#golden days carry on zine

[gutouhua]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

vampire!kaeya x human!f.reader

wc. 1395

tags. kaeya drinking reader's blood, penetrative sex, hickeys, slight dumbification, size difference, cervix-fucking sorta, not edited

a/n. last reader insert piece i'll post for the year! i love the reader fic community very dearly--y'all were the ones that made me want to write!--so even if i'm writing other stuff besides reader fics, know i will always be back! gonna be working on zine stuff & the next part of shrine master's bride in the new year! i hope you lovelies have a gentle christmas and peaceful rest of the year <3

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭! 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝟏𝟖+!

There were times when Kaeya felt that he was made specifically for you. For your needs, your comfort, your pleasure. A knight at his queen’s service. 

At the farmer’s market, he’d carry everything for you even though he knew you were more than capable of doing it yourself. He’d never admit it, but it was just an excuse to be by your side. 

And as you flitted from stall to stall, he’d trail after you with heavy arms, juggling bags and parcels of food and trinkets, and admire your pretty sundress. He told himself that he followed behind to protect you, but it was mostly so that he could enjoy—ogle—the way the cotton voile clung to your ass. 

You’d always buy fresh fruit, vegetables, and meats wrapped in kraft paper. (Bloodied steaks, he’d noticed, were a particular favorite of yours.) 

But the shop you always lingered the longest at was the dessert shop. Dainty frosted cakes, golden flaky pastries, and soft cookies presented prettily in delicate containers was your ultimate weakness. The shopkeeper always had your order of sugar rush ready even before you arrived, and Kaeya was always careful to balance your desserts in expert fashion, careful not to jostle them too much. 

(The last time your baklava got crushed into a sticky, flaky mess, you refused to kiss him for an entire day which left Kaeya very distraught and aching.) 

And when you come back from a mission, your familiar scent smothered by the tang of feral vampires, Kaeya would greet you like clockwork with a kiss and a hug at the door despite his intense aversion towards the smell of ferals. 

He’d hoist you up into his arms and carry you to the bathroom before peeling your hunting clothes off and depositing you into a bath scented with your favorite rose oils. The bathwater would get most of the stink out, but Kaeya knew your muscles would ache from the hunting and that some of the stench would linger, he’d work the knots in your body and scrub at the blood that stained your scarred skin. He always started at your neck and ended with your toes and you’d always try to stop him—you were extremely ticklish—but in the end, he always had his way. 

But archons. When you were under him—

“I swear you get wetter—tighter, ah fuck—” you desperately arch up against his hips, chasing heat and friction, “—when my fangs are on your neck. Why’s that baby?” Kaeya mumbles. Sugar and sin against your beating pulse, so loud you can somehow hear it through the rough rasp of his voice and the erotic sounds of your bodies intertwining with each other. 

Kaeya is mocking, but his tone belies his own control; taut, thin strands of sweet candy floss that could snap at any moment. But your unraveling is always his goal, what’s most important to him, so he squeezes his eyes shut to push the bleeding red from his eyes and tightens his grip on your hips to anchor himself. 

“I—I don’t know—” Your answer comes out as a moan, half-delirious from the steady pressure building between the juncture of your thighs, and you buck against him again before digging your heels into his lower back to keep him inside you. 

But Kaeya simply ignores you with a lazy smile, instead mimicking the drag of his hard length inside you with blunted fangs against the column of his throat. The dull pain slides across your sensitized skin, a numbing, delicious promise. 

“P-Please I, I need, ah,” you whimper brokenly, trying to fight your mind for words when Kaeya presses a perfectly timed callused palm to your stomach. And suddenly it feels like he’s filling you everywhere, consuming all the empty spaces in your body. 

“You need what, darling? You’re a smart girl so use your words,” he chides, dragging each thrust out—slow and honey amidst the haze of your pleasure. “You know I’ll give you whatever you ask for. Command me as you see fit.” 

“It’s easy for you to say when you—” 

A sharp thrust, full. His tip kisses your cervix and the stretch almost hurts, making you scramble for a fistful of his hair to steady yourself. Keeping his pace steady, he returns to nibble your neck, fangs teasing and nipping the hollow of your neck. Even when you whine against him, raking your nails down his back, Kaeya doesn’t stop until he feels he’s lavished enough attention on your neck. He licks the blooming purple rose on your neck and draws back to admire his handiwork. 

Kaeya hums. “Is that what you need, baby?”

The vibrations travel straight to your core, and you shake your head and whine. Kaeya grins. He knows that’s not what you meant, but seeing you beg and fall apart is so much better than just giving it straight to you.

He liked the chase almost as much as he liked watching you lose your mind. 

“Y-You know that’s not it. That’s not what I want,” you cry while squirming, trying to seek sweet, hard relief.

“Then tell me, baby.” 

Your muscles tighten with each quick thrust, the heavy drag of his cock like a key twisting your insides tighter and tighter. “I want you to-to—ah, fuck, baby not—”

“Words, baby,” he whispers hotly. Fire and brimstone. 

"I-I can’t,” you sob shakily, tears welling in your eyes. 

Kaeya flips you over and pulls your hair lightly, creating a delicious burn on your scalp. You dig your hands into the sheets, crinkling the silk as you blink wet eyes in an attempt to focus your thoughts. 

“Poor baby,” he coos, not at all sorry if the way he thrusted into your cunt was any indication of his intentions. “Too dumb to speak, are you? Can’t use your big girl words?” 

“Want you, mmf, want your, ah, fangs, please—” 

“Ah, my love.” Kaeya slips two fingers into your mouth, pressing against your tongue. Warm saliva drips down his cold fingers. “I’ve got you now,” he murmured, voice low against the shell of your ear. “You want me to drink your blood, baby?”

You turn, nodding as much as you could given the position.

“Then I need you to cum.” Kaeya pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss, a cry of frustration bubbling in your throat. 

“But I want it now. I don’t care if it hurts,” you whine, eyes glassy with need. 

“I need you to cum so it hurts less though, baby. You know that’s how we always do it.” Kaeya adjusts himself and lines the tip up with your pussy, moving his cock up and down to spread your slick and tease your clit. “So will you be a good girl for me and cum so I can reward you?” 

You nod. You’re so close to the edge that you know you’ll cum the moment he sinks into you again. 

He kisses you. Full-bodied, tongue circling yours, and pulls back when he smells the frustration—arousal—increase. He steadies himself against your cunt before pushing inside without warning in one fluid motion, and remembers that he still has to stay sane enough to give you what you want. (But it’s hard to think when his balls are pressed tight against your ass, and your insides feel tighter than they did before.) Kaeya drags his heavy length out, leaving just the tip inside your wet heat, before achingly pushing back in. 

Close, close—

“Almost there?” he murmurs, voice soft against his hardness. He grinds down on you and sinks deep while pinching your clit hard, watching as you fall apart under him, mouth open, throat straining, vein thickening—long, smooth and—

Sharp fangs sink into your beating pulse. Blinding pleasure streaks through you before syrupy pleasure spills into your veins. Kaeya sees red and struggles to keep himself steady against your soft body and wet heat. 

You seemed to have a habit of doing that to him. Making him crazy, wild, ache for you. With each heavy draw of blood, he relishes the sweet taste, hoping that each additional drop would quench his thirst, but it never does. His mind grows fuzzy, fangs throbbing with each drag.

He might never have enough of you. Never be satisfied. 

Kaeya groans.

You’d be his downfall.

#kaeya x reader #kaeya x you #kaeya x y/n #kaeya smut #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact smut #kaeya fanfic #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fanfic

[gellavonhamster]

“The intrinsic connection between the May Queen, madness, and sacrifice is made by another classic author, Thomas Hardy, in his 1891 novel Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Hardy was reading The Golden Bough when he composed Tess and was deeply influenced by it. Close to the beginning of the novel, the women of Marlott, the village where Tess lives, gather together for their May Day celebrations, dressed in white and carrying white flowers and a peeled willow wand. The women's dresses are described in a way that indicates their rich variation in shades and styles:

though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style.

“There is something about the white dress that is implicitly Gothic here: it has an unhealthy “bluish pallor”; it is “cadaverous”; it is an anachronistic remnant of an earlier age. Even as we are presented with the healthy springtime spectacle of the women dancing, we are simultaneously offered an image of ageing and death.

“The presentiment of death is realised at the end of the novel, when Tess is on the run from the law after murdering the man who raped her and finds herself at Stonehenge. Flinging herself down on a stone slab described as an altar, she asks her husband Angel Clare whether they sacrificed to God there, and he replies no, “I believe to the sun”. As her pursuers gather around her sleeping body, a ray of sunlight “shone upon her unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her”. The none-too-subtle inference is that Tess’s ensuing execution is a form of sacrifice. The association with the May Queen set up in the opening chapters of the novel has come full circle.”

— Killing the May Queen by Catherine Spooner, in Hellebore Zine No. 7: The Ritual Issue

#it was a fun coincidence to read this after being reminded of this novel yesterday by that punchable lit character poll #yes i retyped this whole thing bc i just thought it's neat #tess of the d'urbervilles #thomas hardy #talk talk talk

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Trainers of Teyvat zine! I am so many gen behind in recognizing all of these pokemon but I’m still amazed by how many new designs they’re able to come up with. I also haven’t written a pure action/adventure tale in ages.

