#I eat that cyclical time travel shit up

[you-remind-me-of-the-babe]

Happy Sunday everyone! I’m quite shocked we’re 3/4 of the way through April. Where did this month go? On the other hand, it’s getting warmer and summer is around the corner, so bring it on!

I’ve got a snippet from Back and Back and Back, my time travel AU fic. Chapters 1 and 2 are written and half of 3 and 4 as well. It might be a while before I post, though, because I kind of want to have it all or mostly written first. It’s been a long time since I’ve written something not connected to a fest or event, so its nice having the luxury of time for this one. Here’s a bit of six year old Baz with his Dragon Man friend from Chapter 1 again:

“Jammie Dodgers? How’d you know those were my favorites?”

I smile proudly, even though I didn’t know that, but his bright smile and playful tone relaxes me.

“Would you like some?” I ask, stepping forward and holding the biscuits up to him.

“Thanks, Baz,” he says, reaching to take one and then wandering over to a fallen log to sit.

“It’s Basil,” I correct, following him over and sitting next to him on the log. He kicks his long legs out, crossing them at the ankle. I try to copy him and frown at how short my legs look compared to his. “Nobody calls me Baz.”

“Right, sorry,” he says, shaking his head with a smirk on his lips. “Keep forgetting.”

Tags/thank yous/hellos @whatevertheweather @bookish-bogwitch @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @emeryhall @aristocratic-otter @whogaveyoupermission @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @monbons @noblecorgi @mooncello @wellbelesbian @prettygoododds @best--dress @roomwithanopenfire @facewithoutheart @run-for-chamo-miles @that-disabled-princess @forabeatofadrum @rimeswithpurple @thewholelemon @blackberrysummerblog @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @valeffelees @orange-peony @youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt @ic3-que3n @angelsfalling16 @raenestee @brilla-brilla-estrellita @alexalexinii @arthurkko @supercutedinosaurs @beastmonstertitan

[copperbadge]

would you mind talking a little about enjoying traveling solo? I've always wanted to explore, but so many people paint traveling as this group activity, and I've always felt bad not having friends to do it with

My god, how much time do we have?

So, I could indulge in a little free therapy here and talk about some fucked-up experiences of travel I had as a child, but that's not really applicable, so...let's leave it at the fact that until I was out on my own, I didn't get to pick what happened to me on trips. I do often travel with my friends, who are always up to do the dumb shit I concoct for us, but any travel with another person involves compromise, and sometimes I just don't want to compromise, or to irritate my friends. Even though I know they probably won't be, I still worry they will, and sometimes I don't want to worry.

I also never internalized the idea that doing things alone was sad or weird. It's a social cue that I completely missed. The first time a friend of mine randomly came across me eating alone in a restaurant in college, she said, "Sam, why are you eating alone?" and I said, baffled, "Because I wanted dinner?"

I was twenty years old before it occurred to me that other people would feel strange eating alone in a restaurant, and then only because she told me she'd be too self-conscious. I was thirty before I realized most people would be self-conscious traveling alone, something I'd been doing since I was seventeen. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to be with other people -- some people love company or are nervous traveling alone or just plain don't get the appeal, and that's entirely fine.

But I love knowing that everything I do is for me alone. I can go to the weird museum or check out the odd store or do strange secret things to delight myself and never worry that I'm making life unpleasant for someone. I can be as selfish as I want. That's very rare for me and very precious. Also why I will probably never have a permanent romantic partner, but that's also free therapy for some other time.

The truth is, when you are alone, nobody actually knows that. Yes, if you're the only person at your table in a restaurant you're obviously alone, but nobody knows you aren't just getting a bite to eat before meeting up with your many cool friends. I don't look at anyone I see out in the world and go "Oh sad sack, look at them without anyone to hang out with." I think most of us worry everyone is saying that, and none of us actually are saying that.

And when I have been asked if I'm with someone and said, "Oh, I'm traveling on my own", people universally react with envy. "That must be amazing. I couldn't do it," or "I've never gone on a trip by myself, is it fun?" I've never had anyone say or imply that I'm a loser who couldn't find someone else to travel with. Quite the reverse.

Recently I had the thought that if I was more afraid of being alone I would probably have more intimate friendships or at any rate a much wider social circle, because I would need someone else to go with me on adventures and I would have to internalize the idea that it's okay to inconvenience or bore someone else at times, which I never really have. But that's kind of a tautology; "if I was less okay being alone I'd be less alone" is cyclical reasoning, when the truth is I'm someone who is a little fucked up about other people but also just genuinely enjoys solitude.

I love my friends, and I try very hard to form strong bonds with them despite that being really hard for me. I do get lonely, and I spend more time alone than is probably good for me. I get very anxious before solo trips. But I will also always need times when I am alone and only ever have to worry about myself. And once I'm launched on the trip I fucking love it. There are very few joys to rival walking out early in the morning into a strange city and knowing that the day and the city are both yours and yours alone.

Also sometimes I pretend I'm a spy, or an art historian on the trail of a stolen painting, or an academic writing a very important book. That's fun as hell.

Anyway, even when I do travel alone my friends are only a text message away, and I get to see cool stuff that I bring back to my room at night and share with all of you. I love sharing my adventures with you guys.

So yeah. My thesis is that nobody will even notice you're alone and if they do they'll probably think you're fucking cool for doing it, and meanwhile you get to do exactly what you want and nothing you don't. I think everyone should at least try it. You don't have to do a four-country trip through Europe for your first time out; you can just find something in another city that you want to see -- a museum or a zoo or a play or a cool burger joint -- book a trip, arrive Friday night and leave Sunday afternoon. And if it turns out you don't like traveling alone, that's okay too. There's no inherent moral virtue in being alone any more than there is in not wanting to be.

I just think it's super cool to sometimes go haring off on my own and do dumb shit. :D

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

time travel aus, amirite? since we’ve all decided to start talking about our ideas, i thought i’d throw my hat into the ring. i’ve actually had this idea for a while, i just wasn’t sure what to do with it because i barely have the patience for one-shots, let alone the continuous plotted longfic this would need

it’s not my idea, of course, i’m incapable of original thought. it’s based off this can-i-really-call-it-a-genre-if-it’s-two-fics-with-the-same-premise where some combination of maedhros, maglor, elros, and elrond land in the blessed realm before - even the unchaining, in my take, when the ambarussa are still children and the world is blissful. it’s more specifically my take on this fic, which takes elrond and elros from very early in their captivity and maedhros from just before the silmaril theft and maglor from several centuries into the second age. i just plugged my own characterisations into it, and, uh. the specific setup this not-genre uses is that maitimo and makalaurë *~mysteriously disappear,~* throwing their extended family into chaos, blah blah blah, and then a few decades later -

well. with my characterisations, we have a nightmare hellbeast who’s burned up everything he used to be in singular pursuit of an unreachable goal and has carved his very self into a weapon, a completely drained beaten-up husk barely cognisant of reality past the screaming in his mind who’s so utterly broken it’s debatable if he even counts as an elda, and two extremely young extremely traumatised children in a completely unfamiliar land- and skyscape whose only adult they can maybe-kind-of trust is currently bleeding from the eyes and shrieking wordless notes of utter despair

yeah, this au’s Fun. elrond and elros have maybe eight words of quenya between them, most of which are obscene, maedhros will act completely normal until he suddenly stabs himself in the arm because can’t this stupid hallucination end already, he has a character arc to tank, and maglor seems completely unaware he’s not still on the beach having the same cyclic arguments with the ghosts of the people he failed. the elves of valinor aren’t completely unprepared to deal with this, at least not the ones who remember cuiviénen, but it’s still a massive shock to see two of the children they came to the land of the gods to protect twisted and scarred like the worst victims of the dark. especially since noone can figure out why

so yeah. i have trouble finishing oneshot collections, so i doubt i’ll ever write this out in full, but i do have a lot of Scenes. fëanáro staring in utter horror at the oath, whispering ‘i made this.’ elros and elrond’s somewhat hole-filled explanation of their backstory devolving into a sindarin argument, and when the family asks tyelkormo what they’re talking about he freezes before saying ‘they’re arguing about whether maitimo killed their mother.’ the moment maglor finally managed to get through what happened after they got the silmarils to maedhros, who immediately switches from off-the-cuff self-harm to well-planned suicide attempts. the five-minute period the family hellspawn’s working theory was ‘they’re maitimo and makalaurë from an alternate universe where we’re evil’ (‘is there an evil version of me??? does he eat kids???????’ - tyelko) finwë going full bulldoze taniquetil in the background. fun times, might write some snippets in the future

but i like to think through the mechanics of this kind of time travel story too much, so i started wondering where maitimo and makalaurë, yanno, went. i quickly came to the conclusion that they probably swapped places with their evil future selves, giving me three time travel aus for the price of one! technically four but (a) i’m not sure if or with who the twins would swap and (b) if they did their alternate selves are probably having a really bad time and i don’t particularly want to think about it. the stories maitimo and makalaurë are in... they’re not necessarily any happier, but they are a lot more wtftastic

maitimo falls asleep under the light of the trees, on a relaxing retreat from the demands of court life and family-induced disasters. he wakes up in a world that’s almost completely dark, surrounded by plants he’s never seen before and wearing clothing designed for a much warmer climate, the scent of death in the air. now permanently separated from all his old problems, maitimo rapidly acquires several exciting new ones, including but not limited to:

everyone he ever loved being dead or worse

the lone possible exception, his last surviving little brother, being an almost unrecognisable blood-drenched kinslayer who hates everything in the universe especially himself

said blood-drenched kinslayer almost immediately imprinting on him like a grouchy murderous duckling

his future self having apparently wanted to kill even more people, why

getting dogpiled by like thirty dudes in full armour the instant they showed up at the army of the west’s camp to surrender

getting soul-scanned by eönw two minutes later. not fun

arafinwë pulling him into an enormous hug and then bursting into tears

the subsequent explanation as to just what happened to him and his brothers, which somehow got worse after he’d already thought they’d hit rock bottom like four separate times

proceeding to lose a staring contest with findaráto

the way everyone in camp looks at him like he’s an incredibly dangerous wild animal that might bite at any time

how if half of what arafinwë said is true he can’t even blame them, fuck, fuck

the twin half-elven(?????????????) princes he and his brother apparently kidnapped and held hostage for years, inflicting unimaginable cruelties as far as anyone knows

his first meeting with the kids happening when elrond broke into where they were holding maglor to scream at him in very loud very fast very angry sindarin for like half an hour

maglor just staring at him, eyes wide, ears pinned back, the whole time, and then trying to maul the first guard who mocked him for it

getting saddled with kinslayer containment duties in the aftermath of that whole incident

elrond punching him in the collarbone when he tried to apologise, shouting ‘you weren’t there, don’t you dare try to tell me what it was like’

elros’ visible half second of pure terror after the blow hit home

elros then using recognisable techniques from maitimo’s debate team circuit during a speech to the edain

like, clearly some shit did happen, but it’s obviously not what the local leadership’s afraid of

this sour-faced scar-covered warrior slipping out of the shadows in an unpopulated part of camp, kneeling before him, intoning ‘the swords of the host remain at your disposal my lord’ and then immediately vanishing

he didn’t recognise them until after they’d left but they were definitely one of his philosophy club friends, what even

just generally having woken up in a future a thousand times worse than his darkest nightmares

his natural instinct is to try and fix things, but how?? what’s even left to fix????

maglor sometimes goes into these unhinged desperate spiralling rambles directed at the older brother who exists in his head rather than the one in front of his eyes. whatever’s left of maitimo’s biggest little brother is clearly in so much pain

all the things he’s trying extremely hard not to think about because if he slows down enough to he’s pretty sure he’ll collapse

all the people he’s never met who hate him for pretty understandable reasons and whose social structure he now has to learn to have any hope of making it out of All This

the edain’s collective insistence on calling him pasthros

curufinwë isn’t even a hundred how does he have a kid

makalaurë, on the other hand, wakes up on a beach beneath a giant glowing orb. finding himself in a land so much barer than what he knows, among people whose souls don’t even work like his, his initial working theory is he’s been abducted by aliens

[brandyllyn]

War makes thieves, and peace hangs them (pt13)

Chapter 13 Frankie’s Epilogue: Wildcat introduces Frankie to a nice girl. “Nice.”

