The Art and Ritual of Smoking a Pipe: A Timeless Pleasure

Introduction

In a world that moves at a rapid pace, where new trends and technologies constantly emerge, there is a timeless pleasure that continues to captivate individuals seeking solace and reflection – the act of smoking a pipe. Smoking pipe is more than just a pastime; it is an art, a ritual, and a tradition that has transcended generations. In this blog, we will explore the history, artistry, and allure of smoking pipes, shedding light on why this centuries-old practice remains relevant and cherished today.

The History of Pipe Smoking

The origins of pipe smoking can be traced back thousands of years. Archaeological evidence suggests that the ancient civilizations of Egypt, Greece, and the Native Americans were among the early practitioners of pipe smoking. These pipes were made from various materials, such as clay, wood, and stone, and were utilized for ceremonial, social, and personal purposes.

Over time, pipe smoking became deeply embedded in different cultures and societies around the world. During the 16th and 17th centuries, smoking pipe gained popularity in Europe, particularly in England and France. The pipe evolved from a mere tool for smoking to an emblem of social status and sophistication, reflecting the personality and taste of the smoker.

The Art of Pipe Making

Craftsmanship is a fundamental aspect of pipe smoking, and the creation of a pipe is a work of art in itself. Skilled artisans carefully select and work with various materials to create pipes that are both functional and aesthetically pleasing. Common materials used for crafting pipes include briarwood, meerschaum, clay, and corncob.

Briarwood, derived from the root burl of the Erica arborea shrub, is widely regarded as the premier material for pipe making. Its unique grain patterns and heat-resistant properties make it highly sought after by both pipe makers and enthusiasts. Meerschaum, a mineral also known as sepiolite, is a porous material that absorbs tobacco impurities and gradually changes color, resulting in a distinctive patina over time (bong shops near you).

The pipe maker carefully carves and shapes the chosen material, often incorporating intricate designs and details. Each pipe is a reflection of the artisan's creativity and skill, making it a personal and cherished possession for the pipe smoker.

The Ritual of Pipe Smoking

Smoking a pipe is more than just lighting up and inhaling; it is a ritual that involves preparation, contemplation, and mindfulness. The process begins with selecting the right tobacco blend, carefully packing it into the bowl of the pipe, and lighting it. The act of lighting a Hookah ,pipe is deliberate and thoughtful, allowing the smoker to savor the experience.

As the pipe is lit and the tobacco begins to smolder, the aroma fills the air, creating a relaxing and calming environment. The smoker takes slow, deliberate puffs, allowing the flavors and aromas to dance on their palate. The act of smoking a pipe encourages mindfulness and introspection, providing a moment of solitude and reflection in a busy world.

The Allure of Pipe Smoking

Despite the health concerns associated with GlassPipes Online in India smoking has a unique allure that continues to attract individuals. It's often seen as a way to unwind, contemplate, and enjoy a moment of tranquility. For many, the nostalgia associated with pipe smoking, reminiscent of iconic figures like Sherlock Holmes and Albert Einstein, adds to its appeal.

Moreover, the appreciation for craftsmanship and the variety of pipes available in the market cater to different tastes and styles. From classic designs to modern interpretations, there is a pipe for every discerning best bongs online. The rich history, the sensory experience, and the artistry involved in pipe making contribute to the enduring allure of this age-old practice.

Conclusion

Smoking a pipe is a timeless pleasure that has stood the test of time, offering a unique blend of tradition, artistry, and ritual. From its ancient origins to the contemporary appreciation for craftsmanship, pipe smoking remains a beloved practice for enthusiasts worldwide. It's a reminder of the beauty found in simple pleasures, a moment to slow down and appreciate the art and history encapsulated within a well-crafted pipe.

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Valentine Bongs | Best Valentine's Day Love Box

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Valentine's Day is a special occasion for many people, and it's a great opportunity to show your loved ones how much you care. If you're looking for a unique and thoughtful gift for a stoner in your life, a glass leaf valentine's day bong could be the perfect choice.

A glass leaf valentine's day bong is a beautiful and functional piece of art that is perfect for smoking weed. The intricate design of the glass leaf adds a touch of elegance and sophistication to the bong, making it a great gift for a loved one who appreciates the finer things in life.

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Happy HeadShop-Best Rick and Morty Pipe

Pipes for pot smoking are convenient if you want quick and easy puffs of your favorite mari-juana products. However, the pipe quality you use dramatically impacts the smoking experience. A poor-quality pipe will break instantly, wasting your money.

However, the best Rick and Morty pipes are based on the popular TV show of the same name. The pipes have become pot smokers' favorite, thanks to their unique qualities. Have a look.

The Best Rick and Morty Pipes

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Color Variety

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Everything You Should Know About Storing and Keeping Your Stash Fresh

Cannabis packaging has advanced significantly in recent years, regardless of whether your state has a legal adult-use marijuana program or a medical marijuana program. Although marijuana products now have a harvest date, flowers are rarely given an expiration date. Even with all the packaging improvements, there are still some questions that remain:

How long can weed last?

This article will discuss why it is important to properly store your marijuana, how to keep it fresh, and how long your weed can last in the best conditions.

Proper Cannabis Storage Is Crucial

The biggest threat to cannabis' shelf life is moisture. The growth of mold and mildew can be a serious threat to cannabis' shelf life. These risks are so grave that the American Society for Testing and Materials, which creates technical standards across many industries and publishes the "Standard Specification for Keeping Acceptable read more.

don't support here lies love the musical as it comes to bway

my post on here lies love is getting rounds and while i still stand by everything i said on that post, my grievances with the musical has Grown in the last couple of weeks of me researching about it. granted, i still need to do more— i want to do an essay on it in the future because i would hate for it to run on broadway for long, but because that takes time, i thought, at least, i would need to make a post detailing what i find wrong about this musical. even if it's not the most comprehensive, i want more people to be informed about it as soon as possible.

so, have this. ramblings at 5am. i'll try my best to gather sources, but information i have regarding the marcoses comes from a lot of non-digital resources like classes, museums, and physical books. in this case, i recommend the following resources to learn more about who the marcos family is and what they did:

"the kingmaker" by lauren greenfield. native filipinos can watch this free on youtube, but if you aren't from the ph i recommend using a vpn to access it or find a pirated version somewhere else

online martial law museum

if you can buy it, "some are smarter than others" by ricardo manapat, a book detailing marcos' crony capitalism and all his faults

i'd also like to preface: i am not a saint. i am not a historian nor the smartest person who can detail everything marcos did when he was born. i'm trying to do my best with what i know, and i am down to learn more if others want to chime in.

lastly, here's a fresher on the names of people involved, because it can be confusing:

ferdinand marcos — i will try my best calling him ferdinand but most people, including myself, often call him just "marcos" despite the fact that they technically all are marcoses. he was the president from 1965-1986

imelda marcos — i will refer to her as imelda. wife to ferdinand and contributed a lot to his reign of terror. she is still alive today.

bong bong marcos — son of ferdinand and imelda. his name is often shorted to bbm, which i will use. he is currently the present of the philippines

ninoy aquino — marcos' main rival who he indirectly murdered. not a perfect guy tho, just the lesser evil. i will just call him ninoy

now, onto the real deal:

thesis statement, so this can be easy to follow: despite the intentions of the musical being anti-marcos, much of how it is written and presented will inevitably become propaganda to brighten the image of the marcoses. by putting imelda in the forefront, making her entire character do what she does supposedly out of love, audiences will come out of the theatre sympathizing with her and her family. not only is this politically dangerous, but it is incredibly insensitive to native filipinos who have not only gone through the struggle of martial law, but also is suffering through bbm's presidency today.

[rest of the post under the cut]

despite what a lot of criticisms claim, the intentions of the musical is not to be pro-marcos. this is stated in their instagram post:

david bryne also stated these in an article from the guardian:

"The mindset of the Marcos regime and the mindset of disco music to me doesn’t seem all that distant. The hedonistic, escapist feeling of losing yourself and being transported to another world, like you feel on the dance floor and like you feel in a dance club, that’s a means to divorce yourself from the rest of the world, just as Imelda did.

When you’re dancing, you’re in this psychological and sonic bubble, in the same way that powerful people create a bubble around themselves. So I wanted to give an audience a taste of that feeling.

