Author Archives: Webmistress Ave

I’m Avery, the one who primarily develops this site. I’m 22, mixed Mexican/Hispano, a student, a butch lesbian—I can keep listing things. I use any pronouns, not in singularity. Do not use a singular set for “simplicity.” I’m a disabled artist, a writer, creative. The first time I touched a computer I started to learn how to type and this is why I write so much. I tell stories and document experiences rich to me. I hear noises others do not. I have a long history with radio and the news.

Snuffed Out – AEW WrestleDream Bryan Danielson vs Jon Moxley

This article contains spoilers and results for the end of the AEW WrestleDream 2024 pay per view, along with discussion of simulated violence, real injury, and references material from AEW produced television and secondary programming, outside press interviews, and direct statements from wrestlers involved.

I love a story with a definitive.

I’ve never enjoyed episodic, continuity abandoning productions that span endlessly. A lot of sitcoms and animation fall into this trap, and the appeal of the unending, or the forever, is fresh in the cultural zeitgeist of an ever expanding, ever growing world.

There is one this we as humans will all experience.

The end.

I don’t think death is our only end though, whether one approaches life this way willingly or by force, we are tasked with recognizing when we will end things, when we must stop, when the course must change.

For Bryan Danielson, in Tacoma Washington Saturday night, he chose an end.

Whether you’ve been following Bryan from the beginning of his career on the independents, to his rise in the mainstream or his twilight return under AEW’s infancy, you learned early on just how much love the world of wrestling has for him, and how much he loves it back. His power to capture audiences bested the powers that be at his last employer, and his command of the crowd and people among him was threaded into everything, from the back stage to ring.

Many, many wrestlers have gone on record in various positions to sing their praise for the man. In AEW’s official publications, like their podcast series, the volume of younger wrestlers who cite Bryan as an inspiration is almost cute–when it came time for some of these wrestlers to face Bryan, this respect was palatable, his work with Daniel Garcia, Lee Moriarty, Wheeler Yuta, and others held a decent amount of run time throughout his career. Wrestlers he hasn’t gotten in the ring with on television say just as much, Jade Cargill, now with WWE, discussed wrestling, practicing and studying with Danielson and mentor William Regal in the early hours before the show, just as the ring was built and set.

Certainly wrestlers sung their praises of Danielson outside of AEW proper as well, in the latest press tour for the last several pay per views where Bryan held the belt, Orange Cassidy offered one of the most common refrains people offer in appreciation of the man, “It’s Bryan Danielson!“

By no means has AEW been light on the framing surrounding Bryan’s twilight before and after winning the AEW world title. Using Green Day’s acoustic closing with a flash through of his career, using the Ring of Honor brand to resurface work from Bryan’s independent heyday, tasking his coworkers both young and old to talk about him in the lead up to his match with Swerve.

Renee Paquette has been essential to this front, unsurprisingly. One of the most respected and skilled presenters AEW has, her intertwined inquiry and personal connection allowed for a lot to be constructed with very little, especially in the boil over to the events in Tacoma.

Which, we need to discuss now.

As someone who was invested in both Bryan and Moxley upon their entrance in AEW (and as someone who despised their work together in WWE) the onset of the Blackpool Combat Club set my heart on fire. In reading Moxley’s audio book earlier this year, his philosophical approach to wrestling, at least in my mind, feels akin to the structure of long epics with a commitment to acting on instinct. Bryan brought in patience, he’s a tactician and emotional provocateur all at once. Their dedication to real martial arts and storytelling alike has always been meant to meld, they made it clear that as much as they differ, they came together because they clicked.

What happened at All Out was meant to be from the beginning.

There’s a lot to point fingers at, injuries and plans surely play a role in everything this group has gone through together, even now, but that unescapable reality was something no one in wrestling can account for, at least right away. Early in the sense of conflict, one could easily point the finger at Bryan, going off on dream match after dream match, setting his sights on things alone; the group made it clear that they were wolves, they hunted and could fight their own battles, and singles gold put the group at the top endlessly. The BCC was formed with the belief they could change wrestling, disrupt the future to sculpt such a young, sprouting roster into the future.

The worst part is, they didn’t fail.

I’ll take you now to the match.

Bryan and Moxley have gone after each other time and time again. What has felt heavy in these battles is how fluid it feels, how the violence and movement feels comfortable even with the level of violence and stakes brought to the table.

Moxley has been focusing on a lot in his return. In promos, he addresses the stagnancy. His co-conspariters call out to what to them is the obvious, that diplomacy has failed, that the way to the future is violence. The BCC hasn’t just terrorized Bryan of course, his crew ripped through others with violence, Private Party being one of them.

While this story isn’t about them, in an interview, again with Renee, Moxley’s terror amongst the locker room hasn’t escaped them, they call it out directly, Isiah’s busted hand is proof. He calls on Renee directly that’s her man doing this, terrorizing them, causing harm like that. In that same interview, she asked the tag team if they think Moxley digging into them, attacking their static status and their failures, may be right.

They agree.