…

…

…

…

As usual, it was a stormy night on the Stormbearer mountains. Some people believed that the mythical Zapdos or Barbatos made their home on its remote peaks, and the storms protected them from human sight. Whether or not those Pokémon existed, Kaeya was certain they couldn’t be found here. He had been staking out the place for weeks now and the only thing he’d learned was that there really was a thing as too much rain.

Still, tonight it looked like his hard work had finally paid off. Kaeya peeked out of a crevasse. In the shadows of the mountain, it was hard to see, especially at night. Volbeat and Illumise drifted through the air, their miniscule glows lighting up tiny swatches of wilderness. The rest remained shrouded in darkness. Luckily, it wasn’t raining, otherwise it would have been impossible to see.

As it was, he had to squint as he watched a figure scurry toward the mountain. They stopped at a recess in the mountain’s sheer walls. A furtive glance and they disappeared into a hidden cave.

“Bingo,” Kaeya hummed. On his shoulder, his Zorua gave a small yip as she pressed against his neck. All their skulking paid off. “We found them.”

There was only one group that would be in the mountains right now. Only one group that would be sneaking around at night and disappearing off the grid.

Team Abyss.

Kaeya had finally found their local base. “Let’s see what they’re up to.” He patted his Zorua’s head. She was a big pup now, and it wouldn’t be long before she was too heavy for him to carry. “Ready?”

She yipped again before glowing. Kaeya watched his hands slim, his skin pale, as an illusion fell over him. It didn’t take long for him to realize just who he had turned into: a red-headed member of Team Abyss whom Jean had caught recently. Jessie, if he remembered her name correctly.

Kaeya chuckled as he turned his dainty hand over. “I don’t think I can pull off her voice, partner. Try the other one.”

Zorua brushed against his neck, her black and red fur tickling his skin, and his hand returned to its former size. His hair was still blue. He ran a hand through the shorter strands. “What a funny coincidence.”

Patting Zorua one last time, he crept up to the spot he’d watched earlier. It looked like another part of the mountain, just another small crack in the ancient rock. But Kaeya knew better and he stepped into the shadows. The crack widened, until it was clear that it was an illusion in play. Another Zorua, perhaps, or maybe a more powerful psychic Pokémon.

For all of Team Abyss’s foiled thefts, they still had plenty of stolen Pokémon at their disposal.

The walls were man-made despite their roughly hewn appearance. As he followed the tunnel deeper and deeper, Kaeya noticed a small, golden spot ahead. It grew brighter with each step until finally he stood in a golden cavern, light spilling out into every corner. Two guards relaxed at the other end, standing in front of a small wooden door on a wall. His way inside.

“James?” one of the guards asked, incredulous. “Is that you?”

Provided he got past the guards of course. Kaeya smiled nervously, waving his hand weakly as he approached the pair. He raised his voice, adjusting the pitch to match what James’ should have been. “Y-yeah, it’s me.”

“Ugh, why are you back?” the second guard grumbled, glaring at him. “I don’t even know why the higher-ups won’t just get rid of you.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” The first guard patted his back. “We can use all the help we can get.”

“It’s not like he’s really helping.” The other guard wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Their team gets caught like every other day.”

“It serves as a distraction.” Realizing that ‘James’ was alone, the first guard turned back to him and glanced around curiously. “Where are the others?”

“They’re still stuck in jail!” Kaeya wailed, his hands pressed to his chest. “They released me early and I don’t know where to wait and—”

“Right, right, got it.” The first guard held up his hand as though to physically hold back his words. “Just go on in.”

“They’ll be released soon, right?” Kaeya sniffled as he inched his way forward. He wiped a tear from his eye. “Right?”

“Yeah, yeah, they will. Just hurry up already,” the second guard grumbled, all but shoving Kaeya through the door. “Every. Single. Fricking. Time.”

Kaeya hunched over slightly, shuffling forward until the door closed. The second he heard a soft click as the lock slid back in place, he straightened and smirked.

That was far easier than he’d expected.

-x-

In all honesty, Kaeya hadn’t expected to do proper fieldwork. He was used to his sources coming to him, not the other way around. That was even more true now that the Favonius Police were flooded with report after report on Team Abyss sightings and evil doings.

Even the studious, workaholic Jean had looked like she’d reached her limit a week ago. Exhausted and stressed, she rubbed her forehead as she examined the most recent report. From his desk next to hers, Kaeya could see the dark bags under her eyes, the tired slump of her shoulders. It was a rare sight for Jean to actually show her fatigue.

Even though they were partners, she often tried to keep up her disciplined appearance. In many ways, she was like his former partner, Diluc.

Perhaps it was his fate to get stuck with serious people.

“Nurse Barbara won’t be happy, you know,” he said, breaking the silence.

It took Jean a few minutes to realize he was talking to her. She glanced at him over her report, her brow raised. “Why?”

He tapped his forehead. “If you scowl any longer, those wrinkles are going to be permanent.”

“Right.” Jean sighed again, not falling for the bait this time. Truly, she was overworked.

He dropped his teasing smirk. “What’s the latest?”

“Another sighting of Team Abyss in the Mondstadt ruins.” She ran a hand through her hair, her nails digging into her scalp roughly. “I have no idea what they’re up to. The usual suspects aren’t talking but it must be something big.”

“Isn’t it always with them?” Kaeya scoffed. Still, what she’d said matched his own reports. Team Abyss had always been up to no good, but it seemed whatever they were planning was finally coming to a head. He glanced at Jean, taking her in one more time.

No doubt she’d run herself ragged over this. She was earnest to a fault. Diluc had been like that once. In a sense, he still was, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.

Kaeya sighed. He’d always had a soft spot for earnest people. Perhaps because it was something he utterly lacked. Standing up, he stretched his arms above him. “I might have a contact I can check,” he lied.

Jean watched him hopefully. “You do?”

If she looked at him like that, he’d have to try his best, wouldn’t he? “Give me a few days.”

-x-

And now, a week later, here he was, walking through the doors of Team Abyss. He was in the center of the mountain, but his surroundings looked more like a regular office. All sleek, grey walls, fluorescent lighting, and white tiled floors; this looked more impressive than the Favonius headquarters.

Fortunately, there weren’t too many members wandering about. Fewer still that wanted to stop him for a chat. It seemed James wasn’t all that popular amongst his coworkers. That worked in his favour; Kaeya wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the voice before it cracked.

The first few rooms he passed were ordinary. A break room, a cafeteria, a lounge. People milled about, chatting as they took a break from their nefarious deeds. The next set of rooms were filled with paper pushers. With Zorua cloaking him with invisibility, Kaeya snuck in and out of these rooms, scanning any open papers for anything relevant.

For the most part, he only found what he already knew or inconsequential items: future raid sites, membership counts, team divisions. Useful info any other time but utterly unimportant right now.

The twelfth door was locked. Kaeya smirked. Locked doors meant something worth hiding. Pulling out a lock pick from his pocket, he fiddled with the keyhole. After a few seconds, he heard a satisfying click. “There we go,” he murmured, twisting the doorknob open.

Inside was what appeared to be another office. One for a manager, most like; the plush carpet and fancy paintings spoke of wealth and power. Kaeya slipped in, locking the door behind him as he studied the place.

Zorua dropped the invisibility and leaned against his head.

“Good girl,” Kaeya praised, gently picking her up and setting her on the desk. “Rest for now.”

She was so tired she didn’t even respond, merely flopped on the stiff surface and fell asleep. With any luck, she’d be recharged by the time he had to leave this room. If not, well, Kaeya always kept a Plan B to escape.

For now, though, he had a room to investigate. Kaeya quietly opened the top desk drawer and rifled through it. Inside he found ledgers and an account book. Perhaps this manager handled the financial matters for the organization. Not exactly what he was after, but it would deal a big blow if Team Abyss couldn’t find any suppliers.

Pulling out his mini-camera, Kaeya took photo after photo of the pages. There were a few names he recognized, more that he didn’t—some items were imported from Liyue and Inazuma. Team Abyss had always been a worldwide organization, but Kaeya had never realized how deeply entrenched they were before. There was even a spy in the Dawn Winery and another in a funeral parlor.

“Diluc won’t like this,” he chuckled, carefully returning the ledgers back in the order he found them.

The next drawer held contracts, most of them corresponding with the ledgers. For an evil organization, they sure kept on top of their records. The last drawer was filled with receipts. “My, you even reimburse?”

Perhaps he should check the benefits Team Abyss provided. They were clearly a competitive employer.

A nearby filing cabinet only held employee records. There was nothing hidden in the potted plants lining the office. There wasn’t even a safe behind one of the portraits. Kaeya rested his hands on his hips as he considered the room.

Was this room a dud? Zorua was still sleeping and he didn’t want to overtax her as he searched for other rooms. Perhaps he could sneak around—

A small slip of paper caught his eye. It seemed to come from nowhere, the edge sticking out of the desk where it shouldn’t.