In the first half, when the play is dealing with her childhood, her upbringing and her meeting with Ferdinand Marcos, it’s meant to get the audience to empathise with her and understand what’s driving her and then they’ll understand how that manifests later on."

so, it seems promising: an anti-marcos musical that will make audiences dislike empathizing with her. initially, i really liked the concept of audiences being lost with the music similar to how the marcoses were able to play a lot of their supporters.

but, and a big but, 1.) there's a lot to pick apart from these statements, and 2.) i fucking despise how they presented imelda in the musical.

let's discuss the first point: the instagram post details that the intent of the musical is to dispel disinformation created about the marcoses. first thing's first, if this truly was a musical that aims to educate, then broadway is probably the worst way to do it. while the west and native filipinos could share the award of most misinformed about the marcoses, native filipinos are the ones most affected by it. we just suffered a terrible election last year with constant speculation and reports of vote buying. i've heard accounts from people from the province that bbm would send representatives to bribe those in poverty to ensure a vote. we are suffering in the worst education crisis, with the most corrupt politicians you can think of.

so, if this musical aims to educate, the fact that you can only access it by viewing it live on broadway is incredibly... backwards. how are you opting to dispel information when those most affected can't even access it?

what's worse is the statement that says that modern history of the philippines cannot be told without the usa. it is such a patronizing, surface-level statement that gets my blood boiling. it is true that our histories and present-day contexts are intertwined, especially since the filipino diaspora in the usa is incredibly huge, but that's because this is all a product of american colonization + imperialism. stating like the philippines owes the usa to retell our native stories mirrors much of the savior complex-esque sentiments the usa had when they colonized us.

now, onto bryne's statement. the main problem i have with it is him insinuating that imelda is a victim of circumstance. he wants us the audience "empathize" with her and understand her downfall. this is common rhetoric uninformed people, even filipinos, used to excuse imelda's contributions. that she was supposedly "poor", that marcos put her through hell. but genuinely, and i cannot emphasize this enough, imelda was an absolute ass on her own accord.

no, she did not grow up poor. her wikipedia even states that she grew up in a wealthy family, born into the romualdez political dynasty. my history professor even claimed that she attempted bribing the mayor when she lost one of her beauty pageants. despite the repetitive "i'm doing this for love!" bullshit the musical regurgitates, imelda did not even marry marcos out of love. in ricardo manapat's book, he details how marcos attempted to swoon imelda by showing her his vault of money (of course, possibly stolen). she was enraptured by marcos the moment she saw his WEALTH.

i want to emphasize: imelda is not fucking stupid. much of what marcos did to the philippines was thanks to her. i would recommend watching the kingmaker documentary for all the details, but just know she is still alive and incredibly wealthy. she is well-known for her absolute gaudiness and all of that comes from her money-centric mindset. she does not give a shit about love.

here's some accounts by ricardo manapat from his book. on imelda falling in love with marcos (btw, she had a fiance at the time and didn't tell him she was marrying marcos until said fiance found out on the damn newspaper):

imelda being aware of the wealth she accumulates in politics:

on this note, i'd love to discuss how historically inaccurate the musical is. i'd like to preface that i've only listened to the only available version of the musical which is the 2013 version on spotify. this could have changed, but either way, the general tone of the narrative already reads to me as extremely incorrect, anyway. i'd also love to detail every discrepancy of each song, but again, i'll save that for a future essay.

in general, the musical's plotline follows imelda, a "humble and poor" girl from leyte who grows up and marries ferdinand. she repeatedly expresses she's doing this all out of love. thus, the musical insinuates that imelda is merely a victim of circumstance, and that she didn't become evil on her own accord. and yet, from what i've presented so far, she was very much aware! she was not passive. you have to understand, SHE was the reason both men and women had equal opportunities to become corrupt in our government.

what marcos did was also imelda's fault. the genocide and displacement of indigenous people, the mass torture and murder of journalists and politicians, the stealing of companies and mass wealth, the mass delivery of non-native animals to the philippines. she condoned all that. yes, marcos cheated on her, but she also used that as a means to manipulate him into doing whatever she wanted. they are both horrible people.

speaking of, marcos' song in the musical was also really bad. he could be written as lying for all we know, but his "fear" of japanese soldiers invading the philippines is also up for debate. there is speculation of the marcoses collaborating with japanese troops, which also led to the murder of marcos' father's political rival.

and while i don't know if there's actual dialogue outside of the songs, i don't think this musical actually informs us much of the marcos' faults. the songs, which will be the most accessible thing to native filipinos, express nothing but generic descriptions of what characters feel about certain situations. it's hard to understand or know what these people are actually doing because it's just so vague and ambiguous. how are you supposed to inform when none of the music details, well, anything? the information given is so minimal that i pray, at least, the musical would have more explicit scenes about marcos' atrocities.

and that's my main problem with the musical. with how much they spend sympathizing with imelda in the first act, i don't think everything the marcoses have done can be encapsulated in the second. of course, i'm not asking to give me a detailed rundown of everything they did, but let's be honest, this musical was never about dispelling disinformation. if it was, then they wouldn't spend an entire act and a half sucking imelda's dick. it's not about educating audiences about martial law. it's about humanizing imelda, with martial law and the marcoses' atrocities as a second priority. it makes me sick to my stomach seeing how pure imelda is presented when travelling to meet other world leaders, or how she's seen as the person who insisted that ninoy move away from the philippines.

it was never about education or re-information. in the end, these were such pretentious and performative statements to defend a historically inaccurate musical.

and tbh, that's just the tip of the iceberg of why i hate this musical. another thing is that, holy shit is it obvious that it's written by two white people. they mispronounce "tacloban" (should be tacLOban not tacloBAN). these characters are also just... not distinctly filipino? they're so white in mannerisms. i need more insulting humor, more grit. in fairness, the richer you are in the philippines the more connected you are to western culture, but i would have loved to see that disaparity more in the songwriting. they really peaked (/s) when they wrote these lyrics:

this is... awful, in a cringey what the hell manner. i hope they changed it for the bway production, because this was blatant evidence that the songwriters barely took the time to understand our culture before writing.

if you don't understand what it says, "titi mo" (the correct spelling is tite but i digress) means "your dick". i think imelda is trying to call marcos a dick, but they literally translated dick in tagalog. but tite isn't an insult, it literally refers to a penis. "mo" is the equivalent of "your" which also makes ZERO sense. the lyric literally goes "how can a your penis run the country?", like WHAT.

so you know, maybe there's a reason why many filipinos fucking despise this show on twitter. we are insulted for good reason. they are sensationalizing and glamorizing our suffering for their own gain. we native filipinos and other filipino diaspora who can't access the show have nothing to gain. here lies love is profiting from our struggles that we are still recovering from and experiencing today. imagine if you made a musical about hitler explaining he is a victim of circumstance to disco music. insensitive, isn't it? i'd love to ask the cast of here lies love if they'd ever show the musical to living survivors and families of victims of martial law.

and what's worse, because of course it gets worse, misinformation like this is what boosts the reputation of corrupt politicians in the first place. manapat quotes what leonard saffir wrote about how marcos built his reputation in new york via a biography filled with disinformation. the excerpt is too long but it's quoted from this article by the new york times. and now we are living in an era of another musical based on imelda being shown in new york — time is a flat fucking circle.

what sickens me is that this musical is possibly a lot of americans' first exposure to the marcoses, and what will they think? imelda is just a poor girl, imelda is just a victim, imelda is blah blah blah. that will be stamped in their head. even if some filipinos have come out of this musical dreadful that they sympathized with imelda, not everyone is gonna have the same experience.

^ this an excerpt from one of theatermania's articles. dictators have feelings too, i guess!

objectively, there is nuance when it comes to anyone. but the problem is, we cannot afford to consider nuance in politics. we cannot sympathize with imelda right now when people are dying of poverty under the marcoses' hand. the marcoses are very much alive, very much in power, and very much willing to lend their offspring to other positions of power. they turned the entirety of ilocos into a bunch of marcos dicksuckers, and i'm afraid that this musical can make a ton of their audiences be oblivious to the true extents of the marcos' atrocities. i'm already seeing people on tiktok say that there's nothing wrong about this musical, or that this can exist when miss saigon and evita exist (which in on itself are problematic beliefs, because they are glamorizing other country's sufferings too).

i am privileged enough to be educated about marcos, and while there is much to be done in terms of disability and lgbtqia+ rights, i am lucky to be less impacted by the marcoses compared to other people. but there are hundreds of thousands of filipinos severely affected by marcos. what's worse, is that there are plenty extremely uneducated that they are unaware that marcos is directly contributing to their suffering. my history professor told us that other countries are using the philippines as their model for successful disinformation campaigns. in this era of disinformation, we cannot afford to disinform even more. as sad as it is, the usa has a lot of power and control over the philippines (and the world, tbh), so one wrong step into the wrong direction and we're fucked. this musical fails the message it attempts to preach and i cannot imagine how much more people are going to spread misinformation about the philippines like they did during the 2022 elections.

to end off, i'd like to mention to everyone that imelda marcos has actually listened to the musical. in this new york times article, she says, "i'm flattered, i can't believe it!". i don't know what to tell you— if imelda herself says she likes the musical you claim to be anti-marcos, then what does that say about the musical?

i guess i'll end with, i am willing to change opinions once i see how the musical is being executed. if they emphasize the atrocities done by marcos and give proper information about the timeline of events, then i can be more lenient. but if i still see any attempts woobifying imelda, then i stand by what i say. this musical is insensitive, disrespectful, and just fucking hurtful.