(Frankie Morales x F!Reader/OFC)(Not Wildcat)

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 4500. Read it on AO3.

Rating: NC-17 (Explicit) oral (f receiving). language. PiV sex.

A/N: This is the final part of War makes thieves, and peace hangs them - a Santiago x Wildcat!OFC fic. But this chapter can easily be read as a standalone Frankie Morales x OFC/Reader (no names used).

The bar was busier than he expected for a Thursday night. Soft music was playing over the speakers when he walked in and he tugged at the bottom of his button down as he scanned the room. He spotted the pair almost immediately, Santi and Wildcat sitting at a high table across from the bar, heads together in conversation.

Frankie grunted, not really in the mood to watch those two snuggle for the night and wondering if anyone else would be joining them. He went to the bar, propping a foot up and ordering himself a beer. He could see them in the mirror in front of him, Wildcat’s eyes on his back before she whispered something to Santi. Lord he hoped they weren’t going to propose a threesome. He wasn’t necessarily against the idea generally speaking - but he wasn’t really interested in whatever shenanigans that particular couple wanted to get up to either. When the bartender brought his beer he dropped her a twenty, told her to keep the change and smiled at her effusive thanks.

He had money now. Didn’t know where it came from. Santi had mumbled something to him about going back for the cash they left in Peru and the next thing he knew he was getting a six figure salary and a Christmas and Independence Day bonus big enough to buy a new Tesla.

But having money didn’t mean he knew what to do with it. He was still driving the same beat up truck, still living in the same crappy apartment. He thought about going in on a helicopter lease - it was amazing how quickly cash had cleared up his license review - but that was really about as rich as his plans got.

Wildcat grinned when he got close to their table and Frankie couldn’t help but grin back. She might be a hundred pounds of crazy in a ten pound sack - but she was fun and Santi was head over heels for her. She’d also saved their asses back on that op on multiple occasions. More than good enough reason to like her.

"Frankie you made it!" She called out with enough effusiveness to make him look behind himself for another Frankie. He met Santi’s eyes and the man just shrugged. Wildcat elbowed her boyfriend and then held her hands out to Frankie. "Come sit, I’ve missed you."

Frankie raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, sitting on the stool next to hers and across from Santi. "Y’all live three miles from me. You could come visit whenever."

"Sorry," she scrunched her nose at him, "with all the travel…"

Wildcat seemed to be having no issues spending her share of the money. Or Santi’s share. Frankie still wasn’t sure how that worked out but between them they had to be loaded. They were constantly off somewhere. He was pretty sure it was Europe last time, somewhere in the Aegean for a few weeks.

"Tell me what’s been going on hermano," Santi prompted. "How you been keeping busy?"

Frankie filled them on what had happened in his life since the last time he’d seen them. The only major thing was the reinstatement of his license which was met with cheers and Santi’s offer to buy the next round. As if any of them couldn’t have bought the place outright if they wanted. It was still surreal.

Frankie let his eyes wander while Santi ordered from the waitress, his gaze catching on a woman who had just walked in. Knee high boots hugged her calves and there were a good several inches from there to a flared blue skirt. He couldn’t see her front but the stretch of skin on the back of her thighs held him captive.

"You should go talk to her," Wildcat prompted and Frankie turned wide eyes on her. She was following his eyes and looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"What? No." Frankie shook his head, turning his attention back to the table. "I never have luck with that shit. Santi’s the one who can just walk up to girls and have their panties off in five flat."

"Oh really," Wildcat turned to her right where Santi was wearing a shit-eating grin. "Is that so?"

"Worked on you," he said and slipped a hand onto her thigh where he thought Frankie couldn’t see.

"Mmhmm," Wildcat muttered, turning her body slightly so Santi’s hand fell between them and the man turned to glare at Frankie.

"Narc," he grumbled and Frankie just took a sip of his beer to hide his own grin.

"She’s looking over here," Wildcat pointed out and Frankie turned before he could help it, saw the swell of her breasts under the top of the dress, the glint of silver at her neck and then she was crossing the room and heading straight for them and his brain short-circuited.

Wildcat was talking but whatever the words were they crackled like static in his ears. Then the woman was turning to him, those beautiful eyes focused on him. He knew he must look dumb, but he couldn’t stop looking at her.

"Frankie?"

She had laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Not deep, not like his own, but they would be one day. Marks to show how often she smiled, how much joy she found in the world.

"Frankie?"

Her lips parted slightly, her tongue stroking her bottom lip and Frankie bit back a groan, his imagination running wild at the small gesture.

"Frankie."

He jerked his gaze from the woman to look at Wildcat. "What?"

Wildcat was trying to hide a grin and he saw Santi’s shoulders shaking as he turned his head into his girlfriend’s neck and whispered something to her. Frankie couldn’t hear it but caught Wildcat’s reply "Told you."

Frankie glared at the two of them before looking back at the woman. She was smiling at him, her nose crinkled. "It’s nice to meet you Frankie."

"Nice to meet you too… uh…" Fuck, he’d missed her name. But she didn’t seem to notice, just slid onto the empty stool to his left and set her bottle on the tabletop.

"Not your usual scene," she said to Wildcat and Frankie narrowed his eyes.

"You two know each other?" He asked.

Wildcat nodded, "Same line of work."

Frankie felt his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. "You mean you’re a-"

"Liberator of excess wealth? Yes." The woman finished for him with a wink. "Not as flexible as Cat here, but I have my ways."

Frankie blinked as he thought about her being all kinds of flexible and he swallowed. But he must have done something wrong because the next thing he knew he was coughing and leaning away from Wildcat and the woman’s hands were on his back and her eyes were looking into his and fuck what was the order for breathing. In and out? The simple motion seemed beyond him.

He waved off everyone’s concern and pushed away from the table, heading for the bathroom. He wasn’t there thirty seconds before Santi pushed through the door, spotting him immediately and crossing to lean on the sink next to him.

"Pull your shit together man."

Frankie groaned. Splashing water on his face and then eyeing the even messier picture he presented than usual now that his hair was wet. "Fuck," he bit out, grabbing for a paper towel. "Is this a setup?"

Santi shrugged. "Kitten’s idea. She said her friend just moved to town. Doesn’t know anybody."

"Kitten?" Frankie gave Santi a disgusted look. "You really call her kitten? That… force of nature?"

He couldn’t have described the expression that crossed Santi’s face, but the far away look in his eyes was familiar as the man rumbled, "You’ve obviously never heard her purr."

"Oh for fuck’s sake," Frankie pushed past him and out of the bathroom, halting when he saw Wildcat and the woman leaning across the table in deep conversation.

Santi clapped him on the shoulder. "It’ll be fine, just be yourself."

Just be yourself. Easy when you were Santiago fucking Pope Garcia. Harder when you were Frankie goddammit Catfish Morales - forty years and a drug bust under your belt and the only thing to show from life a streak of moderate luck that had landed him with one dead friend and some cash.

But fuck it, he was going to try. At minimum, he could hold himself together long enough to make decent conversation. He could do that. He could.

"So what do you do?" She asked and he smiled at her. See? Perfectly normal behavior.

"I’m a pilot. Helicopters."

Her eyes brightened, "Oh really? I’ve never actually been up in a helicopter. Managed all kinds of other things, but never that."

"Really," he asked, his smile turning into a grin. "Well I’ll have to take you up sometime."

She seemed genuinely interested, asking him questions about how a helo worked and he scavenged sets of things from the surrounding tables to make a mockup of a cockpit.

"So this lever here, it’s the cyclic controls."

"The joystick?"

Frankie smiled, "Sure. It changes the angle of the blades, which controls movement on the x and z axis, left and right, forward and back. This one," he pointed at the toothpick he’d laid to the left of the cocktail glass 'seat', "is the collective. It’s mostly for up and down." She nodded and he pointed at the two olive pits in front of the glass. "And the pedals control the turn… the… spin. Which direction the helo is oriented."

She pointed at the three controls. "So this one, the cyclic, controls pitch and roll. The collective moves you up and down the y-axis, and the petals control yaw?"

Frankie froze, looking at her. "How do you know those terms?"

"I dated a pilot before, just the fixed-wing kind." She hid a grin in her glass. "He told me helicopter pilots were crazy, but I did learn a bit. Did I get it right?"

"Yeah, you’re basically right," Frankie pushed his hair back. "I’ve had to simplify it a bit because the controls do different things in a hover than when you’re moving - but that’s basically it."

She bit her lip when she grinned at him and Frankie was falling deep into her spell when he was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, we’re getting out of here," Santi said. Wildcat smiled at him and then leaned forward to hug the woman. "Good luck," Santi whispered as he gave Frankie a hug.

"Wait," the woman spun on her stool. "I took a cab here because you said you’d give me a ride home."

"I can do that," Frankie offered immediately, then blushed when she turned back to him. "I mean, if you need a ride I can do that."

Wildcat winked at him and then Santi was dragging her out of the bar and Frankie would bet every dime of money he had that those two fucked in the parking lot.

"Okay," the woman turned her attention back to him. "Tell me more about the rotor on the tail. I’m confused."

Frankie did so gladly, even going so far as to raid the bar for swizzle sticks so he could show the aeronautics of the different rotor blade positions. She seemed happy to listen to him, asking good questions and leaning in close enough that he could look down and see the color of her bra in the gap of her dress.

Not that he was looking.

But the bar had to close eventually, and he’d run out of cash to slip to the waitress to let them stay longer. He thought about putting a hand on the woman’s back when they walked out but changed his mind at the last minute, although he did make a point of opening the truck door for her. She gave him her address when he got in and he pulled it up on his phone and set it up against the dashboard.

"Is it out of your way?" she asked.

"Not too far," he replied, wishing he had a newer truck to impress her with.

"Have you lived there long?"

"Couple of years," he grunted, eyeing the street before he pulled out into the lane. She was silent for a moment.