In the pre-show, Renee expresses her conflict, how close she is to Bryan’s wife, how many fond moments her, Bryan and Moxley have had. She doesn’t talk about Moxley much, other than this shared fear that tonight something bad will happen.

In an interview with her husband some time ago, the two of them talk about their basement, a gym Mox is building out for the BCC to train in. The two of them seem excited for this future, paired up with people they love.

Bryan and Moxley are mirrors in a way, they intact the same violence because they planned the same violence, the mutualism between their move sets are bound in just as much blood as they are training hours. Their flourishes to the crowd command them forward. They know exactly how to inflict pain to each other’s bodies.

What stands out with this feud, despite the serendipity is how clinical it all feels, almost impersonal with the way Moxley collectivizes his actions. Bringing in Marina, Pac and Claudio not only works for him on the level of connection, but in mutual frustration. Both Claudio and Pac had faced Bryan at moments they could have won gold, and his command over the crowd and his patience in all of what comes right to him leaves a searing in their guts that was clearer even before Moxley’s intentions were clearly known. Moxley allows these three to intact violence and disruption, Marina especially is entrusted in this role during the match and using her to play dirty keeps everyone off their game, largely because they are used to Moxley enacting violence of his own accord. Moxley refuses to relent, he presses on the gas though at the same time he makes it clear this is bigger than him or Bryan or the belt itself, and what is compelling this is much, much bigger.

Moxley is a man concerned with future.

Bryan, and us, lived in every moment he had.

When it comes down to the match itself, there shouldn’t have been a question that Danielson was on a time limit. He was clear with the audience again and again that he would need neck surgery soon. He won the belt. He was our champion, and no one wanted this to end.

Moxley was the stronger man, the man who could withhold more ache.

The future was not a celebration, it was not grandiose.

Jon Moxley welcomed us to the future with silence, and gasping for air, with the slumped body of our hero, with his gold shoved into an undescriptive bag. In an instant, the title went away, wrestling went away, and he dug for something deeper.

Something has to change.

What happens in the ring next irrupts into horror, into sobbing, into violence. Brutalization is the goal, not resolution. With every stomp and slam you are left to watch Bryan suffer. If the cloud of retirement dominated the build, Bryan’s survival dominated the fall. Even out of desperation you watch one of the last people who stood by Bryan try, until he’s captured by the grief of it all.

Until it’s clear that Moxley’s words have. dug. deeper.

The slam of the bag on Yuta’s chest, the moment you realize what’s coming.

Of what haunts me most, before Excalibur on commentary cracks into tears, is Wheeler Yuta, the man they chose for the future screaming at Bryan to stop moving as he suffocates him.

An ending, if there can ever be a true end.

Through everything assembled and enacted in Washington last night, what haunts everyone from the faces of those who ran out to protect him, to the cagey haunted demeanor of everyone in the company, to the sense of surreal emptiness I felt when it ended, what’s clear to me is despite the intricacies and faults of the medium, Bryan Danielson and Jon Moxley set out to construct a home in AEW with doors they opened, and now Bryan has closed.

I am desperate for the next open door.

If this is an ending, I am desperate to know what the future looks like with Bryan’s light being snuffed out.

I need to see what wrestlers start burning bright in his wake.

Two Years On—My Love

Once I realized I was a butch lesbian, the rest quickly fell into place.

What I can tell you about my lover is that he utterly captivates me. Nel is someone who I was captivated by before we began dating, from the moments of laughter we shared together to catching glimpses of his intelligence & fiery personality. I thought Nel was fucking cool. When we got closer through shared passions & especially creativity, it was like finding a link in a chain I didn’t know I’d want to connect to.

I did, I wanted to, badly.

I wouldn’t lay the realization of lesbianism all on Nel, that came with a lot of thinking on both the past & present; being around other lesbians, him & our friends Ada & Kish (who were gifted with the comedic flusteredness of my crush prior to asking Nel out) certainly helped. Though when it came time to ask, on the time difference between the 29th & 30th of September in our time zones, I asked.

Ever since, I feel like I have lived with a warm sense of happiness in the deepest part of my body that has never left me, even in the darkest pits of distress & other issues.

I will leave some of our relationship to the imagination, but being with Nel is just wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a better lover. I just adore his passions and quirks, the things that make him Nel are the things I love most about them. As butches we’ve always clicked to similar beats, but the beauty of him to me is in the areas he differs are the ones where I click in, the serendipity of the two of us, our outer shells and our soft insides, there is a safety I know with Nel that I never knew before.

I love him, so much.

This year being our senior year, I know the weight on our plates, how things can become cyclical and we end our days exhausted more often than not. Because of that, I’m letting myself feel warm about the future, if this is year two, and I’m able to hold this warmth, what kind of light will the future bring.

Nel, my darling, may we have many, many more.

Time in the Light: Original Wrestling Fiction

This piece was orginally published during the 2023-2024 school year for a course on short fiction, this piece has been modified from it’s original version after workshopping and reflection

The first thing Céline notices is the bitching, about two minutes before her trainers call them all to attention for their daily drills.