I gently lift my lips from the bong. Still holding it all in as best i can before i start coughing like the proverbial 11 year old boy scout that snuck weed into camp using a chapstick container for his friends to cherish like a forbidden idol. My fingers go to the control panel om the side of the angelic glassware.

66903

It's my online besties BongCode. I know that at home in Zagreb she is waiting anxiously for her Decorative Vase to start ringing any second. I message her on Discord.

"NOW NOW NOW"

My besty rushes for her bong, with the passiom and fury and hunger of a starving animal sighting its first meal in days. Her hands shake as she grips the rumbling device, she presses the green pick up button on the panel. A gateway to bliss.

"BingBong Transpondance Initiated"

Im now sober as a stone, I sit there for a few moments, contemplating the wonders of the modern world. I take a hit for me this time, and feel the wave in my head. A minute goes by like an hour and i finally get a response from my croatian besty on discord.

"Tonight I am the Philosopher"

And she is.

And I am too.

heyyy idk if ur request are on or off and if u still write for timothée. but if you do, i had an idea. so like i think its number 6 and the prompt is “Is that my shirt?” “You mean our shirt?” and the reader is dating timothée and they r at his apartment smoking and he falls asleep before she does and wakes up to her in his shirt

my requests are open so your all good and I will forever write for him!! :)) i love thisss!!! thank you for requesting lovely <333 also sorry it took forever :(( it didn’t have to be this many words but for some reason I just wanted to make it longer.

Cloth | Timothée Chalamet.

timothée x reader. (established relationship)

warnings — words: 1,136. fluff. drugs. marijuana. very detailed about smoking bong hits. smoking a piece of blunt wrap in a bong. blunts have tobacco in it, mentions of tobacco.

a/n: also very proud on how this turned out :)) to all my ppl that lay on the right side of the bed im sorry, I had to choose a side and I sleep on the left 😬

Credits -> This is my work. Their ^ idea. It is to not be plagiarized. Timothée Chalamet is a real human being and I do not know him. This is all fictional. Even if he’s real.

Masterlist, Navigation, Timmy C. List.

It was just one of those lazy days today.

Best days of all days, were you and timothée were just you and timmy, even though that’s an everyday thing with you both, it was a day of no work, no fans- unless you do run into someone when out but no online stuff, and that's it. Just comfort for each other.

The day already passed by, not doing much except smoking, exploring each other’s bodies a few times, going for a walk and ordering some food but it was way too late to order food now, yet the city wasn’t asleep. I mean we are in the city nicknamed ‘The city that never sleeps.’

As of right now, you and timmy were just taking bong hits, relaxing on the bed, and watching a new show on netflix. Today you’ve smoked two blunts and a joint, while also taking bong hits, pen hits, and some dap hits too but that was throughout the day. And now you didn’t have that much weed to roll a joint, not even to roll a blunt... especially when all the cones and blunts you have are rolled and there was no point to smoke one right now.

A sharpe sound was heard, interrupting the tv as the pink lighter in your hand generated a flame. If you look close enough, there was blue at the bottom close to the metal where it was sprouting out from, continuing to go into an ombré of orange to yellow in the form of a candle, but between the blue and orange, it was clear, see-through. surprisingly.

You pull the now lit lighter to the bowl that was full of ground-up weed and a very small piece of a blunt wrap— it was from a leftover roach earlier that day, both of you smoked the weed from the roach so now you were smoking the wrap.

The bong was in your hand over the side table as you lit your herbs on fire and begin to inhale. Covering the carb hole with your thumb, you hear the tv playing but also hear the water bubbling and feeling it drip back down too.

Watching the bowl for a few seconds, a familiar burning sensation in the back of your throat starts building up. Just before it gets too much, you move to uncover the hole and continue to inhale, the air aiding to direct the smoke into your lungs.

You take as much as you could before pulling away, smoke lines come waving through the dark fiery weed from in the bowl. You slowly blow the smoke out, making a small white cloud form in the dark tv lit room.

A grape taste fulls your mouth and the air now smells like it to, and it wasn’t like the medicine grape or the powerade grape flavor but it was in between both of them, tasting better than both in your opinion, the little tobacco in there making it all hit you more. Making the high so much more better.

“mmm, mon amour?” he asked in a mumbled, his face stuffed in a pillow; eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed with his lips in a pout. He was so tired, his arms felt like they could fall off, and he couldn’t open his eyes for shit, he was on the brick falling asleep but he need to say something.

“yea?” you ask with a soft smile.

“come to bedddd…”

Turning to him, you see him all snuggled up, going to lay on your side in front of him, your left hand cupping his jaw, just looking at him with a soft look, memorizing his face once more.

“Je t'aime, and sleepy.” he mumbles, eyes kind of fluttering open but still closed, yawning before his lips push into a kiss face with him humming, his way of saying ‘i wanting a kiss.’

“I love you too,” you gave him a peck but he whines when the warmth of your lips leaves his, giving him a few more smiling when you feel his before pulling away, your lips still touching, “go to sleep,” you whisper with a playful smile.

“no, you,” he mumbles, his hand now wrapping around your waist.

“I’ll come to bed with you, I just have to change, okay.” you kiss him before getting up to change, his arm flopping on the bed, the strength he has, not able to hold you down, all because of the high but as you leave he hums disapprovingly, ‘mhm mhmm’.

When you finally climb back into bed, only a few seconds had passed but he was out like a light. As you were going under the covers and turning the tv down in the process, his arm suddenly wraps around your waist, scaring you a little as he pulls you in, gaining his strength in those two minutes. Both of you are now cuddled together with the show still playing, high, asleep, but still together.

A beam of light was peeking into the room, it was lightening and warming up the carpet, indicating that the sun was up and above the window, saying it was morning. Not that many birds were chirping, but if the windows were open you would hear them talking beautifully to one another, saying good morning to everyone. The cars still making sounds as usual. The city still alive.

The warm ball in the atmosphere has yet to touch the people in the bed. Both still in deep sleep from the night they had, even though that’s an everyday night. on some occasions.

As the hours went by, the morning went higher into the sky, the bright light drifting in the room, going from one place to another, until it shone on the wall above the two lovers from where the rays were glimpsing inwards.

They look beautiful. And peaceful.

He was on his back with you cuddled and laying on him, face in his neck, leg wrapped around his waist, arm on his chest. Like a koala bear.

Disturbing the peaceful air in the room, Timmy grumbles as he rolls over, gently to not disturb you. Now laying more on you, he breathes you in, yawning before giving you a few pecks on the neck. He gets your usual smell but also gets the scent of his too. Lifting his head up a little, he looks down and sees his shirt on you. As soon as he sees that a smile rises up and he buries his face in your neck.

soon enough, you started waking up from the kisses. you cuddle into his chest, he responds by holding you even more. Breathing him in, you lift head a little, yawning you see he’s awake. “morning.” you say quietly, with a very tired smile.

“morning my love,” he says quietly too, voice raspy, with a pleasant smile, before kissing your forehead. You respond with a hum and smile on your face, leaning more into him.

“is that my shit?” he says quietly in your ear with the teasing voice in a smirk.

Still tired, you slowly open your eyes, quickly looking down at your shirt, you look up, making eye contact with him “oh, um. you mean our shirt..?” you end your question with a smirk.

‎© 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗌𝗅𝖺𝖽y𝖻𝗂𝗋𝖽. 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾!!