"Where did you live before that?"

"Here and there," he was trying to concentrate on the road and not how good she looked on the bench seat across from him. When he reached for the gear shift her thigh was only a few inches away. Close enough to rest his palm on bare skin if he wanted, if he thought it was welcome. But now she was texting on her phone, not paying attention to him.

"This it?" He asked, pulling up to a small walled garden. The gate was up a few stairs from the sidewalk but he couldn’t see the house past it.

"Yeah," she said, looking out the window. She paused for a minute, not getting out.

"Have a good night," Frankie muttered.

He thought he heard her sigh but she opened the door, closing it and giving a little wave before disappearing through the gate.

Frankie dropped his head to the steering wheel, hands clutching the leather wrap. He pulled his hat out from behind the seat and pulled it on, grateful for the familiarity. Then his phone vibrated in his pocket and he dug it out, turning the ignition with his other hand. It was Wildcat.

W: Frankie what are you doing???

Frankie sat back in his seat, typing out his reply.

F: Im dropping ur friend off.

W: I know THAT. Why didn’t you make a move??

F: She’s not interested. Been texting someone whole drive.

W: She was texting ME you moron. She thinks you’re hot but you ignored her??? WTH man.

Frankie’s jaw dropped and he glanced back at the gate.

F: For real? Ur not shitting me?

W: 100% for real. Go get her tiger.

Frankie turned the ignition back, taking his hat off and running a hand through his hair for a second before replacing it. Then he stepped out of the truck and threw the hat inside. Considering how the last night had gone with the damn thing he didn’t want any of its bad mojo around. His phone buzzed.

W: Hey, remember that talk we had back in the jungle….?

Frankie groaned and tucked the phone away. Did he remember? It was all he thought about anymore. Jerking off in his bed while he imagined a woman’s voice telling him exactly how hard or fast to stroke himself. Did Wildcat mean that…?

The gate wasn’t locked, the other side a large overgrown garden. He could hear the bubble of water and passed a small pond with koi in it. A black and white cat was stretched across a rock nearby and gave him a dubious look. He tipped his hat to it, or tried too anyway. He ended up pulling on a lock of hair instead before he arrived on a cozy front porch. Taking a deep breath he knocked.

She looked confused when she opened the door, one eyebrow raised, but then smiled when she saw him. Frankie felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his chest.

"I, uh, I realized I didn’t say a proper goodnight," he said.

She looked at him for a minute, biting her lip, before she backed away a step, swinging the door wider. "Would you like to come in?"

He nodded, stepping past her. The house was cozy, plush furniture in deep jewel tones. Next to the door was a pile of shoes and he toed his boots off without prompting before he followed her into a large kitchen. Copper pots hung from the ceiling over the island and she crouched down for a second before coming back with a bottle of dark amber liquid.

"Scotch?"

He nodded and she passed him the bottle while she rummaged for glasses. He glanced at it and then did a double take. Fuck this shit was older than he was.

"Here," she said, handing a glass to him and taking the bottle back. She poured them each a finger’s worth before holding her glass out. "Sláinte?"

He repeated the word, clinking his glass to hers before taking a careful sip. It slid down his throat like butter and he moaned. "Fuck that’s good."

She smiled back and nodded her head to the living room, "Can I give you the tour?"

Frankie nodded and followed her. Nodding at appropriate times when she showed him the main room, the study, a guest bedroom and bathrooms, and then led him into her bedroom. The bed was enormous, one of those king sizes with a state name in front of it. The damn thing looked eight foot square.

"And of course," she was saying, her toes sliding on the carpet as she spun in place, "the master."

Frankie nodded, trying to look anywhere but at that big bed. "It’s nice."

"It is," she replied, setting her drink on a low bookcase near the door. He remained frozen in place as she wandered through the room, turning on a small light near the bed and tossing a couple of decorative pillows onto a nearby chair.

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?" he replied immediately.

"Get on the bed."

Oh thank God, he thought, sinking to sit at the foot of the large mattress, scotch dangling from three fingers. She sauntered toward him, skirt swaying at her hips and gently took his drink from him, taking a sip before turning away to set it beside hers.

"I’ve been wondering what you look like under that shirt all night. Would you mind?"

Frankie’s fingers had the top three buttons undone and the shirt over his head before she even finished the sentence. He sat there, watching her watch him, her tongue coming out to stroke her bottom lip. Before he could think of what to say she reached down and lifted the edge of her skirt, pulling her dress off in one motion and leaving her in a matching set of black underwear. The damn things were see-through, some kind of sheer fabric with little birds? flowers? embroidered on them that covered up absolutely nothing. He could see the darker skin of her nipples, cupped on one side by what yes on further examination was definitely a bird. He could tell because she was much closer now. Close enough to reach out and card her fingers into his hair.

He moaned, didn’t bother to hide it, leaning in to the touch of her hands and raising his own to rest on her hips. Parting his thighs so she could stand between them and her breasts were right there. When she breathed her nipple brushed across his lips and he pulled it into his mouth, sheer fabric and all. Felt the roughness of the material against his tongue when he stroked her. She made a pleased little noise, raking her nails on his scalp and he shuddered. His hands moved down to cup her ass, grabbing handfuls of her and jerking her body towards him.

She laughed, a pleasant giggle that made him smile in response - until he set his teeth against her sensitive skin and her giggle turned into a soft gasp. So he did it again, and again, moving from one breast to the other. He lifted his hands to cup her, to weigh the perfect orbs in his palms and look up at her.

Oh please let Wildcat be right. "What do you want?"

"I want you to lay me out on this bed and use your tongue on me until I come," she was looking directly into his eyes when she said it and he felt the world shift on its axis. "I want you to lick me and fuck me with your fingers and the very moment I come unravelled for you I want you to fuck me." Frankie could hear bells distantly, his own blood rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. "Fuck me through it and keep fucking me until I come again. Is that okay with you?"

Was that okay? "Fuck yeah," he growled, guiding her down onto the bed next to him. "That sounds great."

She moved away from him, that perfect curved body stretching out back into the pillows. He followed, stalking her up the sheets and wedging his shoulder between her thighs. He realized his mistake immediately, pulling away to quickly pull the barely there panties from her and then pressing his face into the heat of her. Fucking hell she was wet, and the moment he thrust his tongue through her he moaned. She tasted great as well. What the fuck had he done to deserve this?

Her fingers were in his hair again, tugging him into her and he went willingly, licking at the slickness that was coating her, nuzzling his face into her. She pulled him upwards and he followed, latching his mouth on to her clit and sucking.

"Mmph," she pushed him away, "too much, softer."

He nodded, looking up at her, the curves of her stomach and breasts. He kissed her clit more gently, flattening his tongue and giving it long slow licks.

"Oh yeah," she sighed, "that’s it Frankie."

He could come from the sound and taste of her alone. She was vocal, praising him, guiding him. Telling him harder, faster, or just like that. And when she gasped out "More," he knew just what she needed, sliding a hand under his chin and pressing two fingers deep inside of her. She arched off the bed and he reached up with his free hand and grabbed her breast, massaging it and then plucking at the nipple.

"Fuck Frankie, yes." Her hips were rocking into his mouth, her hands holding him steady and he tried again, sucking her clit lightly and thrusting his fingers into her.

She came undone. Fingers pulling at his hair, body twisting underneath him. He pushed her through it, licking and sucking on her clit, fingers inside her and on her. Until she gasped out "Frankie!" in a pleading tone and he remembered.

He pulled away fast, cursing as he kicked off his pants and underwear and hastily pulled a condom on. He was over her within seconds, slowly easing inside of her quivering cunt. Her hands were on him immediately, grasping his ass and pulling him down while she arched her hips up.

"Fuck me," she ordered and he followed willingly, thrusting inside her with hard snaps of his hips and he could see her eyes roll back, her neck arch. "Oh fuck yes," she moaned, her nails digging into his ass, "yes that. Oh fuck Frankie."

His cock seemed to be drawing her orgasm out longer and he groaned, shifting his knees to get a better angle where he could go faster and deeper. She cried out, the wordless noise telling him he had done something right. He fucked her until her body sank back into the mattress, until she reached up and brushed his hair off his forehead and smiled at him. He slowed down then, settling into a gentler rhythm, drawing out pleased little gasps from that gorgeous mouth.

"What do you need?" He growled into her ear.

She pushed his shoulders and he sat back on his knees, helping her when she sat up and straddled him. He quickly divested her of her bra, tossing it God only knew where across the room. Her hands were behind his neck, holding his forehead to hers while she rode him.

He was panting. The clench of her muscles, the sight of her in his lap - it was too much and not enough all at once. "Fuck you’re amazing," the words left his mouth before he could think about them but he was rewarded with a hard squeeze of her cunt that made him see stars.

"You’re pretty fucking amazing yourself Frankie."

Fucking hell, he’d buy this woman the world if she asked him to. In the meantime, what she had asked for was a second orgasm and he was eager to get started on that. He lifted her up, not losing the connection between his cock and her cunt, but settling her higher so he could suck one of her bare nipples into his mouth. She sighed, wrapping her arms around his head, resting her cheek on his hair.

He fucked her slowly, grinding his hips into hers. Stroking his hands up and down her back and gently playing with her body. He noticed how she shuddered when he ran his fingers down her neck so he followed the path with his tongue, delighted to hear the low moan that fell from her lips. She kissed him, gently, like a lover. Their first kiss, he vaguely noted. He could get lost in her - the taste of her, the slide of her body on his cock.

And then she had his hand in hers, guiding it downwards and showing him precisely where and how she wanted to be touched. It was a gift, one he took with great care. Listening intently to the changes of her breathing, the breathy moans as she praised him, cursed him, kissed him.

She arched away from him and he could see down between them, where his cock disappeared between her thighs. Her slick heat coating him. He groaned, burying his mouth in her shoulder and moving his fingers more roughly. His control was hanging on by a thread and he started praying to whatever saint granted sex requests that she would just…

His name was ripped from her when she came, her body convulsing in his arms and he let go. Pumping into her two, three more times before he felt his own release flood over him. He covered her mouth with his, sharing his breath with hers as they both rode out their peaks. His body felt sensitive to her slightest touch, his brain shuddering inside his head, hell even his fucking toenails were shivering.

He laid them down gently as it passed, holding her body close as she did the same. He could feel the after-effects of their orgasms wracking them both and fuck if he wasn’t going send Wildcat a fucking fruit basket tomorrow.

"You okay?" He asked after a minute and then immediately kicked himself. There was no reason to think she’d been as blown apart by that as he was. This was probably a normal weeknight for her.

"I’m better than fucking okay Frankie," she said instead, curling in to his body. "That was…"

"Amazing," he finished for her and grinned when he felt her nod. He ran his hand down her back. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Only if you want to." She sounded a little hesitant, far from the woman who had ordered him to her fuck her not an hour ago.

"I want to," he reassured her, pulling her closer into his side and kissing her temple. "I really want to."

When he sent the fruit basket he’d have to be sure to get her name from Wildcat. When he eventually married this woman it was something he was going to need.

