mywingsareonwheels
My Wings Are On Wheels
Disabled, trans, queer, 40-something mountain-hugger, sea-dreamer, and folk musician. He/him or they/them. Fandoms/ships: endeavour/morseverse, shetland, stucky, ineffable spouses, geraskier, Shakespeare, Tolkien, 19th century lit, folk music, ballet, classical music, musical theatre, other theatre, Discworld, Chalion series, and more. Current favourite actor: Roger Allam. Most underrated favourite actor: Gloria Obianyo. I crush extensively. AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywingsareonwheels; Twitter:
@mywingsonwheels
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“A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking” is definitely a YA novel, despite being published under Ursula Vernon’s more adult oriented non de plume, T Kingfisher. The genre level wouldn’t have stopped me, but it was odd to see.
Regardless it’s an endlessly charming book about a 14 year old girl who can do magic with bread foiling a plot to conquer her city.
And it contains the rare “people call you a hero so they can ignore what you went through” and “you’re a child that had to do great things because the adults that were supposed to run things failed” with all the gravity that deserves, and not just the bitterness those feelings turn into if left unaddressed.
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Something small whacked him on the back of the skull and he winced.
"Sorry..." came from above them.
Caliban straightened, one hand going to his sword. People didn't usually yell apologies while they were trying to kill you. It made it difficult to know how to retaliate.
The Wonder Engine by T. Kingfisher
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Shame flitted briefly over Brenner's face, but found itself in unfamiliar surroundings and didn't settle.
The Wonder Engine by T. Kingfisher
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‘I want your company for a decent stretch of the evening, and that ought not to be too much to ask when other people get lifetimes. I wouldn’t dream of asking for any such grace as is granted to most of the fucking country without question. I’d just like dinner with you.’
Death in the Spires - KJ Charles
#death in the spires#kj charles#nicky rook#jem kite#so absolutely feral for these two#sure kj it's not a romance at *all*
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Thanks @helenvader for reminding me about this scene in men at arms. Needed to reread a book before I’ve drawn this, but finally it’s ready;)
Unexpectedly Havelock has a new robe-design here. Lol.
P.S. First time I did something on Discworld that is apparently NOT VetVimes content 😅 Hope you like it)
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Okay, buckle up buckaroos, because today I met an honest-to-goodness cryptid.
I was out running errands and I made a stop at Intimate Books (…for a friend), and on my way out I realized that the bookshop next door was open.
This bookshop has existed for more than a hundred years, and in all my life it has NEVER BEEN OPEN. I mean, I assume it has to be open sometimes, but never at any normal, reasonable hour. Everyone says it’s a front for the mob or something.
So what do you do when the weird mafia bookshop is open? You go the fuck inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. You know that smell when you accidentally leave your towel on the bathroom floor all day and you come back to that mildew funk? The shop smelled like that times a thousand. I expected to see stuff growing on the walls, but the books were pristine. We’re talking first editions, rare editions, weird Bibles and books inscribed to really famous dead people. Librarians would weep for the chance to accession this place. In the first two minutes I found a signed copy of The Crucible and what I think was a first edition of Blake’s Book of Thel.
Then a clerk showed up out of nowhere—honestly nowhere. He looked EXACTLY like a bookseller should look, kind of fluffy and bewildered and really, really gay.
“Are you lost?” was the first thing he said to me.
“Nope. Just browsing, thanks.”
“Browsing, I see. Erm. How do you feel about snakes?” he asked. And without waiting for me to answer, he just walked away and vanished around a shelf.
I figured it was a metaphor, or a code phrase for the mafia. Until I turned a corner like ten minutes later and found a little reading nook. It was really pretty, although I feel like that particular window should have been on an interior wall? Anyway, curled up in an armchair in a patch of sunlight was the biggest fuck-off black snake I have ever seen.
Like, I don’t mind snakes in general. But in their normal context, right? Outside. On the ground. Not six feet long and sitting on a threadbare velvet armchair like it owns the place.
I was about to turn around and leave, but I saw a gorgeous first-edition copy of Leaves of Grass on a shelf, a little too close to the snake for comfort. But I had never needed anything so badly in my life.
So I went back to the counter to buy it, but the clerk was nowhere to be found.