I know it's a little silly but you having merch makes me real giddy. Like damn I remember the early day streams and look at this imp now!! She got merch! Imp become big!! It's super fun to see. I hope the Mimi plushies come back in the future, bank account was too desolate to snag one now.

hell yeah homie 💜 thanks for all the support over the years!!!

actually, my third anniversary of streaming was THIS WEEK!!! i just forgot about it lmao!!!

some brief thoughts and words on that below the cut

(and maybe someday i'll be able to release a plushie again... maybe cooler stuff... we'll see!!!)

damn remember read mores? i can't believe this site is still around

anyways.

this week marks my third anniversary as a full-time streamer! well, I say "full-time streamer" but honestly I'm not very consistent (or good) at it lmao. don't get me wrong, I love streaming, love hanging out with the chatroom stoners and shooting the shit while playing games or whatever and I'm eternally thankful that I get to pay my bills thanks to the generosity of kindly stoners online. you guys are the best!!! (for the record, none of this is intended to come across as self-deprecating or baiting engagement or anything, I am simply speaking objectively and truthfully)

I feel like my lifestyle (and combination of rotating hyperfixations + debilitating attention problems lmfao) doesn't conduct itself well to being a ""Good"" streamer y'know? can't rightly schedule streams because I never know what kinda vibe a future day is going to have, can never decide what I'd even stream ahead of time, can't stream at a consistent time of day due to tumultuous changes in sleep schedule, can't plan or organize Big Fancy Event streams due to attention problems (tabletop stream coming Soon™️™️™️™️™️), all I ever stream is Defense of the Ancients 2 (I'm sorry my brainworms from my teenage years came back I prommy I'll stream something else. at some point. eventually. maybe. probably. definitely)

despite all that dumb shit, you guys have stuck with me! you're the best!

over the years, my community has helped me pay my bills, helped me move across the planet, helped me better come to terms with long-ruminated thoughts on my gender identity, helped me with hella inspiring art and fan works, inspired me to focus on and improve my own creative endeavors, etc. etc. etc. etc. I truly can't thank you guys enough for the joy you all bring to my life every day!!!!!!

my job title is "Streamer" but in truth, the most important part of this job to me has always been building and maintaining a stable, comfortable community where folks of marginalized identities and the like can come together in a judgement-free chill zone to hang out and inspire each other in. my Discord server is my pride and joy! I love hosting random, unannounced watch parties of the same 5 cartoons at 4:20 AM with you guys, I love hanging out and working on art with you guys, love seeing your art of your characters, etc. etc. it makes me happy that I've been able to provide a cool lil corner of the internet for folks to have a good time in.

so uhhh anyways rambling aside. you folks rule and I'm glad I get to maintain such a cool spot online. dunno where I was going with this other than that. here's to many more years of hanging out and ripping the bong my dudes 🤘👽⚗️

to quote my man chipp zanuff's theme,

BE FREE 'TIL YOU DIE

brothers + smoking hcs

because like, they're vices, i bet they have vices, y'know?

lucifer

genuine cuban cigars. barbatos has had them imported from the human world for him ever since diavolo found out about the habit.

he still finds it embarrassing, of course, but they are very good quality cigars. he doesn't have it in him to refuse.

he keeps two, wrapped, in the inside breast pocket of his coat. if you see him taking one from there (rather than the cigar box that sits eternally beside the gramophone in his bedroom), you know something particularly heinous just happened.

he keeps his lighter in that pocket, too. it's a zippo-style refillable, sterling silver and engraved with his name and the demon lord's crest.

another gift from diavolo. again, it's just excellent quality. the fact that it rests over his heart nearly at all times is incidental.

mammon

blacks, almost exclusively.

-- is what he says. they're menthol blacks, but he's old enough to remember when menthols were marketed primarily to women in the human world, and he's still kind of embarrassed about his "girl" cigarettes.

they're a devildom brand, but don't get it twisted, he still prefers the most expensive variety they have.

he also likes those flavored cigarillos, the cherry or honey ones, usually.

(there's also a demonus flavor in some stores. he loves those.)

leviathan

prefers weed.

is one of those guys who is really annoying about the fact that he prefers weed.

to be fair, this is probably mostly to annoy mammon.

probably has a vape pen and an online store he likes that does those dumb cartoon-themed carts but with like. nostalgic anime.

but... it's levi. so, like... bongs.

no, but it's levi, so seriously like a legit kind of impressive collection of custom bongs purchased directly from the glassblower's akuzon page.

one of them looks like ruri-hana's flower staff.

def one of those guys who can explain to you in scientific detail how all that shit works, too.

"but what's he like high" giggly. more talkative. fascinated by everything. really honest.

he'll have cigarettes sometimes. usually when he's lonely and he wants something that smells like his brothers.

satan

he grows, prepares, and blends everything he smokes himself. everything he blends smells fucking divine.

usually uses a pipe, but he has an antique hookah from the human world that he'll get out on occasion. also not opposed to rolling clove cigarettes if he finds good rolling papers.

(levi gets him those sometimes. in return for satan rolling joints for him because he can't roll for shit and satan's are always perfect.)

the pipe is a sherlock holmes replica. it was a gift from barbatos. he treasures it.

sometimes he'll infuse magic into a blend, usually for hookah sessions with other people. with satan, you can smoke a memory, or the sound of a string quartet, or an entire ballet.

but usually, it's just a taste to fit the book he's reading. some go best with an apple cider feel, you know?

asmodeus

he used to get those little disposable vapes all the time, but eventually levi felt bad and helped him pick out a permanent one.

his juice is like. all fruit and sweets and candy flavors. he has one that tastes like vanilla cupcakes that everyone likes the smell of.

also maybe this is kind of a pull but you know that brand black devil? that makes the strawberry cigarettes with the pink paper? yeah.

looong black audrey hepburn cigarette holder. he has a little collection, actually, because, well, they're accessories, but the black one is his favorite. it's elegant and cool and looks sexy in pictures.

beelzebub & belphegor

beel doesn't really smoke unless belphie's smoking, and belphie usually just steals from his brothers.

he has a brand of reds he likes but he mostly relies on someone else picking them up for him because he is Too Lazy to go to the store.

beel actually likes the taste of asmo's best, but the reds are still his favorite because they smell/taste the most like belphie.

belphie's favorite are actually a blend satan makes and rolls for him to help him sleep.

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I like the spousal person so much!!!!

I don't know, just thinking about how I read things on here about masculinity and gender and stuff, and it's so different from anything I have ever experienced with any testosterone type person I know that I think I must be living in an entirely different culture from most people who post on here.

I was about to say a whole other universe, but no, I know the things they talk about exist in this universe. Just very far away from my life.

Anyway, here are some really cool things about the testosterone type person I have lived with for 21 years:

Park Hyung-sik is one of his favorite Korean actors. He calls him Min-min because of a scene in Strong Woman Do Bong-soon, one of his top three favorite kdramas. We're watching his currently airing show, Doctor Slump. The female lead said she must have lived her life wrong, and the spousal person said "You can't have lived your life wrong if you managed to pull a Min-min."

He's currently reading a book set in WWII Malaysia, about the change from British colonizers to Japanese colonizers, and he said that the Japanese colonizers were more brutal. I said "Yeah, online a lot of people seem to think that only Britain and the US are like that or have ever been like that." and he said "Yeah, like you say, it's a human thing and humans are gonna human."

When his previous car finally died I texted him in the morning from work and I said "You could get one from Carvana and we could go get it from the tower!" I didn't really mean it. I just drive by the Carvana tower frequently at work and so I joked about it. When I got off work that day he texted me the date and time we'd be going to the Carvana tower to pick up his new car.

He loves the cats just like I do, and if one sits in his lap he does his best to not move until he has to. He takes lots of pictures of them and puts them in the shared album.

At the Renaissance Festival there's a couple with a Chinese woman and a white dude who sell tea, and the woman recognizes him. Last year her husband tried to give him the beginner spiel and she interrupted like no, no, this guy knows his stuff, he's good.

He cried when we watched A Very Long Engagement.

Basically he's really cool and smart and fun and cute and I like him a lot always forever!

SEARCH?Q=SEARCH+HISTORY&SCA_ESV

*a poem written using unedited quotes from my online search history* i dont know what to do why does everyone shout at me what do i do i dont know how to look after myself who do i talk to lyrics for unless its you i fall into

doctors abruptly stopped my medication what words rhyme with manipulation lyrics emioton, jump in the ocean how long does butter last once open

consequences of being successful how many profitable twitch channels why do people think i deservet o get paid will i ever actually feel ok???

does vyvanse make u stay up for 2 days can i live on 3h sleep a day how long is the honeymoon phase how to make relationship anxiety go away

why do all my ceiling lights flicker flippant teenager says 'fine wahtever' how to help friend with fibromyalgia epileptic vs dissociative seizure

is 1h of sleep a night healthy guy snapped and shouted at me insulting me cant join max people in discord VC life expectancy ADHD

pour from big bottle into little bottle consequences of lifelong adderall smoke bong inside house subtle autoredial a dropped phone call

where is the heart for women why can i feel bugs on my skin shaky wobbly distorted vision best sexual assault hotline for autism

cant eat i cant eat 90s red and white boiled sweet instrumental hiphop beat

should i die i wanna die randomly feel a psychedelic high frightened and cant tell why

why are my friends so nice to me why do i deserve to be so lucky lost 7% of weight accidentally why does it still hurt when i pee

TIMING: Current [After This Conversation] LOCATION: Gael's House PARTIES: Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f and Siobhan (@banisheed SUMMARY: Wanting to keep Regan from getting abducted, Gael tells her to give whoever's giving out seemingly free bones his address. Siobhan shows up. CONTENT WARNINGS: self harm, Siobhan keeps calling Gael's coffee pot a bong

Siobhan remembered when boneios were first introduced to Saol Eile; it was the forties and she didn’t think anyone would like them. But, when she poured it for herself, watching little oat grain femurs and skulls and sternums tumble into her paper bowl, she knew it was something special. Not just because it was leagues better than the cream of bone soup, which had been introduced by the end of the nineteenth century, but because it was something so distinctly banshee. It was home. It was them. It was unmistakable and undeniable and even far away from Ireland, Siobhan needed to have them. Her convoluted trade system to get herself some boxes had served her well and as soon as Regis was stuffed into the back of her car, she’d treat them both to a fresh box. For now, she shook the box she’d brought, turned stale as she’d already opened to fish out the free-born-in-every-box, as she knocked on Gael Córdova’s door—whom she was sure was just a strangely specific alias for Regis, who would be on the other side of the painted wood. Who else would want Boneios? 