A secret compartment.

It looked like this office was hiding a few things. Kaeya crouched beside the desk, carefully feeling for a secret latch to open the compartment. Catching the edge, he pulled it open.

Inside were a few sheets of paper. Kaeya flipped through them quickly, scanning each. More requisitions, though they were all centering around the Mondstadt ruins. For the most part, they didn’t look any different than any of the other papers, nothing worth hiding separately. An invoice for a large, metal arrow, estimates for the cost of high-quality cage, a generator—

Kaeya’s blood ran cold as he put it all together.

Mondstadt ruins.

The legendary Pokémon Durin lived there.

They were going to attack and capture him. Perhaps they were planning to unleash him on the city. Kaeya flipped through the papers again, but it told him nothing about timing, scheduling, or even how far they’d gone through with their plans. The only relief was that it looked like the invoices were recent. For such high-quality items, it would take time.

The doorknob rattle, breaking him from his thoughts. “Did you check here?” a muffled voice asked.

“Not yet, but he can’t have gone far,” a second voice growled. She clicked her teeth. “I can’t believe they fell for such a simple illusion.”

“They’re idiots. That’s why they’re stuck guarding.” The first one laughed scornfully. The doorknob rattled again. “You have the key, right?”

Two women. Kaeya glanced at Zorua. There was no point in using an illusion now; the pair must have a psychic Pokémon with them. If not, well, it wasn’t like he could explain why James was here.

Only thing left to do was escape, using the element of surprise. Quietly, Kaeya recalled Zorua to her Pokéball. In her place, he called Spectrier. A tall horse, she looked gigantic in the room. She’d be even bigger in the narrow halls, enough to startle anyone following. Even more so with her purplish-gray main and ghostly hooves; Spectrier looked like she’d appeared out of a horror story.

All they had to do was run down a narrow corridor, down a straight line until they were back out in the mountains.

The second they got there, they’d be safe. There were few that could keep up with his mount’s speed, especially in the dark.

Kaeya patted her flank and whispered, “When the door opens, burst through and turn right.”

She whickered softly. It’d be a sharp turn, but they’d done it with less warning before. He mounted, leaning low against her body.

A small click sounded as the door unlocked. The doorknob turned. Kaeya gripped Spectrier’s mane.

And then, the second the door opened, he squeezed his thighs and Spectrier whinnied. That high sound was the only warning the women entering had before Spectrier charged through.

“Woah!” one shouted as she jumped to the side.

The other got clipped in the shoulder. Kaeya didn’t envy the bruise she’d wake up to. Spectrier slowed slightly as she turned, her heels clashing loudly on the tiles as she raced down the hall. People stuck their heads out of the offices before immediately jerking back as he passed.

The only thing left was the door at the end.

“Shadow Ball,” he muttered.

A small, dark ball of energy appeared in front of Spectrier. It grew bigger and bigger before she shook her head and unleashed it on the door at the end. Kaeya hoped the guards weren’t standing right in front of it as the door splintered and exploded.

He didn’t turn to check as they sprinted through the tunnel and out into the mountainside.

-x-

It was midnight when Kaeya reached Angel’s Share. Every part of him felt sore from the prolonged hide-and-seek he played with Team Abyss as they’d hunted him. He’d mistaken their tenacity and it had taken hours longer than he’d planned to make his way back into the city.

Yet, he couldn’t sleep just yet. While Kaeya had returned the papers to their compartment, it wouldn’t take long for Team Abyss to figure out just what he’d found. Or to suspect that he’d found something else. They’d move headquarters long before the Favonius Police could investigate.

And Kaeya refused to let his work go down the drain like that. That left his favourite vigilantes.

“Honey, I’m home,” Kaeya called out as he opened the bar’s door.

As expected, Diluc grimaced from behind the counter. “And here I thought I’d have a peaceful night.”

Seated at the bar in front of him, Rosaria admired her half-drunk glass of whisky. “I’ll have another.”

The rest of the bar was empty. Perfect. Kaeya smirked as he stepped in, ignoring the way his muscles ached with each step. “Aww, that’s the greeting I get? It’s enough to make a man think he’s unwelcome.”

Diluc’s glare grew more pronounced. Despite his stoic demeanor, he was just as fiery as his red hair. All Kaeya needed was to push a few buttons to elicit a reaction. Rosaria, however, continued to ignore him. As usual, she marched to the beat of her own drum, paying little attention to that which didn’t interest her. 

There were no better people for this job. Diluc hated the Abyss more than anyone. Rosaria’s devotion to the city and its inhabitants rivaled Jean’s, even if she hid in the shadows to do so.

With their combined skills, they could take down any Abyss camp without backup.

Kaeya slipped into the seat next to Rosaria and clasped his hands. Resting his chin on the back of his hands, he said, “Hey, I heard an interesting rumour. Want to hear what’s happening in the mountains?”

They’d wrap this up before Jean woke up.

#genshin impact #kaeya alberich #jean gunnhildr #diluc ragnvindr #rosaria #pokemon #fanfic #finally wrote #kaeya #so I'm very happy

[ashtrayfloors]

Late afternoon, late September, I drove to Kenosha to hang out with Beagan. Honey lattes from The Buzz Cafe, sipped while walking around by the lake. The early autumn wind roared off the waves, pulled our hair from bobby pins and ponytails. We scoped sculptures, talked about all our romantic and sexual frustrations.

Being newly single after a long time in a relationship (her), trying to keep the spark alive in a long term relationship (me), both come with hardships. We talked of unreciprocated crushes, and ghost-lovers coming to throw pennies at our windows and remind us of the old days. Of the torches we still carry, and the ones that burnt out long ago—either way, smoke gets in your eyes.

We talked of feeling old and boring. How the things we used to do to bring excitement to our lives—staying out late, drinking all night, going to shows once a week at least, traveling, taking many lovers—are either completely out of the question or just sound too exhausting. I asked if all my stories now would be about the old days, and then we made a vow—that the next time we saw each other, we’d have stories to share, no matter how small.

I headed home. Listened to Big Star and sang along. “In the Street,” “September Gurls,” “The Ballad of El Goodo.” December boys got it bad; and there ain’t no one goin’ to turn me ‘round. Honeyed autumn light burnished the treetops. Well, maybe Beagan and I are old and boring now, but I’m glad we’re still here, and still in each other’s lives. Even if I don’t live the exciting life I once did, I’m glad I’m still here, to listen to Big Star, to drive down my favorite highway at golden hour.

*   *   *

Then. A week of stressful days, cleaning & pricing everything for the garage sale. But. A week of wild nights, P. & I getting passionate and vampy, neckbitten, having hot kinky sex.

Made a good chunk of change at the garage sale, and the money disappeared almost immediately, gone to rent & bills. But still. Good to get rid of some clutter, let go, make way.

Colored my hair, darkest brown, felt more like myself than I had in ages. Then a week of prepping for MWPZF. Finally finished the gender and sexuality zine I’ve been trying to write for years, and now I never have to write about gender and sexuality again. (Well, no—I’ll write about them again, but probably not in such an extensive, exhausting way.) Long walks with the kiddos to see the turning leaves, to spy the houses beginning to decorate for Halloween. And stress & lack of sleep & no sex, and printing, cutting, collating, stapling.

*   *   *

Then the trip to Chicago. It was a day of moments of synchronicity, a day of the perfect songs playing at the perfect times; it was a day of new memories layered upon old memories layered upon even older memories. The now layered on top of 2014 on top of 2013 on top of 2010 on top of 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003, 2002, 2001, 2000, 1999, 1998. (Layers and layers of ghosts.) It was a day of writing new poems in my head while being reminded of things I’ve written in the past.

It was so good just to be on a train again. October train, to Chicago! Chicago! I once wrote that it seemed I was always on trains in the springtime, but oh, there have been so many autumn trains. My rail-riding has its seasons, just like anything. Metras and Amtraks in the autumn, freight trains in the spring. (Though, of course, as soon as I wrote that, I remembered all the autumn freight rides and the springtime commuter trains.)

The trip down was streaks of blue sky, white cloud, autumn leaves crimson & scarlet, orange & gold, giving way to smears of redbrown brick, gray cement, rainbows of graffiti. I listened to a Wilco playlist, and “Via Chicago” came on just as the train breached the city limits, and there was this low-hanging layer of gray clouds cracked through with October morninglight and the whole skyline glowing and Jeff Tweedy singing I’m coming home, and I was, I was.

*   *   *

The train pulled into Union Station, everyone grabbed their luggage and queued up to debark. In the station, I found a bathroom, freshened up a bit, then went to wander around the Great Hall for a few minutes. I thought of the time in 2010, visiting Maggie while on a trip back to the midwest from California, when there were two guys on a stage in the Great Hall, dressed as Jake and Elwood Blues, playing “Gimme Some Lovin’,” “Sweet Home Chicago,” et. al. And oh, come on, baby, don't you wanna go? Back to that same old place, Sweet home Chicago.