[grayisles]

DnD Campaign

So I joined a homebrew campaign that is fantasy based and legit the DM is utilizing some aspects of something I’m writing into my backstory, it involves fairytales and how it is cyclical in nature. He thought that it was a friend of mine who was writing it, but no, it’s mine.

Anyway I’m roll playing Ahiru as a duck from the Feywild who is a Warlock with the closest thing to Drossalmyer I could find but more lazy (I still got to provide entertainment to him tho so I’m going to multiclass into a bard soon for this). Not going to describe her backstory too much as it’s pretty much close to Ahiru’s backstory as she became a human (to help Mytho and she has a pact item which is called Lover’s Necklace). I’ve been a human for roughly 2 months and legit the roll of the dice I can become a duck at the beginning of the day. Fun times especially when I was joking with the DM that my character is a literal snack to predators because he told while we were creating my character that ducks are a rarity in this world. Also I took up Beast Speech and Eyes of the Rune Keeper because it makes sense for my character to understand animals as a human and also I want her to read all the missives. 

Anyway, first session I played was two weeks ago and legit I found a key item for Mytho after traveling through a dead forest where there are Willow-Wisps that will legit kill you if you touch it, a encounter I avoided, and a winter wolf. I knew about the wolf and I decided to travel through the trees so I won’t touch the bad things and also the wolf won’t eat me (because I am a fucking snack. He could smell that I was a duck but I lied straight to his face).

I came across a lake called the Lake of Inner Self (Lake of Fear really) where there were items inside there. I was temporarily charmed by a being in the lake trying to get me to turn around, doubt my love for Mytho, and I was like, no. Fuck that. Almost died in the lake and forgot that I had a feat called Lucky (because Lucky Duck am I right?) that I could have used during it. 

Anyway I got a leaf that represent’s Mytho’s memory and I was transported onto the bank of the lake. I caught my breath and there was something breathing on my neck. It’s the wolf and legit I lied to say I ate duck before coming out into the forest, I convinced him to take me to town with fish because time is weird in my DM’s campaign. I was in the forest for a few hours running while the wolf was chasing me for 3 days. 

I was scared of the wolf until I found out that he was lonely and legit I want to be his friend. Shit’s going to go down when he finds out I was lying to him, but in character Ahiru knows what loneliness is like, kind of helped with her being attached to Mytho, and she doesn’t want him to experience it anymore. 

Like goodness, I just want to keep the wolf as a companion character. Due to me not always being in the campaign I would have a legitiment reason to be away from the party and maybe have a protector that I hash out some terms where he doesn’t eat me. This is because I have uni but due to COVID-19 I might be able to play during all the sessions. Still the option is there and I want him.

I also want to dress up like a pirate

[irwintry]

The Many Pages of Ashton Irwin

Warnings: swearing, marijuana

Author’s Note: hey this is bad but hiatus ... over? 

Word Count: 3.6k

He wondered how many specs fit in the ceiling tiles above him. The hazy fluorescent lights no longer caused a perpetual ache behind his eyes–– he had rigged his brain to no longer feel unnecessary pains such as bright lights or loud, spine-tingling scrapes. Ashton thoroughly hated the sickly white interior of the doctor’s office. He had memorized every square inch of the niche business space, and he even knew the name of the fake plant situated by the magazines.

His head rolled forward and backward again. Meanwhile, his fingers tapped along with the soft tick, tick, tick–ing of the clock. Ashton’s heart didn’t tick like that. The red hand of the clock stopped, and a few moments later, it caught itself back up again. Ashton’s heart ticked like that. This was his train of thought every time. And two minutes later, it was always interrupted with, “Ashton, Dr. Heim is ready for you.”

“Nothing new, nothing worse,” Ashton said to his doctor at the beginning of every appointment. It felt like a ritual. If he chose not to say those words, then there would be something new–– something worse.

So, he said the truth. Nothing new, nothing worse, but in two weeks, it would always be a different story.

His appointments, like many routine checkups, were consistently regular, except they were not a healthy human’s typical “routine” checkup. Sometimes the valves in Ashton’s heart didn’t work as properly as they were supposed to. It also didn’t help that he had anemia. Most of his appointments were follow-ups from impromptu hospital visits. But his life hadn’t been terribly complicated in quite some time. His flare-ups were minor bumps in the road, but the thing that made it all worse was the fact that he was completely alone.

“Have a wonderful weekend, Janice,” said Ashton to the receptionist while on his way out. He twirled his car keys in his hand as he waved goodbye with the other.

The hot air from outside felt like a slap in the face. He knew it would take quite a while for the A.C. in his car to start working, so after sitting down and starting up the car, he left the door open. Meanwhile, he began to think about the cyclical nature of his life in this moment. It was as if his body worked on a schedule now: flare-up, hospital visit, doctor follow-up, and then fine and healthy for a few weeks before starting all over again. Hell, he even parked in the same spot every time.

Ashton hadn’t noticed the blast of cool air until goosebumps popped up on his skin. He shut his door and pulled out of the parking lot, hoping that he wouldn’t have to see this place ever again.

He had a flare-up the following week.

-

Health issues and lack-of-romantic-life aside, Ashton loved living. He loved going to new coffee shops, and he loved being a father to a lovely three-month-old fish named Gold-a Radner. He loved going to pet stores and admiring all of the fish tank décor he could buy. And then after realizing he couldn’t afford everything he wanted, he’d stop by the lake and pick up a few colorful stones. He’d then stroll back to his studio apartment with two fingers on his wrist so he could make sure he wasn’t overexerting himself.

But as much as he loved his life––to an extent, he wanted more. He wanted to live without worrying when his heart was going to freak out on him. All-in-all, he wanted to change everything about his life but somehow keep it the same. Ashton had a feeling that, if he chose to pack up his things and travel across an ocean, his heart would give out altogether.

“Well, well, well, long time no see. Come to browse and not buy again?”

So, Ashton didn’t just go to the pet store to look at tank decorations.

He cracked a smile, a rush of nerves falling over him while he mentally scolded himself for blushing so hard. “Maybe I’ll buy something today,” he replied as he strolled over in your direction.

You were cute, almost too cute. Every time he walked in, you were there behind the counter, spinning on your stool as a bright grin greeted him before he could say hello. On warmer days, you wore skirts and dresses, and he’d have to take a deep breath before speaking to you.

“Yeah?” you wondered, leaning forward against the glass counter. “You’re messin’ with our foot traffic. We didn’t make enough last quarter, so you bet ‘m gonna prod you about buyin’ stuff now.”

Ashton’s cheeks relaxed while his lips fell down into a frown. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he said, but you were just laughing at him.

“Ash, it’s fine. I don’t care.”

“How’s your book goin’?”

You shrugged. “It’s–– well, it’s going.”

“You haven’t written anything new.”

“You got me.” You winked at him.

Ashton’s gaze fell to the rodent bedding on the shelf beside him, and he couldn’t help but fidget with the packaging. “When ya gonna tell me what this story’s about?”

You shrugged once again. “Once I feel confident that it’s actually good,” you replied. The light in your eyes hadn’t faded once throughout the conversation. It almost had him convinced that you liked him too.

“Nah, I bet it’s good. Anything you touch turns to gold,” he said, still semi-focused on the plastic edges of the bag–– too focused to realize he had just flirted with you. So, when he looked over, you were beet red, and he was relieved to now not be the only one blushing.

“W-Well, when it’s done,” you mumbled with a bashful grin, “you can be the first to read. And I’ll dedicate it to you, It’s a Pets World’s least favorite customer, Ash.”

Ashton couldn’t stop smiling. He stepped forward to lean against the counter so he could be closer to you. “Can’t wait.”

“Hopefully you don’t have to wait long,” you continued. “I just have a few more chapters in mind, and then I just have to look it over like, a bazillion times to make sure it’s good.”

“How does one write a book?”

You huffed. “Boy, I wish I knew.

The two of you laughed, and soon, Ashton had managed to pick out a small fake plant for Gold-a. And when he set down his cash on the counter between you and him, you took half of the amount and told him to have a beautiful day.

Because of you, he was certain he would.

His heart stayed healthy for the rest of the night.

-

“You think I should kill him?”

“I don’t care.”

“Like, would the readers hate me for that? Or would it be interesting? Like, would it spice things up?”

Ed sighed. “I don’t care.”

“No, I shouldn’t kill him,” you said. “I’ll convince the readers I did kill him. Ashton Irwin can’t die. I would hate myself too if I killed him.”

“I work with someone named Ashton.”

“Eddie, this feels pointless,” you mumbled. A groan followed, and you slapped down the screen of your laptop. “My book fuckin’ sucks.”

You roommate chuckled. “Cut yourself some slack, okay? It’s just a draft. If ya wanna kill him, kill him.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” you said, tossing your arms up. “I’m too attached to him. But I need tension.”

“So, give him a near-death experience.”

You gasped. “Yes. Genius. Thank you, Ed. His poor heart won’t be able to take it.”

-

It probably wasn’t a good idea to hang out with a few coworkers on a Friday night, and it definitely wasn’t a good idea to have an edible before asking, “is this an edible?”. And it certainly wasn’t a good idea to eat another, and then another, and possibly another. Before Ashton knew it, he was pacing in the bathroom, grasping the sink and the bar above the shower to keep himself steady. Falling, however, was the least of his concerns.

His heart had never raced like this, and he couldn’t quite focus hard enough to tell if it was an arrhythmic beat. Truly, he still had no clue what had caused this (he would only later realize those fantastic cookies were not as innocent as he thought). The world hadn’t moved like this before. He stormed out of the bathroom and back to the living room of his coworker’s apartment to ask someone to take him to the hospital.

But somehow, you were there, and the world froze. He was going to die, he was going to die.

“Ash, hey!” you exclaimed, rushing over to fling your arms around his shaking body. Immediately, you pulled away and knotted your brows in concern. “You good?”

He didn’t answer–– he couldn’t answer. Too much was happening in his brain to comprehend what was going on. Why were you there? Why did he feel this way? Why were his armpits so sweaty? Had you always been this cute? Why were you so close to him? Did you just hug him? How come––

“Ash?” you asked again. Your eyes widened as your hands gripped his arms a little tighter. You were touching him? His heart couldn’t take this.

Ashton blinked.

“Hey, Ed,” you said, looking over your shoulder to the few men situated on the couch. “Did he have those cookies?”

“Yeah?”

“How many?”

Ed chuckled. “Four. Devoured ‘em.”

You rolled your eyes, taking Ashton by the hand and leading him towards the door. “Ed, you’re a fucking idiot. Look at him. He’s glossed.”

Glossed? Ashton chuckled. He pictured himself head-to-toe in lip gloss.

“We’re with him,” replied Ed, “it’s fine.”

You struggled to put on your shoes, yet you didn’t let go of Ashton’s hands. “I’m taking him home.”

He liked the feeling of your skin against him–– it reminded him of raspberry lemonade on a breezy summer day. Surely, it wouldn’t be harmful if he slipped his fingers between yours. You didn’t even comment when he did.