In her other hand, Siobhan held a large velvet box which housed one vertebrae of a sauropod—the “free bone” of “free bone giveaway” fame. It wasn’t the most impressive dinosaur bone she had, but if Regis wanted nicer bones, she’d have to agree to be kidnapped first. It was decorated with a red bow but the prettiest thing was, of course, Siobhan herself. She knocked again, then remembered that doorbells existed, and rang that. Before the door was even open, her practiced speech was leaving her lips: “Hello, I’m a representative of Free Bone Giveaway here to deliver your lonely bone and complimentary box of Boneios.” 

—

He was sore and he was anxious. Those were two things that never worked well together and one of them wasn’t often in Gael’s mind at all. Ever since Regan had told him of her going back to Ireland, especially if she didn’t seem like she wanted to and it was implied that it wasn’t even her choice, he’d been particularly on edge and astute when it came to her online interactions. Granted, Regan wasn’t a child but that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? She wasn’t a child and yet she reminded him so much of one sometimes; her childish competitiveness, her childish frustration when he had an emotion or an experience that she didn’t like. The way she carried herself and gave him looks when she was upset without telling him that she was upset. And those were all reasons why he felt the need to increase his vigil over her. He couldn’t keep her from leaving, he knew that but at the same time, he could watch over her to the best of his abilities short of insisting that he stay with her until that time came. Gael wasn’t her guard dog but he was a guard dog of sorts; Ren, Van (though she hated it), Felix, even Wynne, Ariadne and Cass. Regan was just another on his list of people he wanted to protect, make sure they were happy or at least fulfilled. And Regan was special to him, though he smothered anything that could’ve threatened to blossom into something more than ‘unwitting friend’. Everyone had someone. He just didn’t have his. And he didn’t think he would find it with Regan; she was ascended. She was a banshee. So he smothered the bud, didn’t want it to grow or breathe even if he told Alex that it was healthy to do so. 

Nonetheless, despite being tired and sore and anxious, Gael sat uncomfortable on the edge of his couch, which was a far cry from how he normally sat when he was expecting company. His dark eyes stared at the door, wondering who would appear on the other side of it wanting someone like Regan. As per usual and perhaps more obviously than normal given his alertness, he heard footsteps before the knocking– then the knocking again. Then the doorbell. He exhaled, recognizing the steps as heels which… he didn’t want to say helped but he thought maybe he didn’t need the bat that leaned casually against the arm of the couch. “Coming,” He called as he limped to the door. When he opened the door, he certainly wasn’t expecting a statuesque woman, taller than him and with striking features from her dark eyes, porcelain skin and thick locks that tumbled over her shoulder that was covered in black material. Gael blinked, clearly taken aback and his own eyes danced over her. “Hi.” He said before clearing his throat and registering what she’d been saying partially through the closed door. “...Hi, sorry; what did you say your name was?” He asked before adding “is there– anything I should sign?”

—

Regis didn’t greet her. Siobhan couldn’t hide the way her face fell, features dropping as if her skin was melting off her face. She blinked, she stammered nonsensically, she spun around once just in case this was some fun trick. He was still there when she turned back around. He was shorter than her with messy salt-and-pepper hair and a purple ring around one of his sunken eyes. He looked familiar, the way a face often met in passing did. She swallowed. “I didn't say my name.” Her fingers curled tightly into her palm and her frown, in a flash, transformed into a tight grin. Somewhere, maybe inside the house, was a woman who didn’t realize how much she meant. How careless could one person be to leave someone chasing their shadow? “Gael?” She asked despite knowing the answer. What did Regis mean to him? Did he chase her too? She knew the answer to this too: if he appeared somewhere that Regis was meant to be, then he possessed something that Siobhan did not. The knife she carried inside of her jacket suddenly felt a little heavier. “Lovely home.” Siobhan used his weakened state to her advantage and shoved herself between him and the door, inviting herself inside. 

The interior was as plain as the man: whites, beiges and browns, minimal and clean. She could have mistaken it for a showroom if not for the tail that slinked behind a corner. Siobhan turned her hot gaze on him, trying to sear flesh with each dart of her pupils. She noted his uneven stance and thought about how funny he’d look tumbling down a flight of stairs. “You can do me a favor, actually. I need a little deal from you.” She grinned with her jaw clenched tightly. “You see, we can’t just send these lonely bones off to live with just anyone. I need to make sure they go to a good home--the right home. I need you to answer a few questions for me…” Her words dissolved as her eyes continued to trace the edges of his house. She strolled into the kitchen, staring at the cupboards and drawers and… “Bong?” She pointed to a device of glass jars and gold pipes. It looked like a titration set, the likes of which she saw in old laboratories, but no one just has those laying around. A bong was more probable.

—  

If Gael didn’t know any better, and he did, he’d think that whoever this person was standing at his door certainly wasn’t expecting a middle-aged, masculine guy to be there in the place of the female, pale-haired medical examiner. The stammer and surprised expression certainly helped and for a moment, as the woman spun on the spot as though to see if it would magic the professor away, Gael found a sense of accomplishment. She didn’t say her name, duh, but as her frown turned into a teeth-clenching smile, her frustration nonverbally evident to him, she did say his. “Yeah, that’s me.” They both knew that, but what Gael didn’t know was how willing this stranger was to push past him into his house. He was put on edge as he allowed himself to stumble back, giving himself the presentation of being someone too weak to fight back if a fight occurred - he was sore, for sure, but he knew that he’d be able to put up a fight just as well as he knew that she could. “It IS a lovely home.” He agreed instead as she looked around it, then over to him. He could tell she was glaring daggers, perhaps in an attempt to throw him off or get him to wither but as far as he could tell, he was the barrier between this woman and Regan, the barrier between Regan staying there and being forced to go back to Ireland. 

He returned her piercing glare with his own narrowed gaze, thick eyebrows furrowed but with a half-smile on his angled face. It wasn’t going to work. The guard dog had its hackles raised but it wasn’t going to attack unless provoked. “Questions? I can do questions.” Gael said in a friendly enough manner, though how much of it was a farce was something of a mystery to him. “I don’t do deals, though.” Indeed, as she wandered around his house, he listened carefully and found that her heartbeat was very similar to Regan’s; slow, a murmur almost as though threatening to simply stop. He wasn’t sure what she was but part of him wanted to guess ‘banshee’ just to be safe. In any case, he wasn’t a dealmaker anyway, let alone to strangers who shouldered into his house looking for the people he cared about. “What? No, it’s a coffee maker.” He scoffed. “Why would I have a bong sitting on my counter?” He shook his head and took unsteady steps towards the island. “Okay, what are your questions? Since apparently my house doesn’t look well-kept enough to warrant taking care of those… incredible bones you’re so generously offering to the right person.” Gael thought his house looked perfect for some bones, if only through coincidence. Apparently she might need more convincing.

—

“You don’t do deals?” Siobhan scoffed, a sharp smile crawling its way over her lips. Wise humans knew better than to announce so plainly that they knew—that someone had told them that making deals with a certain group of people was bad. There was no other explanation for the sentiment; humans made deals all the time, for food, for money, or nauseatingly mundane decorating choices. “Then, just a question: as long as I am in this house asking you questions, can you provide completely honest answers to my questions? Will you agree to do just that?” She didn’t need to say it was a deal to make it work, she’d lived enough years as a fae to make do with less obvious phrases. She pulled her leather gloves off her hands, one finger at a time, and set them down on Gael’s kitchen island, outfitted with a marble countertop that did impress her. Some things hadn’t changed much over the years: marble still implied wealth. The box of Boneios followed her gloves but she kept the vertebrae tucked safely under her arm. 