“Why do the broads get their own locker room?”

A stocky man whispers behind his fringe at a distance from her, but Céline catches his hissing anyhow. She can’t remember his name, but his gimmick fits the brooding douche; some kind of fallen angel, a complex thing, she guesses.

“There’s only two of them, what a waste of fucking space.”

Another guy, not a wrestler mind you. The kid’s too young to wrestle under the commission, his nepotistic belief in a free ticket to winning the belt when he turns 18 shows in the contempt in his voice.

It’s true, of everyone who’s gone through the training school, women are few and far between.

Wrestling is a quiet activity in the Southwest, despite lucha libre dominating the popular conscious and late-night telecasts when Céline was small; the independent wrestling scene is fraught and minute though Céline saw no other path for herself when she signed on to train here, makeup of the class be damned.

The other broad in question steps out of the same place of ire.

Astronomica is her ring name. According to Buck, their trainer, it was the name she came with.

Céline found it commanding to say the least, leaving nothing to be said for her stature and build.

Astronomica is wide and tall; the curves of her body leave a lot of space to slam into her side. Her grip is suffocating and tight and the power in her thighs has sent her flying across the mat more than she could count.

It’s captivating, really.

She doesn’t know her shoot name, and truly hasn’t spoken to her much beyond pleasantries and calling matches despite all the time and space the two of them have in the shared locker room. It’s not to say she hasn’t studied the woman, her movements and tone.

The way her personality radiates within the ring is hard to ignore and Céline has caught herself admiring the wrestler from her side of the locker room more than she’d like to admit.

Buck calls the group’s attention before she can gawk at muscles across Astronomica’s arms further.

When she joined the school, Astronomica was already here having registered several months prior, and the two of them were quick to set a rule. Intergender matches were the day-to-day training, more than anyone else, they both wrestled the other men. Astronomica came from a family of athletes and was used to the roughness. Céline knew how to fight men from years of
friendship and more time playing football than she’d like to admit.

Neither of them would say it in the gym but their intergender opponents were simply minor steppingstones.

To fight each other, that was a challenge.

The first time they take each other, it’s the end of practice, it’s the last match of the night before cleaning, and despite Buck giving the boys shit for trying to take off, it’s not hard to feel their disinterest.

Now Céline takes on the vibrant form of MisSTAR, staring down Astronomica from the opposite corner with baggy eyes and a wild grin.

Wrestling, gets call it a lot of things. Entertainment, sports, a technical feat.

MisSTAR sees it as a dance.

When they lock up, Astronomica smells like sweat, smoke, and vanilla spray deodorant.

The chasm between her thick eyebrows is tight, her gaze is focused. The hold shifts, and MisSTAR reacts quick to the lurch her opponent gives her forearms in an attempt to break it.

MisSTAR wastes no time: it’s size versus agility, and she refuses to let her stature stop her.

It’s an elbow to the gut of Astronomica and a push to create distance. MisSTAR runs, flies against the ropes, past Astronomica and to the other side.

From the crowd, the crack of her knee to the back of Astronomica’s head is deafening.

MisSTAR collides like a heat seeking missile, and Astronomica is thrown into the center of the mat the second MisSTAR can get her footing.

She doesn’t stop there, MisSTAR is climbing to the closest corner. She’s been working on this; it’s been a sore point before.

Her balance catches on the top turnbuckle, and she spreads her arms wide.
For a moment, MisSTAR is weightless through the air, and crashes deep into her. Her tilt-a-whirl crossbody gets a shout even from the disinterested jobbers hanging around in the stands. It was her big moment, spiraling through the air, until she comes crashing down on Astronomica’s shimmering kneepads with a sick thud.

The rest of the match goes quick after that, where MisSTAR leads the opening, the latter half of the match is dominated by the shooting star herself.

Astronomica is hard to deny when a hip attack is thrown into MisSTAR’s face and chest after she was tossed into the turnbuckle pad with the whip of her arms. It’s fuzzy stumbling, and her silvery haze of her opponent’s gesturing hands tugged her body to the center of the ring, but the scream from
Astronomica as she flies forward for her backfist and the spinning behind her eyes means an ending.

A short count to three, and it’s all over.

Céline’s brain isn’t particularly on right now, Astronomica’s ‘Total Impact’ and eating the pin will do that to her regardless of being practiced, but she nods in appreciation at her and shuffles along once practice officially ends.

It’s been a long night, the ache in her is deeper than bone.

She needs a shower, first thing.

When she gets to her side of the locker room, she strips out of the gear she managed to keep on at the end of practice, and cringes at the way her breasts stick from the sweat.

Her shoulders aren’t any better, and Céline forces the tension down as she peels off her shorts.
Shower shoes on, towel around her waist, she moves along the empty rows of lockers.

“Hey–”

Astronomica is sitting at the last bench on the right, tucked back in the corner.
Céline turns to face her and, all at once, is seeing someone far different from the dynamo in the ring. Her hair is down, for the first thing. She’s used to seeing it in thick braids set on top of her head.