“Whatever,” Ed said. “If you stay over with your new boyfriend, lemme know in case Greg wants to stay the night.”

“Do not let him into my room, Edward Mason,” you scolded and pointed a finger in his direction.

Ashton couldn’t quite make out what was happening, but it relieved him to know that you were simply Ed’s roommate. Ashton was halfway out of the door when he realized you weren’t denying the whole boyfriend thing, but he managed to forget about it within the next few seconds. He was too focused on the softness of your touch and the warmth of your presence, even if you were in somewhat of a rush. Meanwhile, he hadn’t thought about the rapid stuttering of his heart since first noticing you.

What he needed was a hospital, but that had left his mind.

Suddenly, he was in the passenger seat of your car, shoulders heavy while he watched his own car get smaller and smaller in the mirror as you drove away from the parking lot.

Ashton groaned before saying “oh, I do not feel good.” He set his damp forehead in his hands and let out another distressed sound.

“Yeah, cos’ my dumb fuckin’ roommate let you eat four edibles,” you responded. “Where do you live?”

“In an apartment.”

“Helpful,” you retorted. “Like, what’s your address?”

He sighed. The movement of the car convinced his brain that he was rocking on a ship in the middle of the ocean–– he assumed he would hurl at some point during this car ride. “’s on Prospect. Big factory-kind of buildin’.”

“You live in a factory?”

“Think it used t’be a mill or sumthin’,” he said, and soon groaned again due to your recent sharp turn. Ashton had never been this high before, in fact, he hadn’t done anything of the sorts since early college. After that, his heart condition had worsened, and everything he once knew, he couldn’t even touch.

He didn’t feel as ill when he spoke, as strange as it sounded. And he had a lot to say. Like, a lot.

“’m gonna need a fuckin’ burger soon,” said Ashton, his train of thought suddenly coming to a screeching halt the moment his stomach let out a rumble. “Or something. Thinkin’ ‘bout that melted cheese jus’ running down the sides–– fuck.” He nearly moaned at the idea. “Can’t eat shit at home though... there’s nothin’ there. Like, even Gold-a Radner is runnin’ outta food.”

“Gold-a Radner?”

“My goldfish,” he replied. “Ev’ry time I go to Pet’s World, I mean t’buy more. But you’re so fuckin’ pretty. Like, it’s distracting. I can never ‘member my middle name when I talk to ya. M’heart’s already busted but ya kill it again every time you smile at me. My damn fish is starvin’ because I can’t keep my tongue from draggin’ ‘cross the damn floor. Gold-a doesn’t deserve that. She won’t care that I have a petty crush on the girl at the pet store. She just wants her lil flakes.

“And it kinda fuckin’ kills me,” continued Ashton with a sigh, his speech now running slow, “that I dunno a thing about your book. I wanna know ya. Like, you don’t owe me anything, b-but–– I wanna know ya! You makin’ me––“ Ashton chuckled. “You makin’. I mean, you make me nervous. Dunno.”

All information coming from his brain to his lips had cut off, and the space between the two of you grew eerily silent. He nearly reached to turn on the radio. The only sounds penetrating the thick air were the soft, rhythmic clicks of the blinker, and Ashton found himself trying to count each one as the minutes passed. Time seemed to avail him, however, despite the silence. Before he could speak another word, you were turning onto Prospect Avenue.

“This building,” he said, and you abruptly hit the brakes. “Thank you, I’ll–– “

“Are you feeling better?” you asked him, eyes soft as he stared back at you (he assumed his eyes were not as kind).

He nodded.

“Good,” you said.

“Jus’ hungry.”

You nodded, too.

“See ya,” he said.

“Bye.”

Ashton took a deep breath as he watched you drive away. The situation had finally started to dawn on him. Your mood shifted after he rambled his confession, and truth be told, he hardly remembered what he said. His brain worked too fast, and now it was working too slow. Ashton didn’t know if he could show his face in It’s a Pet’s World again–– he’d have to find a new place in town... he’d have to go to Petco, but he didn’t want to go to Petco. He wanted to see you.

As he unlocked the door to his building, his heart skipped a beat.

-

“Your co-worker likes me.”

“What?”

“Ash,” you said. “He likes me.”

Ed quirked an eyebrow. “The dude you named your character after?”

“What?”

“Ashton.”

“That’s his name?”

“Do you like him?” asked Ed.

You thought for a moment. “I–– “

“You do?”

“Well–– “

“You’re taking too long to think,” he observed.

You rolled your eyes. “Ed. That’s the thing. I’m thinking. I... like his company. I like it when he comes into Pet’s World. I like it when he laughs at my jokes. I like his laugh. I like his smile. I like it when he talks to me about his favorite juice. I like when he asks me about my book. I–– “ You sighed, still thinking. “I like how tall he is, how kind he is, how smart he is. I like when he acts all bashful and warms up to his confidence. I like how warm he is. I–– “

“Sounds like you like him.”

You frowned. “Yeah.”

-

Ashton managed to put off going to the pet store for about a week, but Gold-a’s food had run out completely by Friday morning. Maybe, just maybe, someone else would be on shift. Maybe he would be lucky, and maybe he could continue to avoid his problems instead of facing them.

He knew you were in because of the music you played–– Gloria Estefan brightened your mood and made you want to dance. He wondered if you had been waiting for him, if you had been dreading his arrival. By this point, you most likely could have guessed his frequent appearance was only because of you, so it was possible you weren’t expecting him at all. And lucky for him, you were helping out a customer at the counter when he walked in. He quickly made his way to the aisle with the fish food.

“Ash– Ash!” you called after him, now hot on his tail as the customer you had been helping made their way out of the store. “Hey.”

He didn’t want to stop out of partial embarrassment from the other not. He also didn’t want to stop because he knew he would have to turn around. If he turned around, he would fall into a puddle just from looking at you. But then you placed your hand on his shoulder, and he felt his entire body erupt in flames. How could he avoid someone like you? It was such a gentle touch–– Ashton turned around without thinking twice.

All he saw was the soft smile he had grown to love, and he didn’t have to think again after that. Your hands grasped his cheeks as you lifted yourself up to capture his lips in yours. It was hard and soft all at once. Ashton’s hands flew to your waist to steady you, but he also needed to feel you. He needed to memorize himself with every line, every curve. And right now, with your lips moving against his in a slow yet passionate motion, he hardly had a chance to register a single thing.

He especially couldn’t register the perpetual ache growing in his chest, and the dizziness that followed wasn’t caused by you. This made him believe he was running out of air, so he pulled away, skin flushed for many reasons.

“I’m– I’m sorry for the other night,” you said, and meanwhile, he was leaning into your touch. He needed to lay down. “I didn’t really know what to say, and that– that was dumb of me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Like, you’re on my mind literally every second now. I finally finished my book but it was hard because–– “

Ashton held up his hand, his fingers trembling as he attempted to stumble out of your grasp. His chest felt heavy, almost like it was sinking into him. And he couldn’t focus on your face–– there were too many bright spots flickering in and out.

“Ash–– “

“M-my God, what’s– wha’s happening?” He gripped your forearms, nearly taking you down with his weight as his body swayed.

“Ash–– Ash! What’s going on?” you asked, worry lacing your tone. “Ya gotta tell me what’s going on. Please.”

“Heart,” he breathed out. “My heart.”

“’m calling 911, okay? I’m calling–– “

His hearing failed him, and the bright spots turned dark.

-

When Ashton awoke, his body ached, and it seemed as though there were small weights holding down his eyelids. He felt stuck between a physical plane, yet he could feel the sensation of fingernails against his scalp, and he could feel the warm skin of a hand on his. He could also feel the gentle flow of oxygen through his nostrils, and he knew that feeling all too well.

Right away, he knew the presence beside him was you. He could remember his hands on your waist, your lips slotting against his while the fish in the tanks across the room watched in confusion. He could remember your hands roaming his chest and neck to make sure his heart was still beating.

“’ows your book comin’?” he mumbled, lips hardly moving as his eyelids lift ever so slightly.

Your face lit up, great big smile and all as you pushed yourself forehead to press small kisses all over his face. “Don’t you fuckin’ do that to me again, ‘kay? You shit.”

He managed out a small laugh. “Sorry.”

You sighed, letting a small moment of silence creep in before you opened your mouth to say, “I never knew.”

“Wha’?”

“I–– “ You glanced around, unsure. “I don’t know how I did it. I mean, I don’t really know you, yet–– “

“What?”

You frowned. “I wrote a story about you.”

His lips pulled into a small smile, and his eyebrow lifted slightly.

“But not like, about you,” you continued. “Like, it has to be a coincidence, right? I didn’t know your full name, but I wrote a story about you, Ashton Irwin. But I didn’t know it was you! I wrote about you and your heart condition, and I was going to kill you! In the story, that is. I was going to make you almost die, and then you almost fucking died. I’m just–– “ You sighed again. “I never knew anything about you. How did I do that?”

Ashton was kind of confused, but he didn’t care all that much. No matter the severity of his flare-up, he was always happy to be alive, and now he was happy to be alive with you.

“Jus’ a coincidence,” he said, turning your wrist around so he could trace shapes onto your palm. Your fingers were still playing with stray locks of his hair. “’s’all. Thanks fo’ not killin’ me though.”

You nodded. “Well, there’s one thing I didn’t write.”

“Wha’s that?”

“I didn’t write myself into the story,” you said, “so that’s what makes it all different. Just a coincidence.”

Ashton grinned, leaning forward so he could press a kiss to your lips. “Will ya still add me to the dedications?”

“Ya got a whole book apparently,” you replied as you gave a few strands of his hair a playful tug. Your other hand came to rest on his chest, right above his heart. “But of course. To It’s a Pets World’s least favorite customer, Ashton Irwin.”

[changinchanginchanged]

Dear Web

I’m not quite sure who I ought to talk to about this heaviness inside my soul. But to you, oh Website Tumblr, I bare my soul, my soles... no, just my soul. Who the fuck knows what this pumpkin is on about? Please explain.

Basically, I’m not great at making commitments to myself to change for the better. I start out very, very enthusiastically (note very x2)... and then almost immediately forget my venture for greatness (or really for consistency in doing the bare minimum basics of life) and squander my health, wealth, mentality and time. My heart and my emotions. I can’t get into emotions right now, tbh. That will fuck us all up.

I am not one to whinge... nor am I whinging even now. But fuck, if you knew some of the things I had gotten up to lately - even the mighty Web might say WOW.

‘Scuse the Dr Seuss inspired rhymes. So tempting to rhyme some more. But I won’t because once again I am getting distracted from a commitment I am making to you, oh Webby Webby, my sole witness, my SOUL pal.

Anyway. What am I doing again?

Oh, that’s right.

I need to learn to love myself. I need to forgive myself. And be kind to myself. I mostly am very kind to others, but I’ve noticed that there are things I have done to others lately that I thought would be things I’d only ever let happen to myself. That’s the problem with self hate - it eventually does spill over and splashes onto the one’s we’re trying to love around us. How can love exude from a heart full of self-loathing? The math doesn’t add up.