“Well.” She shrugged. “Where else would you keep your bongs?” Siobhan pressed her palm to the cold counter, staring at the thick webbing of pale scars across her knuckles and those new ones, gifted upon her disgrace, down the back of her hand. She squeezed her hand into a fist and set the velvet box holding the bone down finally. “You aren’t who…” She tilted her head from side to side, as if there was water in her ears she wanted to dislodge. “…who I spoke to online, we both know that. Bones are very sensitive, they don’t enjoy being lied to and they get scared when they change hands too often. All they want is a stable, loving home.” The lie bubbled in her stomach, quickly awash by her years of practice saying nonsense. With a delicate finger, she lifted the lid of the box open. The hinges squealed and the lid snapped into place like the jaw of an alligator and there, on blue silk, was the bone. She spun it around to face him. “Can you tell me what this is? What bone? From where? From when? Don’t touch it.” The thought of his human filth getting on to the fossil set her skin on fire. Where was Regis? All of this was meant for Regis. 

She thought she felt something clicking in her head, like gears refusing to lock into place or a lighter trying to spark. What purpose did a banshee have for this layer of security? Click, click, click. Siobhan stared at him again, hoping the answer would come to her. How close did a man have to be to a banshee to be entrusted with bone delivery? Click, click, click. “Are you two fucking?” She asked plainly as though it had been just another question. “You and…” Click, click, click. “…the woman I spoke to online.” 

—

She circled the area still, slow and methodical and Gael crossed his arms at the followup question. He wasn’t stupid. Foolish, maybe. Emotional, definitely but he didn’t accumulate two PhDs for not thinking critically. That being said, the question gave him pause. Before moving to that town, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it so… he applied the question to outside the town. He pictured his sister or a friend in place of Regan - if he were approached by a stranger, who then barged into his home looking for one of them and wanted completely honest answers from him, would he oblige even if there wasn’t some form of magic involved? “...I will answer your questions to the best of my ability.” After Beau, after Ren, after Regan, after losing his name and that chunk of time that was supposed to be a date, he was apprehensive. Gael didn’t want to get caught by something and as he recalled the recent conversation with Regan, accompanied with how he felt in the forest the day they went to get the femur, he was reminded again that fae - or at least banshees - weren’t human. “Also I wouldn’t keep a bong anywhere,” He replied as his eyes found her scarred hands, immediately curious about what had happened to warrant them. He had a scar twisting around his own hand from a night he could only remember in chunks. He could only assume hers weren’t; she seemed too… meticulous. It wasn’t about his coffee maker but he couldn’t be sure if she was trying to get under his skin with the comment. And as she spoke about bones in the same possessive, understanding way that Regan did, Gael felt whatever uneasiness that had bubbled in his stomach solidify into a stone. And yet, at the end of her micro-speech, he wanted to look her in the eye and say ‘they’re just bones’. Speaking of, after removing her gloves and setting the box of cereal down (much to his surprise that they actually existed), eventually the velvet box came after. She opened it, the unexpected noise from the hinges causing his brow to twitch in discomfort, and he was presented with a bone, very large indeed and not what he expected. At least it was a bone… he thought. “It’s a bone, obviously.” He started, starting to display his bravado and penchant for appearing confident even though he was completely out of his element. “It’s… a vertebra and usually those come from spines. Aaaand…” He puffed his cheeks. “Sometime before now. Probably at least dozens of millions of years ago.” He couldn’t charm his way out of that one. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Gael didn’t have to think about his answers for long when the stranger abruptly asked him if he was having sex with Regan. Immediately he felt his face heat up, betraying how collected he wanted to appear and it was his turn to stammer. “Wh– No??” He asked incredulously, the thought sending something pulsing up and down the length of his body - embarrassment, maybe even a little shame that he didn’t completely abhor the idea. She didn’t need to know that, though. No one did. He wasn’t for her anyway– what was happening right now. “No. No I’m not and even if I was that’s not any of your business, skelady.”

—

Again, he danced around her fae magic and Siobhan hissed. Someone had told him something or some sloppy fae had ruined him for the rest. Siobhan didn’t like that; it meant he knew more than he let on and worst of all, she would need to work to get answers out of him. Normally she would have relished the challenge but her mind wasn’t where it ought to be these days, and it had turned dull like a worn knife. All the more reason for her to go back to Ireland, sharpen herself. She watched his gaze drop to her hand breitling and wondered what he felt. Did he pity her? Was he curious? When he removed his gaze, she couldn’t tell what had passed through his mind. She thought she saw a question form in the brights of his eyes but everything seemed to be swallowed by the darkness that sucked them close to his skull. At that moment, she thought he looked especially pitiful and it was her that felt sorry for him instead. 

Impressed by his accuracy, basic as it was, Siobhan smiled and nodded, snapping the box shut, the power of the hinges could have crushed a finger but Siobhan wasn’t interested in hurting him…yet. Anyway, it seemed someone else got to him first and Siobhan didn’t like having someone else’s leftovers. If she was going to hurt someone, she wanted every bruise, scar, wound, ooze and shattered bone to be attributed to her. She could never be loved but to be completely loathed by someone sent a shock of desire across her limbs; it was the next best thing. She squeezed the countertop, putting fantasies of dismemberment away. “Good job,” she said, flicking open the box of stale, flaccid Boneios. She held it out to him. “Try some. You won’t get to ever again.” For the first time in her life, she hadn’t meant that as a threat; banshees simply weren’t known for their generosity. The adage ‘sharing is caring’ that humans seemed to imbue their greedy toddlers with had never been passed around Saol Eile and with an entire month dedicated to pilfering bones, what would any self-respecting banshee do? It was best not to get between a banshee and her Boneios, which, to the human man, would taste like stale cheerios—the bone shapes added a better texture, in Siobhan’s opinion. There was the faint aroma of bone on them, though, but that was a taste all banshees loved. 

She dug around the box and shoved a handful of Boneios into her mouth. She didn’t expect him to react that way, and instead of dissuading her, he had unknowingly convinced her she was correct. Siobhan pictured the narrative in her head, a banshee running away from her duty, her family, for the love of a man. The thought should have repulsed her but something else was clicking in her head, again; memories of a little girl who sat by candlelight with Austen open on her lap, soaking up words of drama and sensibility and, Siobhan had liked this part the most, romance. How many times had she read Captain Wentworth’s letter? She couldn’t understand it, she didn’t want to interrogate herself, and romance the likes of which her juvenile mind desired would never be achieved by her but more than fantasies of violence and gore, the idea softened her—turned her into something mutable. She should have chased it away but it was her defect that she couldn’t, that she didn’t know how to anymore. All the more reason to go back to Ireland; she needed it. She couldn’t become this sloppy, sentimental thing. 

“Do you have romantic feelings for her?” Siobhan asked softly. It all made sense, Regis running away, the use of this man’s address in place of her own, the bong. His injuries must have been sustained during a rough bout of lovemaking; it all made sense. Their romance was doomed, but she respected Regis for trying. Although, whatever respect she had was lost with her choice of man; boring and in bong-denial. “Her…Ah, what was her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Re….Re… It starts with an ‘R’, I’m sure. Something like Reg something-something Ca…” Her unspoken question floated in the air.

—

Did this woman just hiss at him? The levels at which Gael was trying to anticipate being attacked was fluctuating at a level he wasn’t used to or comfortable with, which was saying something given his incredibly easy adaptational skills. So, instead, he just kept his arms folded as he continued to look at her stunning figure, the expressions flitting to and from her face as they were replaced with false impressions of forced politeness. His own face slowly settled from the blush it’d taken moments before as he recovered his emotions; he couldn’t let this stranger get under his skin, not when he considered what was at stake. Satisfied enough with his answers, she snapped the box shut again like a beartrap that was carefully tread over; Gael could feel the metaphor. He also inhaled as she gave him what he presumed was empty praise - he’d spent long enough around Regan by that point that he knew better. What was new to him, though, was her holding out the cereal to him and offering it to the professor to try. A pause; was this another attempt to drug him? It’d happened a couple of times before but he didn’t want to be… rude. This whole scenario was weird and he just kept thinking about how different it would’ve been if it were Regan in this scenario, difficult as that was sometimes. He took a tentative handful of the cereal, which looked to be like cheerios but bone-shaped as how he thought they’d be. However, Gael didn’t eat them until his company did… if they were poison, surely she wouldn’t have eaten any, right? Assuming she was fae, surely their physiology wasn’t that different and he did have a hearty immune system so as he observed her, he reluctantly ate his own handful. Stale. Flavorless.Dry. …It TASTED like regular cereal. When she suddenly asked if he had romantic feelings for her, Gael managed to keep from choking on the cereal and instead he inhaled through his nose, glancing down at the marble countertop pensively as the crunching could be heard in the air. He knew that maybe… the answer was both right and wrong, something he hadn’t thought about too extensively for obvious reasons. Something he couldn’t think about, something he was sure Regan certainly didn’t think about if she was able to. He wasn’t for her. “No, I suppose I don’t.” He said just as quietly himself. “Or rather, it doesn’t really matter.” Now that was the honest truth, the only thing he could’ve said to not be a lie. “Her name is Reine.” Gael glanced across the island at the other woman, his eyes earnest and rather softened, despite the inherent danger of his situation. “It’s French for “queen”. That’s where she’s from.” A lie, easy enough to tell the woman and with enough hope and confidence behind it that he hoped she’d buy it.