A second thing: Normally, Astronomica wears a tight-fitting top, that curves around her forearms and ends mid-stomach. It rides up during the match on occasion, but only now is Céline appreciating the sheer volume of muscle and shape on her body.

That is nothing to be said of the fact that the absence of the tank leaves space for the deep, wide swooping flesh; Céline admires the smoothness like polished stone. Stretchmarks and spots dance across her skin. An urge to count them like falling asteroids and distant stars hits her harder than any punch.

“I wanted to tell you, your moonsault has been getting better.”

Céline smiles at this and feigns a calm tone.

“I appreciate it-” an awkward chuckle, “you really gotta show me how you throw that much power into your spinning back fist, yknow.”

Astronomica stands up, she’s still wearing her kick pads and pants, but that doesn’t resolve the fluttering in Céline’s gut.

She’s looking up at her now, and Astronomica is standing with her hand on her hip.

“You know, you’re built like some of the people I threw with.”

Threw with?

The confusion of Céline’s face likely reads, because Astronomica continues, “It’s where I get my form for the backfist from, if you throw shotput, the movement and momentum is similar, let me show you.”

Céline stands there and watches her step back, she recognizes the stance from the moment before the backfist, but instead, Astronomica rocks her hips before taking off. Her feet skid against the linoleum floor and her body follows them, the momentum is in her hips, her thighs, throwing her around. Céline steels herself for the collision with her chest, but the flutters make her waver.

Instead of the hit, her arm flies in the air, she’s pushing the shotput instead, and she’s face to face with the rise and fall of her chest.

“See?” Her arm falls, and Astronomica is giving her a surprisingly sheepish grin.

“It’s all in the hips, all in the force in your legs, and carrying that motion up and out.”

Astronomica’s voice is softer, here, and she walks closer to Céline with each pause in her words.

They’re close, not as close as they’d be during a lock-up or a pin, but close enough for the palpations to rattle her. She’s hot again, almost sweating, surely, it’s just the lack of AC– It’s gotta be that –

“Yknow,” Astronomica’s lips curl up, “ you got a lot to work with MisSTAR.”
Céline’s ring name whines in her ears, nothing like the way the ring announcer screams it out; she clutches her towel tight, and lets a smirk rise above the heat.

“It’s Céline.” She offers.

Astronomica grins at that, “Well, then it’s Data.”

Céline’s heart leaves her pulsing, but her mouth and her ego bubbles out regardless, “Maybe I’ll show you more of what I’m working with.”

Sly, sure, a challenge, something to heat them both up.

She’s burning.

“I’d like that.” Astr-Data’s voice hums in fascination.

Céline is not good at hiding the heat in her eyes.

“Now go shower up, it’s gettin late.” Data nods towards the clock, and Céline cringes a little, it’s
set five minutes early, but she still doesn’t like the location of the hour hand at all.

Céline waves with her free hand and bids Data a goodnight.

Making it to the shower, waiting for things to quiet, she takes off her towel, turns to crack her
back.

Céline sighs and turns the shower cold.

It turns out, their in ring chemistry works just as well when they’re paired up. Buck suggested it
so his boys could get practice before the West Coast tag tournament, but Céline and Data were
open to the idea.

Since their moment in the locker room, the two began to talk more. It’s unsurprising when wrestlers talk about wrestling, but Céline can’t help but blush and grin like a madwoman when Data shows her the
collection of vintage joshi tapes the two start to study between practices.

They camp out at each other’s places between shows some nights, drifting off to Cutie Suzuki matches between glasses of wine and hours of talking.

When Data invites her to stay one night, cuddled up under one of Data’s many blankets as she
loads a new All Japan tape, Céline happily opens up the blanket to her, and Data relishes in her
partner’s warmth.

Their tag work gets better as they travel and train, and the minimal press coverage the area gets
is quick to highlight them as standouts. It’s the most press either pair has received since the start
of their careers, and the thrill it gives only brings them closer.

It’s a match for their local that sets them apart, Buck took the time to book a tag team out of San
Francisco for this show. For the faults of the industry, he did try for them.

Buzz began to grow when the Solar Flares faced Doll Parts.

For their credit, Doll Parts—Jem Plastic and Rosa Atómica—brought a violent punk flair
neither of the pair were accustomed to.

Part wrestling, part performance art–the crowd screams out when MisSTAR shreds down
Plastic’s sparkling fishnets in the rush of a DDT.

Astronimica is slapped hard with Rosa’s signature sparkle. The crowd is getting louder and
louder by the second and with he satisfying powerbomb Astronomica gets on Plastic while
they jeer when she bends like the brutalized Barbie she’s based on.

Though Astronomica isn’t legal, and she leaves the crumpled form of her opponent to her
ascending partner and guns for Atómica on outside. The fans are quick to jump up and
cheer around the fighting pair, but something else catches their attention.

The stunned crowd is chanting for her assension, MisSTAR perked up on the buckle as the
lights sparkle against her spandex suit. The jump sends her spinning yet again.