I exited out to Canal Street, and way down here on Canal Street / the bike messengers stare you down / and businessmen brush right past you / in their rush to get out of town. I passed the river, a horrible pea-soup green, and thought of the time I wrote about the Chicago River, which is green year-round, not just on St. Paddy’s Day.

No surprise, it was really fucking windy. I thought of my black scally, stolen by the Chicago wind all those years ago, and was glad I was wearing a beanie, because those aren’t so easily snatched by the greedy fingers of the wind.

I got a bit turned around while looking for the Quincy CTA station; it had been eight years since I was in that part of the city. While wandering and trying to get my bearings back, I caught sight of Lou Malnati’s, and remembered my rewrite of the first chapter of On The Road (which took place in Chicago, natch, rather than NYC), how they got off the Amtrak at Canal Street and cut around the corner looking for a place to eat and went right in Lou Malnati’s, and since then Lou Malnati’s has always been a big symbol of Chicago for Deanna.

I wandered some more, snapped photos of interesting graffiti and stickers. I got tired of carrying my travel mug and wanted to stash it in my bag, but it was still half-full. I happened to be near this shiny high-rise of condos and fancy businesses that had all these benches out front, and signs everywhere: Benches for Customers and Residents ONLY. It’d be one thing if it was a fenced-in courtyard, but public space should be for the public. So fuck you, buddy. I dumped my coffee all over one of the benches. It was petty, and extremely satisfying. I finally righted my direction, found the Quincy station. Then it was on to the Orange Line, headed to the Roosevelt Station. The El curved between buildings, buildings I remembered, and oh, oh.

*   *   *

I got to MWPZF about an hour late, but no one was mad. I showed the volunteers my vaccination card, got my official MWPZF pin & my pronoun pin. There were hugs and hellos with Milo and Jonas and Julia, and then I went to set up my table. One of the people at the table next to mine was Enola, whom I have known through zines and teh Interwebs for years now, and it was so rad to finally meet her in person. I collated and stapled more copies of my zines (I always carry my saddle-stitch with me; one must have a really good stapler to use at a zine fest), then arranged them & made price signs. All while listening to the rumble and screech of the El on the tracks that ran right past the building.

There was so much nostalgia: general zine fest nostalgia, plus the fact of being at Columbia College, the school I attended from ’01-’04. But there were new memories being made at the same time, and it was so good just to be in a room filled with old friends and new friends, queers and weirdos, artists and writers and zinesters.

After a while, I asked Enola and her table-mates to watch my table for a bit so I could go find food and coffee. I found a Peet’s nearby, and decided to go there, have a moment of nostalgia for my time in the Bay Area amidst all the Chicago nostalgia. I ordered a coffee and a sandwich. The barista was a cute freckled ginger queer; I noticed they were wearing a he/they pronoun pin next to their name tag, and he noticed my they/them pin at the same time, and we totally pointed in a “same hat!” way. (Though I guess they were just similar hats, haha.)

While waiting for my sandwich, I had more Chicago nostalgia. There was a Metro poster on the bulletin board, listing recent and upcoming shows. One was Smashing Pumpkins. I remembered a time back when I worked in the Fiction Writing Department office at Columbia College. One morning, I was there with my friend and coworker K., and Billy fucking Corgan walked in. Turned out he was pals with one of the professors, and she’d invited him to sit in on her class. He politely asked us to direct him to said class, and K., who was like, in love with Billy, briefly lost the power of speech. Though I am a long-time Pumpkins fan, I was not starstruck by Mr. Corgan’s presence, so I had to direct him to the class.

I took my time moseying the couple blocks back to MWPZF; stopped here and there to take bites of my sandwich or snap more photos of strange street art.

More zine fest moments:

Enola and I talked about Piedmont, the neighborhood in Oakland where I first discovered her zines, at Book Zoo, 11+ years ago.

I sold a lot of zines, and the kiddos did too. (Both my kiddos made their very own zines for me to sell at MWPZF). I also bought a lot of zines (+ some pins and stickers) and traded for several more.

Jim Joyce had a bowl of metal studs on his table, for people to take and affix to whatever. I had already taken a few and put them on my leather jacket, but he told me to take as many as I wanted cuz: “You’re a rocker,” he said. He gave me a copy of his Misfits zine for the same reason.

I talked with Red about writing zines about rough shit—their most recent one is about the death of friends & the ensuing grief, mine includes lots of moments of biphobia, homophobia, transphobia, etc. We talked about how on the one hand, writing that stuff can be cathartic, and it is important to write about, but on the other hand, sometimes it feels like you’re retraumatizing yourself.

Someone who approached my table realized who I was and said: “You’re famous!” “I am?” I asked. “In the zine world you are!” Turned out they were a zine librarian, and have been familiar with my stuff since way back in the Safety Pin Girl/Jessica Disobedience days.

Someone approached my table while I was putting together more copies. I said: “Just think of it as performance art.” “It’s a durational zine,” they replied.

Julia and I talked about how our zine output has slowed down significantly since the pandemic hit. “Part of it is just the lack of socializing,” they said. “Right?” I said. “What am I gonna write about? ‘Oh, I did my dayjob, played with my kids, went to the grocery store.’ No one wants to read that shit, so I guess I’ll just write about Ye Olde Days, when my life was exciting, for the one millionth time.” Julia said: “Yeah, but even if I’m writing fiction it’s like…if I don’t go out in the world and get enough external stimulation, my brain is just mush.” And yeah, exactly that.

Someone commented on how early the dark was falling, and it does get dark early in that part of Chicago, when you’re nestled in among all the tall tall buildings blocking out the sun.

*   *   *

There were some ghosts I feared to see that day, but most of them stayed in the realm of the ephemeral. The only one who materialized in corporeal form was the one I never imagined would, the ghost I most feared and most longed for—Derry.

He showed up toward the end of the zine fest. I knew instantly it was him, before I even saw his face. I would know him anywhere. He looked the same, just older. Hey, me too. (And I feel so much older now, and you’re much older, too…) He looked the same, just a few more lines crinkling the edges of his crooked smile, a few more lines framing his blue-green eyes. “Hi, you,” he said. “I thought I might find you here.”

I tried, I tried to play it cool. I told him zine fest was nearly over, I needed to start packing up. He bought a few zines, and said: “I’ll let you pack up. Are you busy after this? If you want to hang out for a bit, I’ll buy you a drink.”

I packed my stuff, said my goodbyes, hugged my zine pals one last time. Derry was waiting at an outdoor table at a bar a few blocks away. When he saw me walk up, he got out of his chair, and hugged me so tight he lifted me off the ground for a split second. He, ever the gentleman, pulled my chair out for me. Then he asked what I wanted to drink, and I said Jameson, and, just like the night I’d detailed in A Foggy Night in Lakeview, he said: “That’s my girl.” And just like that night, I swooned.

He went and got our drinks, and when he came back, I didn’t know where to start. Where do you start with someone whom you’ve known for twenty years, but haven’t spoken to in person in thirteen years, haven’t spoken to even via email or phone for over eight?

I didn’t know where to start, so I got all self-deprecating. “If I’d known you were gonna show up today, I would’ve put more effort into my appearance,” I said.

“You know you’re gorgeous no matter what,” he said. Well, fuck.

“I hope it’s okay that I showed up today,” he said. “I just saw that this zine fest was happening, and I figured you might be there, and I…”

“It’s totally okay. I—I’m sorry I never respond to your emails. I’m always happy to hear from you, it’s just that if I respond I’m afraid it will open everything up again, and I…”

Beat, pause, we stared into one another’s eyes to see who would think of something to say first.

“Anyway. Tell me a story.” He smiled.

And that too was like the old days, the way every time I ran into him, be it at a show, or a bar, or on the street, he’d say Tell me a story!, and when I did, he’d hang on every word.

So I told him the story of the last time I’d been in Chicago until that day; about the show at J.’s house. Then I asked him to tell me a story, and he told me one about his recent trip to Philadelphia.

We finished our drinks, and decided to walk for a bit. We found a bench to sit on, and we both lit cigarettes. (Yeah, I’ve started smoking again, occasionally. I feel bad about it, but also… To quote Kat Case: we are what we hate and it’s sick but we don’t necessarily also hate what we are.)

Once again, what to say?

“Oh,” I said, “I have a new chapbook. It’s all sold out but I brought a couple author copies with me.”

I looked at his hands as I handed him the copy, and noticed that his claddagh was on his right hand, with the heart facing outward. I stopped wearing mine altogether after the last gasp of our on-again-off-again thing, and then I met P., and fell in love, and got married, and of course I don’t regret any of that. P.’s my life partner. But Derry’s the only one I would have turned my claddagh inward for, and when I realized we’d never be able to make it work in that way, it made me too sad to keep wearing it.

He saw me looking at his ring, and just said: “Yeah, I haven’t been able to make anything stick, since…” (Don’t say it, don’t say it.) “…oh, but you have.” (Lucky that you found someone to make you feel secure…) He asked after my family. (How’s your husband, how’s the kids…)

“You know,” he said, “when I email you, or suggest we hang out next time you’re in town, I’m never trying to start things up all over again. I just miss you and want to know how you’re doing, is all.”