—

Again, Siobhan took his answer to mean she was correct. Where she now expected and hoped for repulsion, she found herself still and her roaring mind quieted. She thought of Austen’s Wentworth: you pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Of Keats: still, still to hear her tender taken breath, and so live ever—or else swoon to death. And of Dickinson: I had been hungry, all the years. Her throat tightened. When she dreamed as a little girl, sometimes her flights of romantic fancy took the shape of a nameless, faceless void of a person that would come whisk her away from her troubled youth and fuse together her wounds until she became someone whole. Mostly, romance wasn’t a person: it was an idea. It was lush green fields, birdsongs, lazily grazing cows and old trees with thick trunks that had never been scarred. There were blue skies and clouds shaped like bones and a house, not unlike this one, coated with the warmth of life and comfort. Siobhan had lived over a hundred years in a sort of damp darkness, the locked cellar under someone’s better, brighter life. She envied Regis and then, as it so often happened with envy, she hated her. 

The woman had taken her better life— her protective lover with sunken eyes, the gold bong, the brown house— and left Siobhan desperate. She didn’t know how much she kept away from her, she didn’t know how much of her happiness relied on her. She was the one tugging Siobhan along on her leash, she held the power, and she didn’t even have the courtesy to know it. She gave her someone else’s name. She sent her to the wrong address, or at least, at the wrong time. And yet she knew what Gael saw her as, as a new fake name tumbled from his lips; she was the antagonist here. She squeezed the Boneio box, thin cardboard wrinkling under her grip. She was accustomed to playing the villain but finally, the idea twisted her insides. She wanted to scream. “A cute name for her. It’s rather romantic of you to call her that: la reine.” Her hand snapped out, clutching the velvet box. “But the bones don’t like liars. If you can lie about someone’s name, you can lie about how well you will care for them. You know I can’t leave this with you, right? You’re doing a bad job of proving yourself worthy.” It wasn’t for him. 

“You do like her.” Siobhan tried to steady herself but she still spoke through a tightened jaw. “What do you mean it doesn’t really matter? If you feel for her, you feel for her; affection matters. Affection has always mattered.” Her scarred knuckles turned white under her grip. Whatever she told this man would likely make its way back to Regis and so, she had to be careful. Forty years ago, when wings were still on her back, she might have been able to be more careful. “She’s entrusted you with her bones. Do you understand what that means? And you stand there and give me a fake name as if I’d believe you. As if they make Boneios in France.”

—

Something he said had gotten under her skin, though Gael wasn’t sure if that was a good thing - prying the aloof surface off just to find what musty secrets and hidden intentions were potentially under the veil often led to the danger of the unknown, the misunderstood and the emotionally volatile. On the other side of the coin, however, her reaction via both crushing the box of cereal and pulling the velvet box closer to her, back to coveting it like it was more precious than anything he could’ve known, seemed to set his mind at something of ease. “Then don’t leave them with me. They aren’t for me.” Gael didn’t look at the velvet box or the box of Boneios, he looked at her, unfaltering but not angry. “None of this is. This is all for that woman, whose name you don’t even know so how can you be sure it’s not Reine?” The soapbox was threatening to come out; the longer they stood there, exchanging false pleasantries, the more riled up he became and he could feel it starting to thump in his heart, against his aching bones and weaving through the bite wounds in his old scar. “Whoever sent you here to retrieve her couldn’t even bother to give you a name?” Uncalled for but he felt like it needed to be said. He uncrossed his arms and placed them on the counter as he kept his dark-eyed stare on her. “I know what it means to be entrusted with things that are precious. I understand what bones and death mean to her. What they mean to you, Professor Dolan.” As they interacted, Gael was able to recognize her as the archeology professor at the university. They’d never met in person - and he wasn’t even sure if she actually taught anything - but he remembered seeing her face and the obvious respect she had for the bones in conjunction with her obsession with finding Regan by any means necessary connected the dots in the man’s head. 

“Yes, I do like her.” He admitted. “And I don’t want to dislike you.” It was the truth. “Why is it so imperative that you take her back? What is the goal? What do you want?” How frequently phrases and words came up in Gael’s dictionary; he’d asked so many people this same exact question, so many people who put their wants, needs and desires aside from some perceived ‘greater good’ or out of some misplaced sense that what they wanted wasn’t important. “Can I make you some tea? We can talk about this.”

—

Gael’s words crashed into Siobhan, exploding on impact. She stumbled, slapping the box of Boneios down on the counter, sending a few cereal skulls and pelvises flying. She released the box, gripping the counter instead to steady herself. She wanted to hurt him, the desire was an overwhelming miasma across her mind, and her hand slipped under her jacket to fondle the sheath of her prized knife. She knew it was an immature reaction; violence always sprang up when unpleasant emotions toiled inside of her. She dropped her gaze as shame burned her cheeks. She had walked into the house at a disadvantage, she knew that, but to have it laid out so plainly was humiliating. “Her name wouldn’t be French, it would be something with Gaelic origins, like Regan.” But it wasn’t Regan, was it? Either way, they all— Regan, Regis, Reine— meant the same thing: king, queen, ruler. And she was safely tucked away in her castle while her knight did her bidding, vetting the strange ‘free bone giveaway’ lady to make sure she wouldn’t stuff her into a burlap sack. 

“I had a name,” she mumbled. Siobhan raised her hand, mimicking the way she’d held the piece of paper before she soiled it. The first time she read it, she’d been too drunk to remember it well and when she woke up, wine had smudged the name into illegibility. She had the ‘R’, which remained, and the vague remembrance of the sounds that followed it. She squeezed her hand into a fist, crushing the imaginary letter. “And then I lost it.” Proof of her inadequacy. She had lost the precious thing entrusted to her before she even had a chance to try and keep it. He knew who she was; she’d already lost. Likely, she lost the moment she showed up at his door. She had no reason to fear becoming something pathetic, she already was. 

When he asked her what she wanted, she perked up, staring at him under the cover of loosened strands of her brown hair. His cruelty was sharp—no wonder Regis and him shared in a passionate love affair. “I want to be happy.” Siobhan quivered as she exhaled. “I want my life back.” Her eyes burned. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to get it back but she couldn’t hurt him, not if Regis loved him. She might have been the monster coming to throw Regan back into a life she didn’t want, but she possessed standards. No one would ever appreciate them, but it wasn’t her place to be appreciated. “No tea. I’m not going to let you poison me. And you’re not the person I want to talk about this with.” She traced the thick scarred line across her palm, so old and fused to her flesh that it looked more like something that had always been there rather than a transformation her body had taken. She traced its mirror image on the other hand too. “You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand. I don’t have a choice, I’ve never had a choice. I am what I am and I do what I must. On rare occasions, my desires align with what must be done. Like this. These are powerful motivators: want and need. You cannot change my mind; you may remove the want or the need but you cannot dissolve both. And as long as one exists, I will have her. I will take her and you’d have to kill me to get me to stop, but I’m not a fool. I understand why I was chosen. If I die, I am their alarm—they come here, they know where she is, and now they have righteous fury to fuel them. I don’t matter but I can… if I bring her back. I matter. It has to be me. I need it. I want it. I am nothing without her.”