The three count is deafened by the roar. When the ref holds the winning pair’s hands, all
Céline can do is grin at the woman beside her.

The two are together more than they are apart. They tag in the ring and they travel to shows.
When the drives get long, and the road gets rougher, they agree to start staying together to save
time, money and gas. The situation is comfortable, especially so when Data moves from the pull
out couch to Céline’s warm bed.

If you asked Céline, it just felt right. Yes, her burning crush on the woman had definitely been a
factor, but the connection between them felt far deeper to her.

They spent hours on the road, talking about everything from their past to their present, their passions outside of the sport.

Céline shares her art for the first time since college with Data, after showing her mock ups for
matching gear. She watches her partner’s fingers in reverence as Data traces over the lines and
metallic fabric swatches with fascination.

Céline learns, after one particularly long trip, that Data is still a student, a Masters student no less, and lovingly indulges the women as she’s reading a draft out loud as they drive through the Nevada desert.

Data couldn’t deny it either, when she allowed herself to open, Céline made herself at home,
warm and radiating in her chest. It’s the drive she loves, the way Céline pushes the boundaries of
the rigid norm around her and casts that light around her. Céline can end a bar brawl quicker than
a squash match, but holds Data in bed like she’d hold priceless art. To say Data feels safe in the
hands of her partner would be an understatement.

They’re a unit, and they’re happy with these conditions.


Eventually it’s Data who slams a flyer on Céline’s shitty bedside folding table one night while
staying at her place. There’s openings for a new promotion; Lavender Wrestling League.

The kitschy neon blue highlight along a line—likely added by Data herself—is prodded at by her
short nails.

‘Women Tag Titles Yet To Be Claimed’

With stardust in her eyes, it’s hard to say no to Data’s raw energy. If they go for this, it could put
them on the map. This is a chance for something bigger, and they’d be fools not to take it. It’s a rare an indie like this pops up in this part of the country.

There are others, of course, it’s rare that titles for people like them get the spotlight, and the
league sets out a tag tournament in their debut location. The Arizona Red Rocks are vibrant even
against the white barn house, and the distant lavender fields that gave the promotion it’s
namesake sends floral notes between the typical wrestling stench.

Theres eight teams, and the tournament is getting eyes both for it’s uniqueness and the debut of a
new promotion. The eyes on them are undeniable, especially when press is involved. It’s the
brightest, most packed venue the pair has been in. Céline and Data do wonder quietly who’s
bankrolling the affair, but given the current stakes, they’d worry about pay after they became
champions.

First match in, they’re set against two green girls just out of the nearest training school.
The two know their basics, the Flares are grateful for that, since it’s their match to lead.

They play up everything they’ve worked on so far.
MisSTAR is legal now as she’s meant to raise the crowd, like morning glow and ozone she
leaves the crowd dazed and dazzled in the spirals of her shimmering kicks and glowing
punches.

Eventually the panic from the girls will set in, they’ll gang up on MisSTAR with the hope to
put out the Sun.

She tags in Astronomica and all at once the light is changed, eclipsing every bit of
momentum their opponents have. Where they try to orbit around her, it’s the fire in
Astronomica’s grip and the oppressive pressure of her slam that leaves her victim all but
helpless to the very danger Astronomica has been eclipsing.

The sun can be dangerous, it can burn, and when MisSTAR spirals into the sky, even
Astronomica wonders if she’ll catch flame.

Satin clings to Data’s bare back, the Santa Fe heat is oppressive this time of year, but it doesn’t
stop the jocks from clinging to each other. Céline is between her thighs, her square face
squeezed softly, framed below by dark curls.

“Did they really name you after the Star Trek character?”

Céline takes traces at the inside of dark thighs, ever closer to the twitching heat that got the pair
in this mess.

Data gasps out, “It was a nickname before I took it for mine-now stop talking about my parents!”

Her partner does laugh at this, “S’cute–I took mine right out of a baby book.”

Scorching lips surround the heat between Data’s legs, Céline groans around her clit, and she
relents to the hands pushing her knees apart. Head tilted back, hands twitching in the gaudy
magenta under her.

Data rocks her hips, glancing at the title belts they left on Céline’s clothes covered chair and the
way her lover’s breasts reflect off the silver.

Data basks in her lover’s light.

The night they are crowned champions, things are tense. Céline gets more call ups, but she stays
behind, Data gets offers for Japan, but they don’t want them both. Every single match they share
together, the more they’re asked to come apart.

The LWL belts. They keep them together. It’s a reign they hold onto by the skin of their teeth.
The promotion does pay well, as they later learn the location they’ve been wrestling in was an
old lavender and wine grape farm, bought by a butch and her femme looking to have a place for
the events and organizations they cared about; just their luck the pair loved professional
wrestling.

For a long time things are good, they travel, they wrestle, they train, they fuck. Céline and Data
take pleasure in a place they know they are safe in, the sort of peaceful isolation that comes with
the tender intimacy of love in private.