“I know,” I said. “I know your intentions are good. But you know how it is with us. We’ll never have closure; the closest we can get to it is to just not speak to or see one another. Every time we’ve tried to just be friends, everything starts all over again. And then it ends all over again, and it hurts all over again, because we’ve never been able to get the timing right.”

(There’s a time for us. Someday, a time for us. There’s a place for us. I know you know the movie song. One day we’re gonna realize, it was just that the time was wrong.)

“I know,” he said. “Well. You probably have to head back to the train station, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I probably should.”

We rose from the bench, and we hugged, and before we went our separate ways, he said: “Cheers, love.”

Then I headed north, he headed south, and We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked up at each other for the last time.

*   *   *

I still had quite a while before my train, so I decided to walk slow, and explore along the way. I thought about going to the Art Institute, to stand again in front of Nighthawks and America Windows, to feel the magic hum & cry about art, but it was already closed for the day. I wondered if it had always closed so early. I feel like I used to go there late late in the evening, after classes, but that may have been my memory playing tricks on me. Maybe it never was that late; maybe it was just winter, when it gets dark early, in that part of town where it gets darker earlier no matter the time of year. So, no Art Institute, well, let’s walk past and through the other old haunts. By then, my bearings had returned, and I knew that part of town again like it had only been days since I was there instead of nine whole years.

First, I headed to Grant Park, wandered around there for a bit. Scoped the art—both the sanctioned sculptural kind, and the illicit graffiti. I thought of that poem I wrote, about a different park in Chicago, how it was covered in art & scrawlings more fabulous / than anything to be found in some dim whispering / Near North Side gallery or any Poetry magazine.

I found the bridge I used to sit on between classes, the big stone bridge over the Metra train tracks. I was going to sit on it for a while, but it was blocked off for a marathon, so I took pictures of the back of it and wandered farther into the park.

There were pigeons everywhere, oil-slick feathered heads and beady eyes, and people everywhere—teenagers skateboarding, couples kissing or walking their dogs, gay men cruising. I saw one guy giving me the eye, felt glad I looked boyish enough that day that he saw me as someone he might want, but I knew that if it had really come down to brass tacks he would’ve been surprised and perhaps disappointed by what he found, and anyway— My picking-up-strangers days, my fucking-in-public days, are long gone. I smiled, but shook my head slightly, and he nodded and moved on.

I moved on, too. Walked on the sidewalk that runs alongside the park, headed north. Past the CCC building I worked in and had most of my classes in, and when you’re standin on the 14th floor / you can always feel a building swayin. Past the Congress Plaza Hotel, the haunted hotel Maggie and I stayed in that last time I saw her. Past the former site of the Artists Cafe, another place I often went between classes. The food was overpriced but back then it was one of the only cafes in the area, and anyway the coffee was good and strong and the refills were free and it was a great place to people-watch and daydream and write. I composed the bulk of Safety Pin Girl #16 there.

There was a group of people gathered in a plaza-like area of the park. One of them was standing on something and speaking through a megaphone. I couldn’t make it out, but at first I was kinda charmed. Chicago, y’know? Soapbox city. As I got closer, I saw that one member of the group was holding a sign that said Free Anti-Depression Hugs. Then I noticed that some other members of the group were carrying signs with Bible verses written on them. And they were all men, and all of them kinda looked like Proud Boys. Gross. “Hey, sister,” the one with the Free Hugs sign said as I passed by. “I am not your fucking sister,” I growled.

Winding, wending. Past epic graffiti murals; skeletons sprawled across the sides of buildings, adjacent to vacant lots. Then the Harold Washington Library Center, the architecture of which has always seemed straight out of Gotham City. The library I once spent so much of my time at, c. 2001 to 2004. Back in 2001, they still had typewriters you could rent for a dime an hour; it was on those typewriters I typed most of Safety Pin Girl #13 and bits of #14 & #15.

And how funny time is. I thought of how the last time I was in that part of Chicago was nine years ago. And when I was there in 2013, I kept thinking of 2003, how that was ten years gone. And in 2003, I thought of 1996, seven years past. Everything is just layers and layers of ghosts.

At the Harold Washington Library station, I caught the Orange Line back to Quincy, back to Union Station to wait for my train.

*   *   *

Back at Union Station, I looked at the Amtrak departures board, just so I knew exactly what gate my train would be departing from. But of course I saw all the rest of that night’s departures, and had that desire I always have in a train station—that desire to hop on a different train than the one I’m supposed to board, to go somewhere else. I noticed that the City of New Orleans was set to depart from a different track at the same time the Hiawatha Line would be taking me back to Wisconsin, and that was the one I most wished I could ride.

Of course I couldn’t, so I went to get a beer at the railroad station bar—a God Damn Pigeon Porter from Spiteful Brewing. I watched all the conductors & the porters (& I’m all outta quarters…) & the people—Japanese tourists & high school kids & Amish families & punk rockers—walk by. I got out my notebook & wrote, wrote a tanka, wrote notes about my day, drank my beer. The bar was playing all these ‘90s sadboy songs, and I suppose it was inevitable that I got a bit melancholy. About to leave the city of my heart, and who knew when I’d be back again; had seen some old friends and old flames oh, so briefly, and who knew when I’d see them again; and all the sad, nostalgic songs. Emotional masochist that I am, I pulled out one of the zines I’d picked up at MWPZF—Red’s grief zine. Reading the raw explorations of loss, and some of them about Jack Terricloth—well, I began to cry.

Then I heard someone say: “Hey, sister, you alright?” I looked around, not sure who was speaking or if they were talking to me, and also, not again, sister? Oh shit, they were talking to me—but it wasn’t a fascist-looking religious freak, it was a gorgeous hippie woman. I’d noticed her & her traveling companions when I first sat down at the bar, because they were the most interesting characters there. One of her companions noticed my hesitancy in responding, must have clocked my genderqueerness, said: “Or…brother? Sister or brother, it’s all good.” It wasn’t like getting ma’am-sirred, it was instead this affirmation that I could be both sister and brother and it was cool. I wiped my eyes and smiled. “Come sit with us,” the woman said, “if you want to.” So I did.

I don’t always like hippies, but these cats seemed cool. First of all, they obviously weren’t the type of hippies that are strangely hung up on regressive gender roles. Secondly, they were authentic weirdos. The woman, S., had on a very Janis Joplin-esque dress and long vest, yards of beads, tall boots, a knit cap from which her dark hair spilled out. One of the guys, D., the one who’d called me brother, was wearing a black hat and a black leather jacket with fringe hanging from the sleeves, and had an old camera around his neck. The other guy, F., had a scruffy reddish beard and a long thin braid running down his back and was wearing a sailor’s cap. The way they interacted with each other, the way they touched one another, I got the feeling they were some kind of polycule, though I couldn’t figure out in what permutation and anyway, it was none of my business.

We all just started talking, in that way where you can be more open with people whom you’ve only just met and will most likely never see again than you can be with even your closest friends. (Well, mostly S. and D. and I talked; F. was more of a listener.) I told them a bit about why I’d been crying, S. told me about a friend of theirs who’d recently died. We talked loss and grief. D. asked if he could take my picture; said he always took pictures of the people he met on his travels. I said yes, of course, and smiled sadly; sadly smiling in the railroad station barlight, I don’t know if there could be a more perfect situation for a portrait of me. I noticed that his camera was a Miranda Sensomat, just like the one I used to have during my wannabe-photographer days. We talked photography for a bit. They asked if I wanted to go outside and get high with them; I said I’d go but declined the weed, as I knew it would just make me anxious at that point. So we all gathered up our luggage and hauled it outside, sat by the river in the deepening dusk. They got stoned & I smoked a cigarette. I talked about how sad I was to be leaving Chicago, S. said: “I know what you mean, it’s one of my favorite cities, too.” S. asked where I was headed, I said: “Oh, just Wisconsin.” They were about to board the City of New Orleans. I started humming the Arlo Guthrie song, because I’m incapable of not thinking of that song when I think of that train. F. got his guitar out of its case and started playing along, and S. sang, her voice deep and warm: Riding on the City of New Orleans, Illinois Central, Monday morning rail. D. and I joined in, soon all of us were singing: Good mornin’ America, how are ya? Don’t ya know me? I’m your native son. When that song ended, S. went into another: Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train… And I joined in, because how could I not? Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.

After our jamboree, we parted ways. I went to rustle up some grub, ended up with the driest, blandest sandwich ever. Sat in the food court, listened to everyone around me chattering, bits of conversations overlapping and interrupted by the pre-recorded voiceover. “Now boarding, Track 7, Now boarding, Track 8.” Now I’m waitin for the train to take me home / I’m tired and it’s gettin pretty late / I’m sittin here on a wooden bench / They’re boardin track seven, track eight. I went outside for one last cigarette, one last look at the river, all the lights coming on in the buildings along the river, lights shining on the river. Chicago, city of light. A homeless man walked over to me, asked if I could spare a smoke. I had one left in the pack, aside from the one I was smoking, and I gave it to him, lit it for him. “That’ll do,” he nodded, smiled. “That’ll do.” He sat down near me and started telling me a bit about his life, how he was once a blues musician—making the second time in my life when I befriended a homeless Chicagoan who was once a blues musician—and I’m a friend to the friendless, not that I chose it. If I had, well then, who knows? Then back inside for one more quick beer before I had to board the train; Goose Island’s 312, this time.

