that he was dumb as a bag of hammers, though for all I know he's just full of deep thoughts behind the ornamental facade.

In addition to the ones I heard, there's a really skinny girl who's staring out the window at the swimmers, and a craggy movie-star type who -- am I seeing this? -- yes, he's got his hand up Mary Tyler Moore's skirt. He's groping her and she's eating cake. I'm gonna make sure Kiki's drinking something when I tell her about it, she'll spout like a whale.

Michelle's got her back to us. I recognize her because she's the only blonde in the bunch; all I can see over her chair is the top of her head. The seconds drag on. It's funny watching the posed conversations start to limp. Jacob's looking a bit fidgety and uncertain as well. In fact, I think I'm the only one in the room who's not feeling the social awkwardness. Hell, I'd just go right through and get myself one of those swimmers if I didn't know I've got to let Michelle have her power game before I can go about my business.

I wonder what normal people are actually experiencing when a room goes tense like this. I mean, I can see it happening, but I'm just watching. Are they all responding to some stimulus I'm not picking up, or does one of them set it off and the rest follow along, or what? I'll have to ask Jacob later. It seems like the sort of information I could use.

Finally, after several minutes of this, Michelle stands up to pour herself another glass of wine, glances our way, and feigns surprise. Touches her spread fingers to her collarbone and shoots her eyebrows up and everything. She looks a lot like Ingrid Bergman tonight; her light-blonde hair is immaculately waved, and she's wearing a silk blouse with a long narrow skirt, very Casablanca.

She's got glamour, Michelle does. In both the Hollywood sense of the word and the magical one. I have no hormonal reaction to women -- when I used to chase girls, it was because I didn't know guys were an option and my right hand can't laugh at my jokes -- but I still feel an urge to just stand here staring. She's a work of art.

Unfortunately, she's also a piece of work. We're not getting out of this room without someone ending up humiliated to the point of tears or violence. I remind myself again: this is a diplomatic mission, Jack. We are not here to napalm Michelle's jungle. Be cool.

"My word! How long have you been standing there?" Her southern belle accent is really convincing. I wouldn't believe she's originally from New Jersey if Abe hadn't told me. "Were you too shy to say anything? I know we didn't part on the best terms, but goodness, you're a guest!" She beckons gracefully. "Come in, have a glass of something -- oops, wait a moment. We'd better just make sure you're not carrying any nasty little surprises." She twinkles a smile at us. As if she could possibly forget. She's been looking forward to this. "Alistair, be a doll and frisk them."

Oh yeah, Alistair, not Adrian. I bet his real name's Greg. She picked him because he has a problem with me. I give him an innocent little smile as he sets down his cue and slinks toward us. He's good-looking, but he's not as hot as he thinks he is. About my height, lanky build, long red hair and an androgynous face. He's wearing a leather jacket with no shirt, a dog collar, and shiny PVC pants so tight I can see the leg elastic of his underwear. I guess I'd do him if I could duct tape him to something and stuff a tennis ball in his mouth.

I busted out his left fang last time I saw him. I wonder how long it took to grow back?

"Ernest already frisked us," I point out.

Michelle chuckles. "Ernest is too trusting."

"Ernest is good at his job. I came unarmed because of him, not you. You guys, I could slip a briefcase nuke past you, you should get Ernest to give you some pointers."

"I'm sure Alistair will be extra thorough this time. Won't you, honey?"

"Oh yeah," Alistair smirks.

Michelle is watching us intently, and the others have taken it as permission to stop faking busy and watch too. She no doubt thinks I was trying to get out of the ritual groping. I wasn't. I know perfectly well there's no getting out of it. I was making her say out loud that Ernest's official, Philippe-mandated frisking doesn't count. The more I can get her to talk like she doesn't respect Philippe's authority, the better.

Alistair catches my eyes and tries to give me a shot of sex mojo. I slip it easily. My little smile doesn't change. He starts running his hands over my body, watching my face to see what it'll do to me.

What it does to me is totally nothing.

He really thinks he's irresistable. He's clearly baffled that I'm not throwing wood. It's kinda simultaneously cute and depressing, like a ten-year-old girl trying on lip gloss. He remembers to pat my ankles this time, but he doesn't check the middle of my back, under my head scarf, or the roll of my sleeve cuffs. When he's finished, he's an expert on the topics of my package and my skinny ass, but I could be packing a goddamn meat cleaver and he wouldn't know. If Michelle honestly doesn't think Ernest knows his shit, she sure picked the wrong guy to cover the security gap.

Disappointed but undaunted, he moves on to Jacob. He can't try his mojo on Jacob because my Jacob's watching me and won't give him eye contact. The bond's sending me tight, fluttering near-panic, but Jacob looks serene as a saint. That's my boy. Don't let 'em see they're getting to you.

Alistair must be picking something up, though, because when he's kneeling at Jacob's feet he gives up all pretense of frisking, and runs his hands back up Jacob's thighs reeeeeal slow. When he gets to Jacob's ass, he takes a good double handful and rubs his face against Jacob's fly like a cat.

Jacob gives a short exclamation of anger, but masters himself the next moment. He puts on a disgusted expression to cover his struggle against panic. "Well, that's classy," he drawls.

I throw Michelle a weary look, because this is her power play and I know exactly how it's going to go. It's a conflict without surprises. That's no fun at all. "You want to pull your saddle-sniffer off my novice, or should I do it?"

Michelle gives me a great big smile. "Why, Jack, he doesn't mean any harm by it. That's just how he says hello."

Jacob sniffs. "I see, because this isn't grotesque or anything. Ugh, stop touching me, you embarrassingly desperate little man."

Alistair looks up, stung, but recovers his leer the next moment and continues nuzzling his way up Jacob's body. I admit it's pissing me off. Partly seeing somebody's mitts else all over my private property like that, partly the anger-disgust-fear I'm picking up through the bond. I hate bullies, and I hate the sub-bullies who follow them. My mental hit list acquires another name. As soon as I can do it without ruining Abe's plan, Alistair dies. Maybe I'll catch him alive so Jacob can do it.

If he survives the next five minutes, that is. "Alistair," I purr. "C'mere. Let me show you how I say hello."

He looks up at me, not sure whether that's a threat or a promise, and I grab his mind. His psi is weak and he doesn't know how to use his mojo to shore it up; all attack, no defense. Of course it's a hell of a lot stronger than a breather's, so I can't do anything but make him stupid for a moment, but that's all I need. He lets go of Jacob and steps toward me. I put my hands on the sides of his face. His lips part like he thinks he's going to get kissed.

I drive my thumbs knuckle-deep into his eyes, then give him a little shove so he falls over. "Hello!"

His howl and the sudden commotion of startlement from the rest of them doesn't quite mask the sound of a cocking gun. I turn to see Michelle aiming a dainty little holdout pistol at the middle of my forehead. The gun might be small, but the barrel I'm looking down is at least 9mm, and I'm sure it's loaded with hollowpoints. If she takes that head shot, I'm dusted.

I can't keep my delight off my face. Finally, something interesting is happening! I spread my arms and give her a happy smile. "What?" I shrug. "I said hello."