Though neither of them hide it. Not here, not now, in and out of the ring their adoring fans
scream just as much for their tender touches as a team as the devastating blows they throw at
their opponents.

That is, until, someone sees it to intervene.

As nice as the gig is, as much as the crowds love them, wrestling has its traditions. The queer has
its place, but it’s never the main event for long. A place like Lavander Wrestling League is rich
with criticism no matter how they try to shrug it off. Everyone from the owners to the wrestlers
gets caught under watchful eyes of the industry, and the obsessive misogyny and
sexism fans of the sport allow to foam from their mouths.

Whispers and rumors run wild across locker rooms and forums, a litany of concerned watchers
can’t help but speak up. Look at the way they look at each other, they way they touch, that can’t
be put on a grand stage.

Break them up, book series where they destroy each other in and out of the ring.

Changes in the booking happen all the time.

What could be done.

Who it hurts? Who it breaks?

The orbit shifts.

At one show, Data gets a chance for a smoke break while Céline sat in catering, she’s leaning
against the trunk of her car when she notices it’s uneven tilt. It’s then she notices the left tire in
the darkness, slashed and flat.

For the rest of that show, Céline notices her tension, but not the
rubber and oil stains on Data’s hands from secretly replacing the tire with it’s spare.

The crowds get harsher, and it’s the darling femme of the owner pair, a greying woman named
Taylor, who warns Data that if things get worse, they might have to go with a safer plan, one that
protects the pair if the aggression makes it’s way to a show.

The stress is getting too much to process, planning a program where a kayfabe fight splits the
pair up, the tension bubbling until they can’t handle it anymore. A program to pull the attention
away from their relationship makes nothing but sense.

Data should have known that any advanced plan could have gone to shit. Their popularity ran in
tandem with the vitrol. It’s getting to the both of them, sleepless stressed out nights between the
aches and pain, the notifications online the pair is forced to mute, the manifestation of a deeper
terror taking hold.

They’re good for starting the feud at the next Pay Per View, okayed among the parties who need
to know and noone else. Céline doesn’t sugarcoat her frustration at the expectation of her
‘victory’ in this feud, Data doesn’t hide her concern. They hold each other, they’re ready for
anything, they promise.

That is, until, all of that is thrown away the second MisSTAR misses a flip on the guard rail
during a house show, weeks before a plan can be put into action.

It’s an instant stoppage, the shock of the crowd, Data, and the referee changes the tone of the
room in an instant.

Medical wheels Céline straight to the onsite ambulance. Data follows behind.

They drop the belts.

The doctors Céline’s jaw shut.

Standing in her hospital room, Data screams, she talks, she watches the cars with out of state plates hover around the hospital. In the silence she shares with Céline, the questions start to linger, and the poking follows soon after.

A call from the booker, the butch. A suggestion to pivot graces her ears, one that comes out with an ache.

A resolution, a way to end things with as much peace as they can afford.

Céline takes the laptop, browsing down the colums and feeds of headlines and rumors.

“Lavender Lovers Scorned, Beloved Tag Team Shattered.”

“Dark Skies, The Solar Flares Vanish after Injury and Fight”

For once, Céline enjoys reading dirtsheets.

She honestly can’t remember half of what Data said to her, high on whatever worked with her
allergy, but she did remember the plan before the doctors took her away.

“I’m gonna look out for you, protect us, make sure we get you some privacy to heal up.”

Maybe she was losing it from the adrenaline, but it looked like Data had mouthed I love you
before the swinging doors hid her nervous partner.

And now they’re laying here, together in Céline’s bed, back home on the border of Arizona and
New Mexico.

They can’t talk, at least, not Céline, but they have time to sketch out a plan through sign, whiteboard notes and codes tapped on skin. Céline floats between waves of pleasure, painkillers, and adoring touch.

Though eventually, the days draped in plush blankets and quivering knees are
traded for physical therapy and reading contracts.

The bookers don’t know, of course, that they’re staying together. Southwest wrestlers are a black
hole if Cagematch is any indicator, so Céline signs on with a company out in California, and
Data takes jobs out East.

It’s safer this way, they think.

Still, the pair cling to their moments together like grappling on the mat, engulfed in each other,
with Céline whispering plans to finally come back in the ring and put Data over for good, to
settle any question that she was the star.

Data, though, she traces the scars on her lover’s jaw with veneration, and the ache of her hip
presses into the mattress dull and heavy.

She wonders if they’ll get a chance to use the same baby book Céline used to pick her name.

She wonders if the dirt sheets will mind the silence and leave them be.

She wonders if they’ll have time.

E-Begging Again

Please help me make it another month. I’m going to have a job by the first of the month, but I’ll need work pants and non-slip shoes. I still have bills I need to pay, and in all likelihood the start of the school year is going to be quite brutal.

My Paypal, Venmo, and Cashapp are all the same @ackasi

My Ko-Fi is still up and running, if you’re in the snail mail tier, I should have things sent out by the end of the month.