*   *   *

On the trip back, I was exhausted but unable to sleep (you know I could never fall asleep on a train). Lou Reed on my headphones, “Vanishing Act.” How I used to wish I could vanish into smoke beneath the El tracks. How I’ve spent so much of my life leaving (people, places, scenes), vanishing, & then trying to go back & getting sad when everything and everyone has moved on without me. It might be nice to disappear / To have a vanishing act / To always be looking forward / Never look over your back, but I kept looking back, and I should’ve been more careful what I wished for. I looked out the window, watched the lights of the city fade to suburbs, stretches of nightblack broken occasionally by the lights of houses & used car lots. I thought of the fall of ’00, when I was often on the train (though it was Metra, then, not Amtrak) late at night, headed from Evanston back to Kenosha, to visit D. I had a brief pang of nostalgia for those nights, for getting into the Kenosha station ‘round midnight, hopping into one of the few cabs, riding out to Parkside. Watching art house films in D.’s bed, getting drunk on White Russians, going outside to smoke and befriending all the other drunk dorm-dwellers. That was before I knew what a shitty boyfriend D. would turn out to be, when I still thought he was the love of my life. I don’t miss him, but—sometimes you miss the memories, not the person.

Zine-famous rocker with a breaking heart, me; I wrote poems in my head, thought about the whirlwind twelve hours I’d just had. The meetings & partings, sorrow and joy. In some ways, the day was healing, allowed me to make new memories, grow new flesh over the sites of gaping wounds. But other wounds had just been opened up all over again. Despite it all, it had been good just to be in my heart-city. Of course Nelson Algren says Chicago never can love you, but I think she does love me, even after all these years. I thought of Brendan Kennelly’s poem “Clearing a Space,” which is about Dublin, but which I have always associated with Chicago. To having been used so much, and without mercy, / And still to be capable of rediscovering / In itself the old nakedness / Is what makes a friend of the city…

I had a brief longing, another one that always arises when I’m on a train, for the train to stop in the middle of nowhere, so I could get off and just…well, vanish. Keep going until I couldn’t anymore, disappear into the fields beyond the fields. But the train pulled into the Sturtevant station just a little after 9 p.m., as scheduled. And though the Chicago wind didn’t steal my hat, I lost it anyway—I left it on the train. A small sacrifice to the gods of Chicago and Amtrak; the gods of old friends and old flames.

*   *   *

For a few days after, I was a little bit sore & a little bit sick. Sore because I’d walked over four miles that day in Chicago, a four-mile walk down memory lane. But heartsore, too. I didn’t mind it so much. As I once wrote: All the best things in life leave you sore, sweaty, or hungover. Sick because I’d been going going going for weeks, never resting, & whenever I push myself like that, my body requires a rest afterward. And I was sad, too. That day in Chicago just threw into even sharper relief what my life lacks. It had been so long that certain people, and Chicago herself, were distant aches, but seeing them again brought the ache back with a vengeance. But mostly it wasn’t even about specific people or a location. It was because I realized how much happier I am when I get to write, when I get to talk to people, when I get to wander and explore…and I don’t get to do much of any of that. As my witch-wife once wrote: To tell the truth, I’m lonely for adventure. It hasn’t been away very long, but I get restless fast. And yes, I’m better at finding the beauty & inspiration in the day-to-day than I used to be, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still need slightly grander adventures from time to time. And the trip reminded me of that. Another ache, brought back with a vengeance.

There were bright spots. Teaching the kids about Indigenous People’s Day. Bringing the jasmine & basil & rosemary inside before the weather got too cold. Beginning to decorate for Halloween, making Halloween cookies. Cooking hearty, comforting meals. Taking the kids to the zoo for Jack o’ Lantern Nights. Texting Beagan, saying I finally had stories for her, and it turned out she has stories for me too, and I said: “I guess we’re not so old and boring, after all,” and she said: “Yeah. We’re still hot and interesting and have stories!” Making plans for art & writing & music; making art, writing. More ghost-boys crawling out of the walls. Listening to the neighborhood crows during the day, the owls & coyotes & trains at night. Listening to jazz, rereading Lynda Hull as I always do when I’m full of longing & thinking of the past. Thinking about how often I have been scolded for romanticizing certain things in my writing, but how Lynda Hull did it, too. I have said that it has been a survival tactic for me, and I think it was for Lynda—Mark Doty has said that the way she wrote about her past was her way of making history bearable.

There was more sadness—thinking of Jack, and missing him, and wishing I could be at the last-ever Hallowmas this year. Thinking of the old friends that are out of my life, how they could be dead and I’d never know. And there was more stress—problems with the kiddos, money worries, no time to do anything I wanted or needed to do. Lack of sleep, lack of sex (P. and I hadn’t had sex since that week before the garage sale). And the sadness that had at first seemed manageable spiraled into a deeper depression, and I had a bit of a nervous breakdown.

But y’know, I posted about it all on Facebook, and my friends stepped up and made it better. Whether by commiserating in the comments, or offering further help. A. ordered a bunch of copies of Wisconsin Death Trip to sell in their shop. I got asked to curate the January edition of BONK! Performance Hour—and it’s a paying gig. I decided that since I can’t make it to Hallowmas, I’d at least record something for the Songs Jack Taught Us project, and M. sent me the complete W/IFS songbook, and the very next day I saw a car with a New Jersey license plate, which seemed a good omen. And there was the queer zines edition of Zine Club, and I finally got another copyediting job, and we put up our outdoor Halloween decorations, and P. and I finally had sex again, and it really seemed like things were looking up.

And then we all got the stomach flu, and though the kiddos and P. recovered in about 24 hours, it took me four days to fully recover. But I’m feeling better now. I’m embracing the lead-up to Halloween, dressing goth and being witchy, writing silly songs about skeleton boyfriends and silly stories about haunted sinuses, working on my Peter Lorre prose poems again. D.’s new therapist seems great, and he has his second appointment with her on Tuesday. Two days ago, I took a long walk with C., crunched through the autumn leaves, with the trees aflame overhead. Yesterday afternoon, P. and I recorded a song for Songs Jack Taught Us; because of being sick, we didn’t have time to work out an Inferno song, so we did a cover of “Hobo’s Lullaby,” a song I know Jack loved. Now we approach Mischief Night, Halloween, All Hallows Day. The most wonderful time of the year.

Things can be hard, and I definitely need to make some big changes in my life if I want to make it at all sustainable, but I now feel hopeful that I can. None of us get through this life unscathed, and really, I wouldn’t want to. I would rather be ashes than dust.

#pls no reblobs // #lol this is the #partially redacted version #of this entry #and it's still approx. a bajillion 'pages' long #also i'm not obsessively tagging this so #read at your own risk #and #ask to tag #if ya need me to #ashtrayfloors #dear livejournal #september #october #life #bad things #small good things #chicago #nostalgia embedded within nostalgia #everything is just layers and layers of ghosts

[goldendayszine]

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Please welcome guest artist Venessa/@vkelleyart to the Golden Days zine! Here is a preview of her matrimonial comic 🎊

Venessa is a multimedia consultant, writer, and illustrator based in Washington, DC. Currently writing and illustrating her original graphic novel/webseries Manu, she credits Rainbow Rowell’s Simon Snow series for jump-starting her creativity and breaking a nearly decade-long artistic dry spell. Venessa is beyond honored and delighted to join such amazing writers and artists as a guest contributor for the Golden Days Zine.

Find Venessa’s magickal works everywhere ✨ Tumblr // Twitter // Instagram

☀ GET THE ZINE ☀ Only available until March 16th ☀

#simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #carry on #wayward son #simon snow series #carry on zine #golden days zine #golden days carry on zine #zine previews #artist previews #guest contributor #venessa kelley

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

My Golden Days Zine fic

It was truly an honor to be a guest contributor for the @goldendayszine , in the company of such talented artists and writers. I’m very excited to share my contribution You Are the Only One, a story that takes place on Simon and Baz’s plane ride home from America—after the beach scene. The idea took hold and I knew this is what I had to write—complete with a happy ending, because that is what I hope to see for them. I hope you like it.

You Are the Only One

Rating: General

Word Count: 4237

Summary: Simon and Baz are headed back to London after their week in America. Too many things have been left unsaid. Simon spends his time on the airplane thinking about Baz's words. Baz spends his time on the plane giving Simon space and expecting the worst. Clarity comes at unexpected times and in unexpected places. The resolution of the beach scene from Wayward Son.

Simon

The flight to London is full. Penny, Agatha and Shepard are all in different rows but somehow Baz and I are seated next to each other. I know that’s Penny’s doing and I should be irritated at her for meddling, but I’m pathetically grateful instead.

Grateful to have an excuse to sit so close to him. Maybe for the last time.