Though people say I’m very loving - the proof is in the pudding and how it all ends up. The mess.

So commitment here. Uh, not a strong point of mine. I can come on so intensely and intently that it seems like I’m all about that sweet, sweet C. But in reality, I’m a bit of a bloody roller coaster with loose hinges and squeaky wheels - never truly committing to the ride.

Why can’t I focus on one thing? What am I trying to get at here?

I want to learn to be strong in the basics. Strong in self care and self love so that I can love others from the overflow of my heart, in ways that are consistent, authentic and gentle.

Right now, it feels like such a hugely overwhelming task and my mind spins out when I try to figure out what my routine of self care will look like. Something inside of me is so resistant to caring for myself. I’ll drop everything to nurture another. Even so, it mostly ends in havoc caused by impulsivity and inability to care for myself first and foremost. The foundation is weak.

This way of life has led me to hefty accumulations of debt, frequent and prolonged periods of being unwell, abuse of alcohol (and dabbling in other substances), self harm (in one way or another), intense feelings of guilt and shame, and cyclical destructive behaviours that have ultimately ruined relationships with people I truly care about.

Shit.

But I KNOW there are people in this world who have overcome much, much more than the struggles I face, and have gone on to live incredible lives of goodness, service and impact. That is what I want for my life. I want to be a vessel of love and light. I want to live a life of purpose.

So I’m looking at the troubles inside my soul - my troubled soul, and I’m saying ‘come on, silly soul of mine. you and I are a team now. we can do this. for once, I’m really going to be on your side and believe in you. I’m going to cheer you on and comfort you when you’re feeling weary. I love you. we can do this. we can change’.

And no one else needs to know. No one else needs to be a part of this.

I have everything I need right here and right now.

I had a dream last night and in that dream an old gentleman told me to think about the explicit functions of my body and to be grateful for them. For example, I have sight. My eyes can see and I am grateful for the gift that is my eyes along with the gift of sight. My eyes are a part of me. They are good to me. I am grateful for my eyes. I am grateful for me. I am connected to my body parts on the most basic level. And they are good. Even if that is the only good thing I can see right now about me, the fact of the matter is there is goodness inside of me.

That sounds a little confusing, perhaps. But the next part of the dream is what really hit me.

I was then instructed to think about things in this life that make me happy and to think about why they make me happy. Once I had thought about the ‘happy thing’ and what was so ‘happy’ about it, I was told to replace the ‘happy thing’ with ‘me’ and repeat the reasoning.

For example, Nature makes me happy. It makes me happy because Nature is beautiful, it brings peace and it is a safe haven for tired souls.

Therefore, I am beautiful. I bring peace. I am a safe haven for tired souls.

The moral of this elongated dreamalogue (dream-monologue) is this:

Everything that you love in this world is a reflection of the good that is already inside of you.

Woah. Man. I could well up at the thought. I see others and think they are so beautiful, when in reality they possess very similar traits as the traits I possess also.

Why then, is it so damn hard to see that same beauty inside of me?

This is what I’m here to commit to. I’m committing to learning to love myself, truly, madly, deeply. To learn how to care for myself. To dream big dreams. And to walk in purpose and kindness each day. First and foremost, to myself and to to others also in turn. I need to love me. I am desperate to love myself and to look after myself.

So that is my commitment.

Some stats for my own benefit, being that this entire exercise is for my own benefit and I make the rules here, beeetch:

Current days not:

Drinking (4), Smoking (3), Eating Animal Products (1), Drugs (8), Breaking My Budget (3), Sexing Someone I Didn’t Want To (19), Getting Into An Alcohol-Fuelled Fight (11).

It might not seem like much - but even that is progress. I am grateful for learning to love my soul a little more than I previously had been. Thank you, Me.

Health Stats:

171cm, 74kg, BF (last time I checked when I weighed less was around 30% - so probably higher than this), currently have a throat infection (again),

2020 Baby... Goals:

Clear $17,500 debt*, Get Drivers License (2 lessons down), Mediate & Write Daily, Save $20,000 by end year, Complete 5 Uni Subjects with HD Avg., Maintain Vegan Lifestyle, Write 40 New Songs, Record 1 Song, Travel (Europe & South America), LOVE MYSELF.

*spent on nothing in particular (supposed ‘good’ times essentially) and figure not inclusive of Student Debt.

Okay, I’m overwhelming myself. This is good.

Soul, we can do it. Web, bear witness.

It’s time to change, change, CHANGE for the better and for forever.

I love you.

[motherpsyduck]

House Guest

Chapter 7: Red Skin

You watch curiously as Trevor pulls into what looks like an empty parking lot near the Vespucci Canals. You spot a dormant helicopter at the far end that was difficult to see in the darkness from its black paint job. On closer inspection when Trevor parks close to the chopper you’re able to read the red spray paint on the side. It says “T.P Industries” In bold red capital letters, also there’s a small red patch with white writing that reads “Fuck da feds”. Classy. You release your warm hold of Trevor’s stomach when the engine dies and slide off the bike to walk slowly towards the helicopter.

Trevor struts by you and swings the chopper pilot door open and sits himself inside. He looks out at you and waves for you to join him. You’re hesitant; having never been in a helicopter before. You just frown at him with wide eyes. Trevor’s broad shoulders elevate with his sigh. He steps out of the chopper and advances to where you’re stood.

“What’s the problem?” Trevor says with some frustration as he rubs his chin.

“I’m supposed to get in that?” You point at the helicopter to the side of Trevor. Trevor looks to the chopper and then back to you.

“Yeah, unless you plan on walking. It’s faster in the air, c’mon” Trevor begins walking back to the chopper with you before you stop him.

“Where are we going exactly?”

“Sandy Shores.”

“Which is... where?”

“North.” You raise your brow for more of an explanation. “Blaine County.” Trevor exhales. “Los Santos isn’t even the half of it Y/N. What kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t let you experience the rest, no no the BEST part of San Andreas?”

“Ok, and you can fly a helicopter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“YES! I spent enough time in the air force, the least they could do is teach me how to pilot a fucking chopper!”

“Alright! Fine.” Trevor escorts you to the co-pilot side of the helicopter and pulls the door open for you to climb in. Once you’re seated he shuts the door and makes his way around to the pilot seat. You’ve nervously pulled on the safety harness to try and secure yourself in but can’t get the straps to click together correctly. Trevor climbs himself in then sits and closes his door. He watches you fail your attempts with the harness. Once you give up he reaches over and comes in close to fully see what he was doing. You can feel your heart in your throat as his hands are very close to your crotch. He takes very little time fastening you in before returning to his seat.

Trevor doesn’t bother with his own harness and instead hands you a headset to wear. You place it on your head and position it over your ears. Simple. Once the headset is sitting comfortably on your ears you turn and smile at Trevor with accomplishment. Trevor rolls his eyes and pulls the small microphone up that’s attached to your headset so it’s near your mouth and then he slips his headset on.

You watch mystified as Trevor flips a number of switches on the dashboard in front of him and some above him. You study his focused face. He must’ve done this a million times, but how can he remember all those buttons? You hear the whirr of rotor blades above you as the chopper wakes up. Trevor grasps at the cyclic in between his outer thigh and yours. You peer out of your door and watch the ground beneath you get further and further away as the chopper ascends. Your heart beat quickens as you realise how high in the air you are.

“You’re gonna pass out if you don’t stop breathing so fast” Trevor mutters in your ear making you jump. He’s keeping his sight focused in front of him. You hadn’t noticed but Trevor must’ve heard your nervous breathing through the headset.

“Sorry.” You inhale a large breath through your nose and exhale slowly to steady your intakes of air as you gaze over the lights of Los Santos. It was surreal. The city looked so small from all the way up here. Trevor glanced at you for a second to see the awe on your face, and then his sight returned forward to guide the chopper.

The two of you in the air were covering a lot more ground than travelling by car so it wasn’t too long until you pass the Vinewood sign. A few quiet minutes went by as you watched the distant life below you continue existing. You admire some the wildlife on the hills as you hover by. Trevor then breaks the silence.

“Here.” You look at him then his hand on the stick steering the helicopter with a scared and confused look in your eyes.

“I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying” Your eyes lock with Trevor’s.

“Driving stick is easy” Trevor shrugs.

“That’s what people say about cars Trevor! Not fucking helicopters!”

“Look I’ll guide you, just put your hand on the stick will ya?”

“There is no way I am doing that” You refuse sternly. Trevor works out the only way you’re going to put your hand on the cyclic is if he let’s go of it completely. He does and your face turns white as you shout and both your hands grab at it on impulse. “TREVOR WHAT THE FUCK??!”

“You’re fine. See just tilt it to steer the chopper” Trevor reassured you and wraps his huge hand around yours on the stick. You stare at his tattoos on his knuckle as he helps to manoeuvre the helicopter. You look up and out over San Andreas from the wide window of the cockpit. You feel a massive rush from the combination of potential death and an exhilarating new experience. You’re concentrating so hard on piloting the chopper that you’ve not felt Trevor take his hand away.

“Look at you Y/N! I bet you didn’t think you’d fly a chopper when you put your name down for the foreign student bullshit”

“No I fucking didn’t!” You laughed anxiously. “... Can you do it now? I don’t want to be the reason we die in a fiery explosion”

Trevor chuckles and takes over the steering of the aircraft as you relinquish control. You sink back into your seat as your heartbeat returns to a healthy speed. Trevor’s face returns to a serious focused expression as he continues to pilot the helicopter to the destination. You watch him. He’s quiet when he’s flying. It’s different.

“So did you join the US air force?”

“Sort of.” Trevor’s eyes are locked in front of him.

“Cananda?”

“It was the, uh Canadian border region of America, yeah.”

“I thought so. I can hear it when you talk sometimes.”

“It’s a faint fucking accent.” Trevor growled through his teeth.

“I like it.” You saw Trevor’s eyes shift toward you as he turned and arched his brow. You felt the pit of your stomach tense as you saw the look in his eye.

“You do huh? Tell me, what else d’you like about me cupcake?” You try to keep your cool and shrug; not wanting to pleasure Trevor’s ego any further, but you feel your cheeks warming up.

“I don’t know....”

“Pick something. I have many fine qualities” Trevor admits arrogantly.

 “Erm... you make me laugh?”

“No, you know what I’m thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ it’s the way I make your face go to that lovely red colour.” Trevor’s does his evil smile. He loves pushing your buttons.

“What?” You stutter. Your face is on fire.

“That face of yours, like in the back of Frank’s car. You’re burning up.”

“No I’m not!” You turn and scowl out the window of the door on your left trying to hide your blushing cheeks.

“Was it you who packed all that sexy lingerie that fell out of your suitcase? Thinkin’ you’d get lucky in LS? You should be focusing on your studies!” Trevor tuts.

You try to ignore Trevor and don't give him an answer. As you continue your glare out the side of the helicopter, Trevor moves over to you so you feel him leaning up against you. He whispers through the microphone: "Will I ever get to see it?"