Every dollar that I get goes to paying my rent and utilities first, then goes into my debt or purchasing necessities I cannot purchase on EBT. Support from earlier this month let me buy shampoo and conditioner.

Review: Summer Small Games

Lately, exhaustion has been the name of the game. My energy for larger scale games and projects has collapsed a good bit, so instead, I’ve been gravitating towards games on the shorter or nonlinear variety, things to check in on every once and a while, and pick up and play type titles.

1. Pixross by Kenney

A play on picross, Picross is a classic for short visual puzzles and needed a few minutes to just fiddle. Each board offers a cute pixel image for you to uncover, and I never really feel the urge to burn through puzzles at a rapid pace. With over 170 puzzles, different challenges, effects and unlockable to go through, it’s a nice game for pulling myself out of a digital haze if I’ve been stuck in the same place for some time.

2. Garden Galaxy by Anneka Tran

Another game that joins us in the paced and relaxing categories but brings on a designers and idle game twist. Ironically, I think fans of the Minecraft game mode Skyblock would get this quite the kick out of this game. Starting on a floating grassy platform, you earn coins from little garden creatures, and slowly unlock ground, water, decor, and various style sets for you to discover. What I love about this game is the ways the creatures gather when you’re away, and the sheer number of materials and configurations means that each island gets to be an unique experience that feels really peaceful to assemble. The soft graphics, the sounds, everything comes together for an experience you make, I found my playtime with it especially meditative as I’d come up with design areas and slowly build to my goals.

3. KittyToy by Rakqoi

A precious game inspired by Neko Atsume, You take care of and adopt cats, slowly earning kitty coin to purchase things for the creatures and decorate your home. Nothing about the game is particularly new in concept, but it executes everything quite well, with some fun mechanics for petting and giving your cats affection, playing and bouncing with toys, and bizarre and adorable names.

A screenshot of KittyToy, featuring cats with the names, from top left: Sage Sticky, Stardust, Spinny, Pita Jr. and Sweet and Sour Almond
These cats love to hang, a big crowd here, featuring Sage Sticky, Stardust, Pita Jr., Spinny, and Sweet and Sour Almond

Being able to adopt cats with a collar meant that I could keep some of my favorites, like Stardust in this case, but not every cat stays forever, and we got a lot of strange and silly visitors, which you can keep track of in game!

A screenshot of Warlock Churro (Copyrighted) a white cat sitting asleep in a cat bed.
One of our stranger little visitors, Warlock Churro (Copyrighted)

4. Passion Paradox by Denparin

A recommended title from Kishux, Passion Paradox is a visual novel, focused on a flushed, awkward and impassioned Mia, and her love for a piece of history, the story and the sacrifice one woman faced in the 1600s.

This is a fairly short visual novel, with not much decision making involved, just you are being led through Mia’s world. A dissatisfied museum worker, her heart lies on a pot depicting Sybil Godwin, and her brain lies within the story of her death.

ot from Passion Paradox showing Sybil Godwin, a redheaded woman, pressed into the back of Mia Gonzales, who has black hair obscuring her flustered face.
Sybil, pressed into Mia’s chest, guiding the woman through yarn work, though Mia is far more concerned with Sybil’s touch.

A culmination of small scale social and material dissatisfaction for one modern woman, getting something she dreamed, and giving herself to this dedication. This has some of the classic tropes and niceties of the genre, so if a cosmic dedication to a woman that goes beyond time interests you. You can even play it in browser.

Since this is a shorter romp, and you can read it, I encourage you to play the game (and check the content warnings before proceeding.)

All in all, this hasn’t been a huge time period of gaming for me, but these are some of the highlights, beyond the games I come back to. Let me know if you’ve checked any of these games out, or if you have suggestions for more games I can play and review! Comments are appreciated <3.

A screenshot from the game Serre, showing Oaxa, a pink and yellow bee alien with six eyes, looming over Arlette, a blond earthling woman, with her two large insect claws.

Review: Serre by Insertdisk5

Serre is a short and sweet visual novel from the makers of In Stars and Time! Featuring an alien sent to concur Earth, and an awkward woman alone in her greenhouse.

This game was originally submitted to the Yuri Game Jam 2017, though caught my eye through it’s submission for the Palestinian Relief Bundle. Before I talk about the game, though the bundle itself ended May 6th, you can still donate to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund, the target organization the bundle supported now.

I wanted to play Serre primarily because I recognized the developer! Browsing through Ardienne Bazir’s work as a game designer, this game stood out for its warmth and brightness, a focus on romance, and enchanting character design that similarly pulled me into In Stars and Time!

The play time on Serre is fairly short, it took around 45 minutes with me reading both voice parts to my partner to get through the entire piece. With a short story like this, and the meet cute formula of Oaxa; the alien we meet after crashing into the greenhouse, we get a great look at the character voices and ways they express themselves incredibly naturally through precious sprite design and well written dialogue.