I don’t know what we have anymore. I don’t know how to ask Baz. I know what I think I should do, what I should have done weeks ago, months ago, but I just can’t bring myself to say the words.

Even though I know I should.

It would be kinder for me to do it. I know he’ll be hurt when I do, but I don’t think he’ll let himself break it off. He’ll hang on because he said he would.

(An Englishman’s word is his bond).

We’re leaving behind the roiling mess of America and heading into the uncertainty of what waits for us at home. A mess left behind and unknown chaos ahead is pretty much par for the course for me. Story of my life.

Penny’s been cryptic about whatever she knows is waiting for us back at Watford. She dropped her bombshell announcement when she interrupted me and Baz on the beach but she’s been mum on the subject since. Doesn’t bode well in my opinion.

I can’t stop thinking about what she interrupted though. Even with the lingering effects of the vampire battle and the absolute certainty that we are in a shit-ton of trouble–with the Coven in general and Penny’s mum in particular–I can’t seem to give any of that my focus. Not when Baz’s words are still echoing in my head.

“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”

I’d come to a decision today. One that made me feel bloody awful but that seemed like a chance to wipe the slate clean. Have a fresh start. Come to terms with what I’ve lost and let Baz and Penny get on with their lives.

Their magickal lives.

And I’d go on with my Normal one.

It felt like shit, really. It felt like giving up.

The only part of it that made any sense was my plan to break up with Baz. To let him go.

To let him know it was okay to stay here, to make his life in a place where he didn’t have to hide. Where he would be celebrated for what he is–every facet of him.

He could be a king in America. I thought the vampires in London were ready to put a crown on his head. But Lamb. . . Lamb was ready to give him even more than that. He’d have the keys to an entire kingdom.

And a partner who was his match.

Baz said he doesn’t want that. That he wouldn’t actually be happier here.

“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”

I don’t know what to think about that. He’s been with me and he hasn’t been happy. These last few months . . . I’ve seen it. I’ve seen him pull away, step back, retreat step by step.

I’ve pulled back.

I’ve seen the pain in his eyes when he looks at me. How it hurts to be with me.

It hurts to have Baz so far from me.

He would be happier away from me. How could he not be? I’m a burden, a responsibility, a liability. Baz wanted what I was. He made a promise to the person I used to be, and he’s too damn honourable to go back on his word.

It’s funny to think I’d never have used the words honourable and Baz in the same sentence back at Watford.

Read the rest at AO3!

@carryonfindafic

#golden days carry on zine #carry on #wayward son #baz pitch #simon snow #snowbaz #my writing #golden days #charity zine #airplane conversations #my fic #@carryonfindafic

[fight-surrender]

“Post your fic, Viv.” Said the cat. Who am I to argue? @goldendayszine​

Moments- A Golden Days Zine Fic

3:47 AM- Baz

“I will give you the blowjob of your life, every day for a solid week if you take my turn,” Simon says with a groan. “Please, Baz, I need sleep. Every day for two weeks.” He’s swatting at me to get up, like the sound of the baby wailing over the monitor isn’t enough incentive.

“That’s what you said last week,” I growl, “And the week before that. At this point, you owe me a year of blowjobs. Furthermore, your jaw is likely to fall off and you’ll have semen toxicity.”

“Pretty please, you have vampire strength.” He’s wheedling now, puppy dog eyes in the dark. 

“You owe me,” I grumble, tossing the blankets aside as I get up.

“I love you so much,” Simon murmurs, snuggling into the sheets. 

This is our life now. Trading sexual favors for childcare.  

Read the Rest on AO3 <3

#goldendays #Golden Days #golden days zine #golden days carry on zine #my fic #snowbaz #domestic snowbaz #dad snowbaz #middle aged snowbaz #fluff #a visiting #simon snow #baz pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #natasha grimm pitch #lucy salisbury #i haven't posted fic in forever #forgot how annoying tags are

[sharkmartini]

Happy posting day!

I loved participating in the @goldendayszine​, and not just because I have the biggest crush on the admin. All the contributors were so lovely, and everyone is so talented- it was an amazing project and I’m so honoured to have been part of it.

Here is my little contribution.

TITLE: Remember the Magic

RATING: T

SUMMARY: Watford’s 20th Class Reunion offers up a second chance for Baz and Simon.

#my fanfiction #golden days zine #golden days carry on zine

[dancingwdinosaurs]

almost forgot about this one! this was my entry for the @goldendayszine :)

#golden days zine #carry on simon #simon snow #rainbow rowell #baz pitch #penny bunce #snowbaz

[vkelleyart]

Presenting the epilogue to “Wedding Letters”. Being as self-indulgent as I am at the moment, I imagined a scene after Simon and Baz’s wedding—after everyone went home—when the newlyweds might feel compelled to go back to where it all began: the turret they shared at Watford. ❤️

For those who struggle with fonts:

Baz: “Still a stunning view, isn’t it?”

Simon: (looking at Baz) “I couldn’t agree more.”

Baz: “Sentimental numpty.”

🥂

#I am clearly desperate for some happy endings rn #fanart #baz pitch #simon snow #carry on #rainbow rowell #snowbaz #wayward son #carry on golden days zine

[ace-artemis-fanartist]

My piece for @goldendayszine!

This was such a wonderful project filled with talented and kind content creators.

#golden days zine #carry on #snowbaz #rainbow rowell #charity zine #zine #my art

[bloodwrit]

It’s finally time!!! I’m able to post my submission for the @goldendayszine that I was a part of! It was an awesome project filled with really cool people! 

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #bazilton grimm pitch #golden days zine #rainbow rowell #wayward son #my art

[duod-jan]

An illustration I did for @warriorbeeofthesea 's wonderful fic Again and Again and Again, created for @goldendayszine. (and some WIP pictures.)

I feel honored that I could work alongside so many talented writers and illustrators.

Thank you, Bee, for your help and patience with this picture. Working with you was an absolute pleasure!

#Warriorbeeofthesea #snowbaz #Carry On #wayward son #golden days zine #simon snow #baz pitch

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Crystallize zine! I have no smut skills or I’d write the angst smut after this.

…

…

…

…

Of all the places Tartaglia expected to find Emperor Zhongli the night before his birthday, sitting in a pavilion with a cup of baijiu in one hand and a red soldier piece in the other was not one of them. In the late hour, the golden sweeping roof looked like burnished bronze, the cherry-red pillars like dying embers. A sliver of silver moonlight bathed Zhongli, giving him an ethereal glow as he set the soldier on the xiangqi board beside him.

For a moment, Tartaglia stood stock still at the threshold, unable to break the scene in front of him. Rain drizzled lightly around them, a moon shower that did little to hide the stars. The emperor’s robes flowed around him like a flower’s petals.

Zhongli looked over his shoulder, a welcoming smile on his lips. “Oh, there you are.”

The spell broke, and Tartaglia padded over to the king. Smirking, he asked, “Oh, you were expecting me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Befuddled, Zhongli placed a second cup next to the xiangqi board. “You come every night.”

It was silly, really, how that second cup made Tartaglia happy. It was a simple sense of expectation, of routine, of someone waiting for him. He sat down and took a sip to hide his growing grin. “So I’m becoming predictable, got it.”

Zhongli regarded him with dark eyes and shook his head. “I could call you many things, but predictable is not one of them, Childe.”

Childe. The sound of his alias was like a splash of cold water. Tartaglia lowered his eyes, studying the clear baijiu in the delicate ivory cup. Maybe he should take his own words more seriously. He was becoming predictable. He was falling into a routine.

He was a spy. It was the one fact he wasn’t allowed to forget. It was the one fact that he couldn’t escape. These nightly visits were just for gathering information. They weren’t supposed to be a highlight in his day, something he looked forward to as he skulked around the palace.

At some point, Childe had started to sound like his real name.

At some point, he had stopped looking at Zhongli as a target.

At no point was any of this permitted. Forcing a chuckle, Tartaglia changed the topic and pointed at the board. “Is it really that fun playing by yourself?”

“It was a good way to organize my thoughts.” Zhongli picked up a red cannon and moved it down two spaces. “You can play the other side now.”

“Don’t come crying when I win,” Tartaglia teased, forcing a levity he didn’t feel. It felt natural sitting and talking like this, with only the moon as their witness.

“Why would I cry?” Zhongli cocked his head, confused. When they’d first met, Tartaglia had thought it was an act, that no one could be that oblivious. Then he’d realized that despite the emperor’s intelligence, his social awareness was worse than a toddler’s.

“Never mind.” Tartaglia studied the xiangqi board; the game was only five moves in. The pieces looked haphazardly placed. Whatever was on Zhongli’s mind, it was serious. “I thought you’d rest early tonight. Tomorrow’s a big day, right?”

“It is?” Zhongli stared blankly before his lips formed a soft ‘o’. “It’s your birthday.”

The laugh that burst out of Tartaglia was real. “It’s your birthday.”

“Right. I should remember that.” Zhongli rubbed his chin. “That is a big day.”

“Why does it sound like you’re asking a question?” Tartaglia murmured, shaking his head.