“WHY? DO YOU WANT TO BORROW IT?” You finally blurt out swinging around to face him. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears as you stare him down. Your comeback was supposed to stump Trevor for an answer, but it only fuelled him more. You watch his tongue slide from one side of his jaw to the other behind his bottom teeth. A corner on one side of his mouth lifts up with a grin.

“If that’s what you’re into sweetheart, I’m game.” Trevor teases. He stares wildly into your eyes and you narrow yours back at him. You can taste the tension in the air of this small enclosed space. Trevor notices your full lips puckering when you’re concentrating so forcefully. He moistens his mouth and moves away from you after a few seconds with a shit eating smirk on his face. He waits for a moment then makes you see red with his next topic of conversation.

“How’s your tattoo healin’ up?”

-

The chopper stops advancing and instead begins descending in an air field. You hear the rotors slow down as the helicopter touches the sandy dirt. The air is still and not a word is uttered when Trevor removes his headset. You assume it’s safe to unbuckle your harness but your fingers fumble at the fastening. Trevor notices.

“You want me to do it?”

“No I’m fine. I got it.” Your reply was prickly. You didn’t look at Trevor. The straps release and you pull off the headset leaving it on the seat. The co-pilot door is pushed open then your feet fall onto the floor, making a small sand cloud. You watch Trevor emerge from his side and you stomp your boots to confront him. “You make me so fucking crazy you know that?” Your voice is loud. Trevor just looks down at you.

“I know, isn’t it great? Can you feel the blood pumping though your veins?”

“You just wait until I find what winds you up.” Your blood is boiling. Michael might know. He’s known this asshole for a long time. I’ll ask him when I get back.

“Are you threatening me?” Trevor flirts. You ignore his question as you feel a drop of liquid hit your forehead. You wipe it away but it’s pointless as more fall onto your face as you look up to the night sky.

“Where’s your car?” You ask as you’re pushing your cold hands into your large, toastie hoodie pocket. Trevor remains unbothered by how damp he’s becoming. You notice the denim material around his wide shoulders begin to soak through with the rain water as you wait for his answer. Trevor waves his thick, tattooed arm out and points with his index finger behind you. You turn and spot his Bodhi pickup parked at a lonely gas station not too far away. You spin yourself back to face Trevor with an unimpressed look. “You brought the car without a fucking roof? Fucking great.”

“It’s just rain. Jesus, you whine just like Michael.” Trevor says with his sudden decline in mood. He begins his walk toward his car. You pull your thin hood up and follow close behind him.

“At least Michael would have a car with a roof.” You mutter under your breath. Trevor heard you.

“Look if you wanna go back to Michael, then go. No one’s making you stay here.” Trevor says harshly. You see him standing at the driver’s side of his car from the passenger side where you’re stood. He’s scowling under the dim light on the building. It’s pouring with rain. You’ve hurt him. Trevor feels you’ve compared him with Michael and come to the conclusion that Michael is superior. This was never your intent and so you’re confused to why Trevor is giving you his cold hard shoulder.

“What? I don’t want to go back to Michael. I’m here, with you. I want to be here Trevor. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come.” You say with sincerity. You notice his face soften when you spoke the words. You mirrored his facial expression.

“Alright... let’s go.” Trevor replies calmly. He gets into the driver’s seat and you do so as well on the passenger’s side. Trevor reaches for his keys in his sweatpants pocket and starts his truck. The vehicle accelerates causing the wheels to skid and churn up some wet sand behind you.

-

Trevor guides the car across the worn roads of the San Andreas desert . You pass a lot of run down houses, not too dissimilar to the ones you saw on your adventure in South LS with Franklin, Lamar, Trevor and the Ballas street gang. Your body temperature is decreasing from your soggy clothes and the cool night air that blew past you in the car. Trevor pulls the car up to a shabby looking trailer. You follow him into the property and stop on the path when he begins to climb the stairs to the porch.

“This is what you wanted to show me? A trailer?” You watch Trevor rotate and step back down a few of the stairs to talk to you.

“Wrong! This is MY trailer and I wanna show you something else, not this.” Trevor walks to the entrance, bursts through his trailer door and disappears inside. You’re hesitant to find out if he’s brought you all the way out here to show you a dead body he had waiting for you in his trailer or something. So, you carefully climb the stairs of the porch and are blinded by the bright wall light on the side of his home next to the front door. You give a gingerly push on the flimsy door and lower your hood in astonishment as you’re greeted with a revolting sight.

Cockroaches scatter from the floor of trash where you stood in Trevor’s kitchen/dining room/living room. The inside of his home was small. The bathroom was cramped and missing a door. You notice a sad looking, stained couch pushed up against the wall next to the fridge. On the seat was a glass pipe, a dirty magazine and a box of tissues. You didn’t have to guess what they were for. You appreciated the ‘Benedict’ vivid green neon wall art, even if it was hanging on an angle and also the wolf banner above the uncomfortable looking sofa. In the far corner a crate of beer sat on a round wooden table with some empty bottles and cans on their side. You inhaled as it took all of your might not to correct the slanted lampshade by the TV displaying a white noise picture. What was that smell?  You try not to but your nose is pulling you to the direction that’s causing the stench; an old pizza box and packets of junk food were scattered on the kitchen work surfaces and mouldy dishes floated in the sink. You had a sudden urge to peer into the pizza box and you held your breath as you lifted the lid. You didn’t have a good enough look as Trevor startled you emerging from his bedroom. You leave the box alone.

“Ignore the mess; I was just in the middle of cleaning.” Trevor says sarcastically. He’s removed his jean jacket and so your eyes become very aware of Trevor’s wet t-shirt sticking to his abdomen. You quickly shift your eyes back up to his and speak.

“I really hope you didn’t bring me all the way out here to clean your home.” You cross your arms in front of you and shiver.

“I didn’t, but feel free!”

“I’ll pass.” You tremble from your body trying to warm itself again whilst taking one last look at the dishes and wonder if the water has solidified from sitting there for so long.

“I’ve got some dry stuff you can wear.” Trevor’s noticed your shivering and in his strange way offered you some dry clothing.

“What do you have?” You ask eagerly and follow Trevor into his bedroom. He squats to dig around in his wardrobe while your eyes scan your surroundings. More magazines and empty bottles of beer are spread out on the bed and side table and posters of attractive women wearing barely any clothing stuck on the walls. You notice a skull sitting on the dresser next to a small broken TV, wearing a army camo coloured cowboy hat. You wonder whether it’s a human skull. You turn toward Trevor when he speaks and notice one door to his wardrobe is removed and leaning beside it.

“Nothing fancy,” Trevor stands upright when he hands you a black Love Fist tank, a black zip-up hoodie and pink sweatpants. “be careful with those pants, they were a gift.”

“Ok.. thanks.” You’re holding the small pile of clothing in your arms. You look up to Trevor, waiting for him to leave and give you some privacy. Trevor picks up on your demeanour and arches his brow again. You hate how your heart reacts to when he does something so simple.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Trevor’s voice is low, almost growling.

“You’re not going to leave?” You say in a flat, defeated tone.

“Nope! I want to see your tattoo... again.” Trevor pops the p cheerfully and flashes you his wide grin again. You’re not fazed by his advances and shrug. You’ve prioritised not getting a chill over having to take off your clothes in front of Trevor.

You place the dry clothes on Trevor’s bed and begin undressing from your wet ones. Your back is facing him as you pull your soaked hoodie up over your head. It exposes your lower back briefly from some of the t-shirt moving with the hoodie. The drenched hoodie forms a clump on the floor as it falls. You unzip your boots and slip your surprisingly dry feet out to remove your pants. After undoing your jeans your cold, red thighs slide out from inside the tight material. You’re standing in your damp t-shirt and black lace knickers. It doesn’t even cross your mind how see through they are because you’re so cold.

You can hear a pin drop as you bend over slightly to find the pink sweatpants in the pile on the end of the bed. You pull them on and then remove your moistened shirt from the bottom and peel it from your body. It comes up over your head and you drop it on the pile with the rest of your sopping articles of clothing. It takes a great deal of restraint from Trevor not to pounce on you as he sees your matching lacy bra strap. You slide your arms through the large arm holes of Trevor’s Love Fist tank top and wrap the hoodie around your top half. You push your hands through the arms then zip up the front of Trevor’s hoodie.

You reach down to collect your damp pieces of clothing and try to find creative ways to hang them around the trailer for them to dry. It's difficult but you avoid eye contact with Trevor and pretend you've forgotten he was in the room with you. He's standing in the same spot with his jaw slightly ajar, adjusting his shrinking groin space of his sweatpants that contained a rather impressive bulge. - [<-CH6] [CH8->] [<-CH1]

[gaiatheorist]

Testing boundaries.

OK, I did it, I went ‘out’. No big deal for most people, but I’m not most people. I’m socially awkward, and have, historically, had a tendency to get catastrophically drunk, to avoid just lurking in the corner, like an unwanted ginger standard-lamp. As it turns out, I don’t ‘need’ the booze, which was fortunate, because it was quite expensive.

I’d seen the ‘flyer’ for the Twitter meet-up a few weeks ago, and just dismissed it with “Can’t go.”, because it was 2 hours travel away, and an unnecessary expenditure. Some time on Thursday, I’m not entirely sure when, I started looking at train-prices, and dabbling in the arena of ‘could go, if...’ That’s abnormal behaviour for me, and I’m still not entirely certain whether it was turning-away-from this episode of poor emotional well-being, or holding my nose, and jumping straight into it.

Crowds freak me out, unfamiliar locations make me uneasy, I don’t cope well with excessive noise, flashing lights, and the proximity of unknown-people. I know, let’s travel to another city, alone, and spend a few hours in a pub, with a bunch of strangers! Add to that the facts that I’m probably more neurotic-protective than most, and never really went ‘out’ much on my own for 20 years, and my anxiety probably burned off the three glasses of wine before I eventually threw myself back in through my front door. (Without falling out of the taxi, which I did last time I was ‘out’. No, for anyone familiar with my back-story, or PIP-assessors, I didn’t fall off the toilet, either.) 

Yesterday, I went ‘out’, this waffly-blog is likely to be the very dull story of how I didn’t get murdered, or wake up in a gutter with my pants on inside-out. I know I ‘should’ have saved the money I drew out of the cash-point, but, in my off-centre logic, it was ‘spare’ money, left over from last month’s salary, and I virtually never do anything for myself. (Yes, there was a really weird side-thought about ‘What if the washing machine breaks, and I have to do my laundry in the bath for a month?’ I wouldn’t be doing my laundry in the bath, washing machines are relatively easy to reverse-diagnostic repair.) Welcome to the less than wonderful world of ‘What if?’

First up “What if somebody takes a photo, and I look half-dead?” Well, that’s easy, I DO look half-dead, but I tend to dye my roots on pay-day anyway, so I’ll at least look less like I’ve walked through cobwebs if I do show up in the background of someone else’s photo. I’m not ‘big’ Twitter, nobody’s going to want to snap a selfie with me to prove they’ve met me.