While I was waiting, I noticed a collection of pictures hanging on the wall behind the counter, dating back to the very dawn of photography. A couple were of this rock-star looking guy from the 70s that I should probably have recognized, but there were authors and landscapes and stuff, too. There was even an old tintype portrait of Oscar freaking Wilde, sitting in this very shop with a guy that I would ACTUALLY SWEAR was the clerk from before. Like, I know my family all has the same nose, but this guy had the same everything.
After approximately one year of waiting, the clerk came back out to the desk. By now I’ve realized that he’s too bad at his job to be anything but the owner of the shop.
“I saw your snake,” I told him.
“Did you? Was he behaving himself?”
“He was sleeping.”
“Yes, he enjoys that.”
“Does he just stay out in the open like that? What if he gets out?”
He shrugged and smiled. “He always comes home again, the dear boy.”
Right, a homing snake. That’s totally normal.
Then he cleared his throat and asked, in a weirdly reluctant voice, if I was going to buy the Whitman.
“Yes, please,” I told him. “I saw it on a shelf by the snake, and it was just too tempting.”
He sighed. “Oh, yes, I expect it was.”
When I started to hand him my card, he went all fluttery and said that they didn’t take cards.
All right, fine. I had some cash on me, but I told him that he’d sell a lot more books if he got a Square or something.
He got this scandalized look on his face and went, “Why would I want to do that?”
Oookay. I handed over the cash and he popped open the ancient till and started making change.
In shillings. Shillings! I swear to god I saw Queen Anne’s face on one of them. The silver value of the coins was probably as much as I paid for the book.
But I had to have proof that this happened—at that point, all I had was a book in a plain brown wrapper, not appreciably different from what I bought next door. So I asked him for a receipt.
He looked delighted and wrote one up for me.
By hand.
With a fountain pen.
And that’s the story of how I met a bookseller cryptid and his pet snake.
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Tragedy! You set out to read a negative review of a piece of media you dislike, only to find that the critic is being completely unfair to it and making a bunch of bad, unsupportable arguments.
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“I can’t be a trans man on the internet” go the fuck outside then dude. Signed a trans woman who has had enough of your bullshit posts
I’m gonna use this ask to make a point.
Trans guys if you get an anon claiming to be a trans women that says rude/bigoted shit, don’t believe them. Transphobes have admitted to pretending to be trans women and sending bigoted asks to trans men.
If you get an anon ask saying weird shit claiming to be from a trans women - always remember anons can lie about who they are! 9 times out of 10 it’s just some cis person lying to paint trans women as evil bigots.
And everytime I see a trans man fall for the bait and start saying transmisogynistic shit I just sigh.
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Instead of making fun of people who do things at an older age that are normally done younger ( like getting their diploma or GED, learning to drive, even learning to read ) how about you:
don’t
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I’ve been trying to remind myself that I’m not useless when I’m sick. I’m not unlovable when I’m sick. I’m not worthless. I’m just a person that happens to be sick. My life is not doomed because of it. I won’t be left all alone because of it. And maybe you need this reminder too.
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There have undoubtedly been (and continue to be) many historians who have preserved and protected queer history, often at their own detriment. There is room to be grateful for them, as well as critical of the structures that impede and hide their work. Sharing uncritical praise of academia is just as bad as throwing it all under the bus, reality is nuanced and deserves to be represented as such.
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why small kittens are always either the most pathetic or the most evil creature you've ever seen
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I really do love Lucien Vaudrey and Stephen Day so much. I mean they are both a) total disasters, b) very very dangerous, c) and yet utterly superb? (Also desperately hot and moving together I mean *damn*.)
I love that consistently the most potentially scary of all the good or good-ish characters in KJ Charles' work is a 5'0", underweight, grumpy, impoverished-middle-class sub who most people don't look twice at and is so very decent and so very (appallingly) conscientious and heroic and will absolutely destroy you with a thought if he thinks that's the right thing to do and sees no other alternative.
(With a muscular, 6'4" or so dom and beloved who's wealthy and aristocratic and a former smuggler and gun-runner and an impressive fighter in a number of ways and who unless there's iron involved Stephen can totally throw across the room with his brain if he wants to.)
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