Tomorrow was a big day in many ways. A birthday. The Tsaritsa’s invasion. He’d thought it’d be ironic before, to overthrow Liyue on a frivolous emperor’s birthday. Now it was just tragic. He should never have started these nightly sessions. Regret was a heavy thing and he didn’t want to carry it.

“Anything you want?” Tartaglia asked, pushing aside his thoughts. He was thinking too much today. “Something manageable for a guard.”

“Managing…” Zhongli pursed his lips and looked at the moon. “I suppose that’s why I’m awake.”

“To manage something? You know, if you wanted to stay up, you could have just asked. I know better ways to spend the night.” Tartaglia waggled his eyebrows.

Zhongli stared at him for a second before realization dawned, his ears turning a soft red at the idea. Tartaglia grinned wickedly. If there was one thing he never tired of, it was flirting with the usually impassive emperor. It was impossible to guess how he’d react, only that it’d be interesting.

Clearing his throat, Zhongli shook his head. “No, that…that’s fine. I was just…” He lowered his gaze to his baijiu, studying the moonlight reflected in it. “Lumine and Aether showed me the town today.”

The twins. The only possible wrench in the Tsaritsa’s plans. No one really understood where the pair had come from but everyone knew that their strength was nothing to be laughed at.

“And, how was it?” Tartaglia asked lightly, moving a soldier forward. “See something you want for your birthday?”

“There were a lot of things I wanted, but Aether refused to let me buy anything,” Zhongli replied, sounding put out as he moved his advisor. “He said no one actually buys an entire store.”

Tartaglia snickered. Those were exactly the kind of problems he’d expected. He moved his advisor as well. “So that’s what’s wrong?”

“No, it was…” Zhongli’s hand hovered over his piece. “Management. I did not realize the state of my citizens. It is different to receive reports here than it is to go down there and see it for myself.”

Part of him wished that Zhongli could have stayed oblivious till the end, secure in the belief that he had done his best for his people. Tartaglia looked away. “Is it that different?” he asked, pretending he wasn’t fully aware of the corruption that flowed freely under the emperor’s rule. As though he hadn’t made it worse, pushing the Tsaritsa’s money and influence into the cracks he found, until Liyue’s people were split between wanting to protect their oblivious emperor and wanting to overthrow him. A divided nation was easy to conquer, and the Tsaritsa never liked to leave things to chance.

“Extremely.” Zhongli frowned, crossing his arms. “Food prices are higher than I had planned. There are ruffians stealing goods. The poor are not receiving enough help. I thought I had made the right laws and contracts, but I must have made a mistake somewhere.”

“Someone else could have made the mistake,” Tartaglia countered, not liking how Zhongli’s expression had darkened with each statement. He raised his cup, letting the alcohol burn a path down his throat.

“Perhaps, but I am the emperor. In exchange for my power, I must make sure my people are taken care of.” Zhongli hummed thoughtfully, his fingers drumming his thigh. “I will have to correct this.”

In another world, Zhongli would have succeeded, Tartaglia was sure. But in this one, factors beyond Zhongli’s comprehension were at work. In this one, it would take more than good faith and trust to keep the flames of revolution at bay.

“I’m sure you will,” he lied. He dug his fingers in his thighs. “Did you see anything you liked, or did the twins only show you the worst parts of town?”

“Anything I liked…” Zhongli rubbed his chin, considering the question. “I did like the lanterns and flower wreaths they made for tomorrow. I wonder if I can make them myself.”

It was an amusing image, Zhongli with a look of intense concentration as he put together a lantern. More likely than not, he’d get it entirely wrong. Tartaglia cracked a smile. “I doubt it.”

“You never know.” Zhongli’s expression finally brightened. “We should go see them tomorrow.”

“Oh?” It was all too easy to flirt, to tease, and Tartaglia fell back into familiar patterns. “Like a date?”

“Yes, a date,” Zhongli confirmed easily, without even taking a second to think about it. “That is the right word for it. Will you go on one with me?”

Now it was his turn to flush. Rubbing his ear, Tartaglia mumbled, “We would need a disguise.”

“I suppose. Lumine said that today too before we left.” Zhongli sipped his baijiu. “We could use the same disguise again tomorrow. I will be Rex Lapis.”

“Rex Lapis?” Tartaglia snorted. “That’s what Lumine came up with?”

“No, that was Aether’s suggestion.” He cocked his head. “You do not approve?”

“No, no, it’s…fine. One name is as good as any other.” Tartaglia wondered how well the trip had actually gone. It was hard enough to catch Zhongli’s attention when one called his real name—using a fake one must have been near impossible. Add in his odd ticks and well…it was impressive he had never gotten caught.

Pleased, Zhongli moved his elephant across the board. By now, the xiangqi game was perfunctory. “We will need a name for you, as well.”

He didn’t think, didn’t stop to consider the consequences before he breathed, “Ajax.”

It was a risk. A foolish, stupid risk.

It was the only time, the only chance he had to hear his real name roll off Zhongli’s lips instead of the moniker forced onto him by a distant ruler.

Zhongli didn’t notice his reaction. He nodded. “Ajax. That’s a good name.”

Tartaglia’s breath hitched. Speechless and unable to handle Zhongli’s warm eyes, he stared at his cup. His murky reflection smiled back.

He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to never stop hearing it.

They both fell into silence. The moon continued its steady rise, the night breeze rustled through the trees. Somewhere, cicadas buzzed and crickets chirped. The xiangqi game continued, though Tartaglia didn’t know which pieces he moved. His mind was stuck on a single moment, a single word.

“Oh, I know.” Zhongli set down his now empty cup. “You.”

This broke through his thoughts and Tartaglia finally lifted his head. “Me?” he repeated, bewildered.

“A gift you can afford, Childe. A gift that I want.” Zhongli interlaced their hands, squeezing lightly. “You.”

That simple declaration left him speechless. Zhongli’s hand was warm, his grip steady. Tartaglia should pull away, should step back—tomorrow, the emperor’s blood would be on his hands and no one would call him Childe anymore, no one would quietly kiss him behind the pillars or invite him for moonlit drinks.

Tartaglia was stuck in the web he spun, unable to break out.

At some point, he had started to fall for his own lies.

At some point, he had started to fall for Zhongli.

But it was too late for love and far too late to back out. Zhongli’s hands would only be warm tonight, his smile would remain only for the next few hours. Either he’d die or he’d never look at him the same.

“Let me give you an early gift then,” Tartaglia whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned forward, knocking the pieces off the board as he kissed Zhongli, as he pushed him down and pinned him in place. 

There was some small hope that Zhongli would survive. The twins could protect him. His guards could help him escape. The Tsaritsa didn’t need his death to succeed, just his empire. Zhongli could live in exile.

He’d never look at Tartaglia the same. Tartaglia swallowed. There would be no love in his voice after tomorrow. And that was all assuming the Tsaritsa’s carefully woven plans somehow fell through, that Zhongli managed to escape the destruction with his life.

A new sense of urgency filled him and Tartaglia broke their kiss. Brushing Zhongli’s ear with his lips, he mouthed the words he couldn’t say aloud, the feelings he wished he could have denied.

Before Zhongli could respond, Tartaglia crushed his lips in another kiss.

Just for tonight, he would be Childe. Just for tonight, he didn’t want the sun to rise.

Just for tonight, he would dream of a happy ending.

#chili #tartali #childe x zhongli #zhongli #tartaglia #genshin #fanfic

[jessethejoyful]

so happy to share my piece from the carry on @goldendayszine ❤️ i wanted to do a warm piece of my girl agatha and her girl lucy because she deserves to be happy

shout out to the zine organizers and the other artists and writers who participated! everyone did so amazing

#my art #carry on #agatha wellbelove #carry on golden days zine #golden days zine #agatha carry on #rainbow rowell #snowbaz #whoops #hi #ily all

[goldendayszine]

We’ve got updated raffle prizes for you!

The incomparable @vkelleyart​ was so kind as to donate prints of her newest piece for our relaunch raffle!

This means that the grand prize spot will now include her print and we have three new possible prizes.

ONE WINNER WILL RECEIVE (updated):

NEW: Pride print by @vkelleyart

Seen here

A deleted scene from rebel rebel by Ban/@basic-banshee

About 500 words

OOAK watercolour painting by @duod

Seen here

Handmade bookmark by @penpanoply

Quote and paper will vary

4" Sticker by @krisrix

Seen here

OOAK sketch by @krisrix

Created just for you!

THREE WINNERS WILL RECEIVE (new):

Pride print by @vkelleyart​

Seen here

The Golden Days zine relaunch is open from June 21 - July 5

Donate 10 USD or more to OutRight Action international using our custom Golden Days campaign link:

https://outrightinternational.org/#GoldenDays

OR

Donate 10 USD or more to Black Lives Matter Global Network using our custom Golden Days campaign link:

https://secure.actblue.com/donate/goldendays

☀ The raffle winner will be drawn on July 8th ☀

Thank you, V!

#carry on #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #simon snow series #carry on zine #golden days carry on zine #golden days zine #announcement #venessa kelley