There are absolutely shades of In Stars and Time through the short stint of Serre, where @butchcats pointed out how similar Oaxa was to Mirabelle throughout, I found Arlette; our human protagonist, to exhibit some of the writing tropes and internal voice present in Siffren’s writing as well. While I’m not quite ready to review In Stars and Time quite yet, given my familiarity with the game at this point, Serre felt like a welcomed and softer approach to the skills that went on to make the stunning title.

Since this game is so short, you should honestly play it for yourself! I know for me, taking the time to indulge in Serre’s world and the way love and hope for a future played out within the piece made for a perfect late-night game to share with my lover.

If you enjoy the game, or have any thoughts, feel free to talk about them here!

Intergrations and Updates: Log-06042024

A shorter write up, largely for the purpose of communication. I won’t be posting directly on Tumblr very often, as I intend to use my site to its full capacity, which includes integration status. Everything from live blogging wrestling, to my personal posts, to articles I write, etc will at some point come up. My sharing of posts on Tumblr is semi-automatic, with consideration for my larger and smaller posts, but keeping some of the smaller stuff, like visual updates and site updates at large within the actual site. The post sharer I’m using is pretty well designed, and will allow for appropriate tagging and markup with HTML elements.

On my personal site, you will find a much more active place of discussion for what I’m working on, what I’m interested in, and what I’m doing. In pretty much every case, I will communicate on my website, but less so on Tumblr itself.

If you’ve visited my site before, you know I also have a feed that shares my relogs and anything else I share, it should avoid my own posts, but if it does not, I’ll be editing that.

Last but not least, please take the time to check any of the resources I’ve shared both on my website and on my blog for donation and action you can take to help those around us, see Gaza Funds for underfunded and verified funds.

Cry For Changes: Log-03252024

Typically, I wouldn’t be public about the detailed aspects of the downturns for my mental health. While I open myself up and whittle away at the vast and complex state of my being under the current state of the world and my own unique health experiences. I’m turning 22 this year, and this is a cry for help.

Tomorrow, according to the publishing date, is my birthday. I’ll be officially older than my mother was when she had me. The fact that she was around my age when I came into being makes this entire experience, all things considered, even worse.

I’m sick. I continue to be sick. I am writing this partially because I took off of work today because I cannot tomorrow. I shouldn’t have taken the day off. I’m barely going to make my rent, I had to ask for help with my internet bill. Once I pay my bills, I will have almost no money in my bank account. At this point in my life, I am dependent on my diminishing scholarships and student loans to pay for my basic living expenses, the generosity of my retired father when he can afford to loan me a couple of hundred bucks. Every time I see my bank account balance drop, I feel like vomiting. Picking up medication, going to the store, feeding myself every day, asking for more needles for my HRT because I’m never given enough, begging for coverage because my heart is beating in my chest so hard my bedroom starts spinning and not getting an answer.

I keep asking myself what the point of this is.

I am filled with so much fucking love.

I’m in a time in my life where some of the most vital relationships I’ve ever had are the ones I hold now. Overwhelming love for my lover and the friends who have shaped my life in irreplaceable ways. Like hands that morph and shape wet clay. It is through these means of connection and love for the sheer volume of humanity I feel that I feel compelled to stay, to hold on, to let myself change and be changed.

I cannot ignore however the ever present violent throbbing in my chest. I break out in a sweat at the suggestion of movement. I rely on the likes of my mask and other sensory equipment in public to hide my discomfort and suffering. My constant, obsessive fear for at least the past few months that I will crack my head against the floor or counters in my apartment, and the only concern from the people who see me in real life is whether I’ll be showing up for my shift and turning my homework in. If I died, it would take until I didn’t pay the bills for anyone except the people miles away from me to notice. I am perpetually fearful of either letting myself slip away or losing control of my health and losing myself and the people I love in it.

I was supposed to graduate this year. I feel an eternal pressure to have things together, not because of the state cultural expectations on work and the typical adult life, but because of the sheer instability I’ve lived in all my life. One thing goes wrong, the balance shifts, and an entire system can collapse. I’ve seen collapses. I’m writing about collapses. I have borne witness to so many physical collapses on a personal scale. I have felt the shattering of everything I knew so distinctly in a moment of utter despair and especially medical collapse. I am 22 years old and my terror of dying is so exceptional I do not think I have looked towards the grander thrills of life in quite some time, outside the exceptional fantasy.

I want to live old. One of the few things I’m proud of, convincing my father to stop one of his last damaging vices with cigarettes. The woman who raised me died of a heart attack in 2017 after ignoring the signs of symptoms for several weeks, and I was one of the last people to spend personal time with her alive. I can barely remember the trip that we took, which initially showed the signs of her illness. I cannot remember her voice.

I am consistently pained by the state of the world. I am an angry person. I desperately hope to see better days. I am working with people and communities to support my own life, to make things better for not only myself, but the people I know and don’t know.

When I began writing this I was feeling an intense despair, I was tasked with seeking out my support systems in between finishing this now. I am fighting to change things. I will fight to make things better. I am turning 22, and I will keep living. I dream of a long life. I dream of a life free from the horrors of capital and the mechanisms of suffering we are all put through.

I love you.