—

The name was on the tip of her tongue, she even said it. But she didn’t know it, not for sure. And Gael wouldn’t be the one to tell her, no matter what she would’ve answered with in response to his questions. She had it, with him able to gather through her body language that it was written down before something happened to render it illegible or unavailable. He also assumed that she hadn’t wanted to let them know that happened because of her pride. Siobhan didn’t want tea, he didn’t blame her. She also didn’t want to talk about it with him which he also understood but as she spoke about how she didn’t have a choice, about how she was what she was and how she had a specific purpose, dragging Regan away from Wicked’s Rest and back home presumably under instructions from her overbearing grandmother incensed him. Gael was zero for two now on banshees who felt like they had a greater calling, that things weren’t about what they wanted though, to be fair, the woman before him had actually told him what she wanted, even if it came at a cost to Regan and what she wanted. His brow furrowed as she spoke with conviction, about how she’d have to die before stopping in her purpose, about how her death would be a siren and a blip on the map for some supposedly greater force to come swoop Regan away. ‘I am nothing without her.’ “That doesn’t have to be true.” Gael gulped as he looked at her, his eyebrows starting to twitch in the middle as they were pulled by empathy. “I’ve heard about where you two came from. I’ve heard about how you don’t feel like you have a choice, about how it’s not about what you want. I’ve been told about the harsh practices, the drilling of information, the implication that you don’t deserve things.” As he spoke, he lowered his head though he still kept his eyes looking up at her, his eyes soulful. “You can be happy. You live longer than us humans; surely there’s enough time to give yourself grace and do what you want to do, right?” He wasn’t speaking about Regan anymore, even if he wanted to say these things to her. And Gael wasn’t sure if the banshee was even listening to him but the soapbox was out. “You do matter, Siobhan. You and your choices matter. Your happiness matters.You are here right now, living with an instruction in your head that is keeping you from experiencing that happiness. You are something. And you said I can’t change your mind - God knows I can’t seem to change hers either - but you also can’t change mine.” He gave a steady inhale through his nose. “No one’s happiness should come at the cost of another. And if there’s something I can do to help you, something that’s realistic, then I’d like to. But I can’t tell you her name.” 

—

Siobhan was listening. She didn’t want to be and most of it felt like the babbling of a child, but she was listening. She wondered if he knew he was wasting his breath and decided to waste it anyway. She wondered if he knew she wouldn’t carry his words with her anywhere, that they would die right where they were born, and decided to bring them to life anyway. Humans could be tenacious in their futility. Sometimes people, and especially people like Gael, were just dogs chasing cars. Poor things. Didn’t they know what happened when they stepped out in the middle of a road? Siobhan lifted her hand to him, splaying her fingers until the scar ribboned across her palm bulged out. “Have you seen hers? You should ask to see it one day and while you think about how many times you must run a blade across flesh like ours to leave a mark like this, I want you to think about me. I want you to think about how much thicker mine is, I want you to think about every inch of my body that you can’t see and think about your stupid fucking speech and be enfeebled by the weight of your ignorance.” She snapped her palm shut like the heavy lid of the velvet bone box. 

“Her happiness can be found in new places but my life is over. Her life is flush with possibility; she ran, and someone still wanted her back. Even within the confines of our way, she is still the one that hoards freedom. What you understand from her eyes, whatever she has told you, you cannot begin to fathom from mine. There is only one way forward for me. There is only one person that can grant me my livelihood and she doesn’t want to go back because her boyfriend can’t follow her. Do you truly think her decade of misery will be more terrible than my lifetime of condemnation? I have lived what she fears. I was born into what she fears. I am what she fears. And you? Gael, you’re just a dog.” Siobhan’s lips twisted into a wide grin, cracking her face in twain between the severity of her eyes and the glee of her mouth. “Honk honk,” she said and then she screamed. 

The house rattled; glass popped and Siobhan felt the world quiver underfoot. She didn’t want to kill him, she didn’t even want to permanently wound him, but she wanted his ears to ring and the following migraine to contort his existence into a labor. Most of all, she wanted to ruin the insipid gold bong he kept on his counter. When she was done, the sound still echoing in the air and her bones still vibrating with warmth, she spoke softly, just to taunt him. “You can have the Boneios, maybe they’ll remind her of home.” She snatched the velvet box and tucked it under her arm. “But I’m keeping the bone.” Picking glass out of her hair, she started to walk away. He wouldn’t appreciate the fact that she spared him the worst of her power—the scream was the equivalent of a yawn—but that was for him to figure out when his brain started working again. 

— It was a peculiar thing, the soapbox that he felt empowered on when he was giving pep talks and speeches to people he felt could use them. Gael was so rarely stopped from standing on it, so seldomly dissuaded from what he was saying, being allowed to continue as long as he wanted, that over the years he was under the impression that they actually did anything. It was peculiar because as soon as one were to look down, they’d just just that - a soapbox. A soapbox holding up a short man who thought he was making a difference to whoever he was talking to. He didn’t feel that often, obviously, and he was unaccustomed to the rejection of it all. He knew that the second she lifted her hand and began to talk back to him, as his dark eyes danced on the thick scar on her palm, it was a waste of his time and energy. Of course it was; this was a woman who was tasked with taking Regan back, so delusional in her single-minded goal that she could die and that would be preferable to living without attaining that goal. She was talking and Gael wanted to listen, both with his sharp hearing and his gentle mind, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand to hear what strong convictions spurned her to act the way she did, he didn’t want to entertain whatever counterargument she could provide. He tried to be accommodating. He tried to understand as many angles as he could - that was why he still communicated with Emilio, with Regan, with Ren. But he also quickly came to the conclusion that whatever Regan was, whatever she told him about banshees, really was a perception colored by her experiences at Wicked’s Rest. She had a higher calling, she had a purpose and a clarity but it paled in comparison to the creature that lectured him across his marbled island countertop. He knew Siobhan was insulting him but Gael had managed to tune her out until she was little more than a buzz in his ears. His expression fell and a look had crossed his gaunt face, something almost akin to a dissociative state as he waited for her to finish her own speech so he could tell her to get the hell out of his house. She was done here. He was done here. The professor didn’t look back up at her until she seemed to come to a close on her ramble, turning his hearing back on so he could understand the words that were coming from her mouth. ‘I am what she fears.’ 

Gael knew that. 

‘And you? Gael, you’re just a dog.’  He knew that, too. That’s all Gael felt like sometimes, following people around, approaching strangers to see if they needed help. Coming when called, excited on behalf of others, often not even thinking about what he wanted or needed to the point where he wasn’t sure what to tell them sometimes when they asked. He rolled over (most of the time, anyway) in the interest of wanting to make sure everyone was okay. He said things he didn’t mean and snapped sometimes but he was always the one who apologized first after realizing how antagonistic he was being because he didn’t want people to be mad at him. He wanted to protect who he cared about. He didn’t want to be alone, not when he couldn’t be sure what he even was anymore.

‘Stay. Good boy.’

These were a flash in his mind as Gael saw her expression contort and snap into an unnatural smile, wide, with too many teeth and nothing but hatred in it. ‘Honk honk’. Okay, that caught him a little off-guard and he felt his brow furrow slightly. He opened his mouth to tell her that they were done when her own mouth opened and–

The sound was immediately unbearable. He didn’t want to call it a scream as it was a siren that effortlessly pierced his eardrums, the screech of metal that shook the house, shattered the glass of his coffee maker and the window that sat behind his sink. With an involuntary yelp, Gael’s hands flew to his ears as fast as they could, yet they were agonizingly slow as the sound rattled in his brain, filling it with razor blades. He crashed to his knees, his vision swimming in tears and finding himself completely unable to hear anything but a pitched whine that drilled through him. He couldn’t focus on her, he couldn’t focus on the warmth oozing from one side of his head, he couldn’t focus on how effectively helpless he was at that moment in time.

She said something but he couldn’t even begin to understand what it was; it didn’t matter anyway. None of this mattered. Gael felt nauseous. He breathed heavily, pinching his eyes closed as he felt his fingers pressing against his skull in an attempt to assuage the simultaneous pounding, slicing and ringing. “Get out.” He said, unable to hear the occlusion that normally sounded off in one’s head when they spoke. “Take your calling and your purpose and choke on it.” He wasn’t sure how loudly he was speaking, but he didn’t care. He opened his eyes slowly and looked up at her with his dark gaze that glistened with tears, a small release of the pain that made his head sway unsteadily. Where uncertainty was in his body language and deafness was deafening in his ears, his tone, possibly shouting, carried everything he needed to convey to her.

“You’re not getting her.”

you seem like you’re so fun to hang out with. like idk but i just KNOW i’d have a blast with you whether it’d be partying or just getting high and doing something mundane IDK SORRY IF THATS WEIRD CAUSE I ONLY KNOW YOU ONLINE BUT LIKEEEEE also your food always looks so amazing???

awwwww ty!!!!!! It’s NOT weird!!!!! Spiritually I am lighting a bong for u rn. idk I used to be really anxious and lonely but I got on the right meds and I met ppl I trust to have a good time with and I rlly came out of my shell! Now I spend Saturday nights getting high, making food, eating cookies and annoying my best friend. life is hard enough as it is a lil leisure and fun is good for the soul. I truly believe that