Next, “I have NOTHING to wear.” Don’t be an idiot, you have cupboards full of clothes, as was demonstrated by pulling EVERYTHING out of said cupboards, and raging at myself for putting things ‘out of the way’ instead of ‘away’. I’d wanted a particular top, I’m not as emaciated as I was this time last year, but I didn’t want the glockenspiel look, people have a tendency to try to make you eat pies when they can see your ribs, and if you complain that wheat doesn’t suit you, the automatic assumption is an eating disorder. I’m a pain in my own arse, because once I’d found ‘that’ top, I decided I didn’t want to wear it, and settled on another one. 

“Is that going to be enough money?” It’s going to have to be, and that will ensure you don’t go overboard with the drinks. (Half-grinning, because it turned out to be exactly the right amount of money to cover my slight miscalculation.) 

“Where’s my make-up?” Ah, remember when you threw a tizz about the ‘expectation’ that women should tart themselves up, and smear tonnes of crap on their faces to be deemed acceptable? Remember your ‘refusing to be aesthetically objectified’ tantrum, when you threw the make-up in the bin? It’s in the bin. Your entire make-up collection now consists of the one mascara that hasn’t completely dried out, a black eyeliner pencil that needs sharpening, and the boy has had off with the sharpener, and several red lipsticks. Challenging.

“Why is my hair so shit? Why won’t it behave?” It’s shit because you’re overwhelmingly stressed, which in turn leads to you not eating properly, the combination of stress and poor diet is responsible for the fragile hair, and the hair-loss. It won’t ‘behave’ because it’s part of you, it is ‘behaving’ entirely as it always does, which is like a dead ginger mop. (Interesting couple of minutes on the train, where I realised I’d used some gel the boy had left here to stop the frizzy-cloud effect, but not scrunched it through, leading to stiff tendrils here and there, and a very difficult to manage urge to shout “It’s not spunk!”)

“What if I miss the train?” Just get the next one, you nine-tonne mega-idiot, you’ve already allowed additional time for when you invariably get lost. “What if there are no seats on the train?” In that case, you’ll regret wearing five inch heels a bit sooner, won’t you? “What if I get on the WRONG train?” Seriously? This was getting tedious, bearing in mind I hadn’t even left the house. Occam’s razor is applied to my thought process even less often than razors are applied to my skin. I’m Stig of the Dump, and I ALWAYS start at the most ridiculous-unlikely, and work my way back from there. I’ve generally completely forgotten what the ‘problem’ was, by the time I’ve explored all the disturbing tangents my brain likes to send me off on. “What if I trip over something?” can very quickly morph into “What if I’m murdered, I don’t think I closed the living room curtains, and next door will assume I’m ‘in’, and nobody will realise I’m missing.”

Given the cyclic nature of my peculiar anxieties, and the fact that I’d imagined myself murdered and dumped in the canal about seventeen times before I even put my impractical boots on, the logical thing to do would have been not to go. I’m not logical, and I’d set myself the ‘task’ of travelling, alone, from the arse-end-of-nowhere to Leeds, having a couple of drinks with a load of strangers, and then finding my way back without my head being discovered in a bin, and my body only being identifiable by my tattoos. No, I don’t know why, either.

Neurotic-protective. I’d let different people know where I was going, which is awkward, because of the cross-over. I was ‘going’ as @GaiaTheorist but I’d also notified two real-world people, and alluded to my plans on my tiny, locked Twitter account. (Not Fakebook, though, the ex is on there, and the boy would flip shit if he knew I was trotting off out unsupervised. Oh, and there’s the “Well, she can’t be THAT ill if she can go out!” tangent.) Welcome to the messy web that is me, remembering to use the hashtag on the Gaia Twitter so I could be ‘tracked’, but not mentioning the # on my quiet-Twitter in case I was cross-referenced-outed. I’m like a really shit James Bond.

I set off earlier than I’d originally intended, and stood, freezing cold, wearing make-up in the day-time at the bus stop. (DID I lock the door?) The USB charger-point on the bus didn’t actually increase the battery-power on my phone, because I kept flicking between screens, checking routes that I knew I wouldn’t remember. (What if the battery completely dies?) Two kids on the bus appeared to be having a game of “Who can make the most annoying noise?”, and I had an intense desire to bang their heads together. The man on the seat in front of me for half of the journey had appalling body odour, and I could smell wee from somewhere else. I realised I’d forgotten to put any painkillers in my bag, and hoped that I wouldn’t have to use the hospital codeine, that’s probably expired by now.

The reason for setting off early was to make sure I didn’t get stuck in a queue for the automated train-ticket machine. I didn’t actually know where the ticket machines were, and had a bit of a panic about “What if I buy the wrong ticket, or the machine over-charges me?” I walked into the ticket-office instead, and managed to ask the man behind the counter for the right ticket. No biggie for most people, but, when I’m anxious, I sometimes muddle my words. I was anxious. I didn’t however end up with a yearly Oyster card or anything, so that’s a bonus. I’d also set off early so I could empty my bladder in the interchange toilets. I’d already walked past the toilets, and my fucking stupid head won’t let me ‘walk backwards’. I was half an hour early for the train, standing outside, in the cold, concentrating so hard on not ‘jiggling’ because I sort-of needed a wee that my thigh decided to do that weird tremble-spasm thing it does sometimes. Nice. In those heels, I’m a touch over 6ft, I’d just re-dyed my hair a fairly intense shade of auburn, I was wearing scarlet lipstick and heavy eyeliner, and my leg wouldn’t stop shaking. I had sufficient personal space.

Train. OK, there are seats, so I wouldn’t have to stand for an hour and four minutes, with my left thigh having its own personal disco, I also didn’t use the toilet on the train, due to five inch heels, and the aforementioned disobedient thigh. About ten minutes before Leeds, I found all the stiff bits in my hair, the person behind me might have thought I had headlice with all the fluffing and scrunching going on. (I’m SO 1990s, ‘scrunching’ my hair is still pretty much the only thing I do to it.)

Train station. In a very boring aside, the last time I alighted from a train in Leeds, I walked in the wrong direction for 20 minutes, completely lost, and alone, in a city I didn’t know. It was bad enough then, when I was trying to find a training venue in the daylight, it was dark by the time I hit Leeds, and I was wearing heels and lipstick. I excelled myself by getting lost IN the bus station, which didn’t help with the general panic situation. That tripped-out to me not text-messaging the person I was going to contact, because I ‘had to’ save my phone battery for emergencies. I’m a knob. After several laps around the train station, becoming increasingly aware that 5-inch heels don’t make stairs or escalators easy, I found the right exit. I also ‘found’ a probable homeless man, who offered me the use of his cigarette lighter. Then he asked me if I had a boyfriend. Of COURSE I do. Would I go out with him if I didn’t have a boyfriend? Well, I couldn’t answer that, because I DO have a boyfriend, but thank you very much for the light. Yes, I have a spare cigarette for you. Yes, enjoy your evening too, I’m going to meet some friends now. At that point, I pulled a ballpoint pen out of my bag, and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, in case of needing to stab sex fiends/muggers in the eye. Off I strutted, in my impractical heels, with my imaginary boyfriend. In the wrong direction.

I don’t know Leeds at all. I had a vague idea of where I should be going, but I have no sense of direction, and irrational anxiety about being mugged for my phone, so I’d wandered about, trying not to look lost for a while before I caved in, and tried to get Google maps to work. I CAN read a map, but reading a map in stilettos, on cobbles, while you’re having a massive panic about being mugged for your phone is a whole different kettle of fish. I’d saved the photos of the maps on my phone in case I didn’t have enough signal for Google maps, but a static map is only any use if you know which direction you’re walking in, and I didn’t. I managed to get the voice-directions working on Google maps, but couldn’t really hear it over the traffic, cursing myself for not bringing the earphones, but aware that wearing earphones, on your own, in the dark, makes you more vulnerable to muggers, sex-pests, and people who might cut your head off and put it in a bin. I then had an irrational burst of anger at the bits of the instructions I could hear “Walk east...” Which way is east? The sun had already set, so I couldn’t walk away from west to ascertain east. There’s a compass feature on the phone, but that would mean coming out of the ‘map’ app. I had many strange and interesting things in my bag, but not a compass, I only went to Brownies twice, remember?

I found the bar about half an hour before the thing was scheduled to start, and ‘stuck’. I accidentally tweeted a photo of the outside of the bar on the wrong account, in a desperate “Somebody come out and get me?” panic, and then deleted the bloody thing, because I like my quiet Twitter as it is. I didn’t know if I ‘could’ go into the bar before the thing was due to start, so I stood outside, like an absolute pillock, absolutely resolute that I WASN’T going into another bar to sit on my own with a drink, in case someone mistook me for a prostitute. So I stood on a street corner. Like a prostitute.

I eventually made my stupid legs take me inside the bar, and realised I didn’t ‘know’ anyone in there. Well, of course I didn’t not everyone has their face as their avi, do they, and the ‘function’ was in a back area. 17 million people pushed in front of me at the bar, and, when I eventually was served, I didn’t count the change from my allocated £20 for drinks, but it looked like a glass of wine was over £6. (I’m SO Yorkshire-stingy.) Shitsticks, not counting fire-escapes, that I’d have no idea where they came out, there was only one entrance/exit, which disturbed my not-claustrophobia PTSD ‘knowing where the exits are’ thing, and would have led to a panic-loop if I didn’t MOVE.

I moved. I found the event organiser, and introduced myself with “See my comfort zone? It’s all the way back over there.” I babble when I’m anxious, and I was very anxious. I wrote my @-name on a sticky label, and wondered where to put it, not wanting to draw attention to my ‘impressive rack’, but the alternative being my forehead. Then I stood in a corner, like a 6ft ginger spider. Some boys rescued me, and I didn’t realise I was talking to a man I’d followed, and interacted with for years, because I didn’t want to stare at his sticky-label. I drank my wine slowly, because I was only ‘allowing’ myself two drinks, then had a minor panic about ‘spacing’ alcoholic drinks with non-alcoholic ones, and wetting myself on the train home, which was lovely. 

Other than Venus’ funeral, that was the first Tweet-up thing I’d been to. Contrary to popular misconception, we didn’t all stand about staring at our phones, but it was still weird. Not in a bad way, in an “Oh, I don’t think I follow you, do you know so-and-so?” way. Pointless fact about me: when placed in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, my default-setting is to make it MORE uncomfortable, which makes the initial uncomfortable-thing more bearable. I used to think that was the alcohol-impulsivity, that would often see me presenting strangers with teaspoons, sweets, or all manner of jumble from my bag, but it’s not, it’s just ‘me’. By the time the only other person there I’d ever met arrived, and asked me to hold her cut-out-ferrets-on-a-stick, and her drink, I’d already produced a neon pink bra from my bag, and was wondering who to give the vibrating cock-ring to. You can’t take me anywhere.

I drifted about, giving people bouncy-balls, and yo-yos, and spinning tops, and mini-slinkies from my bag and pockets, I let lots of complete strangers put their fingers in my craniotomy scar, and I was generally a bit of an arse. Not a complete arse, because I couldn’t risk missing the train home, and ending up sleeping on someone else’s hotel floor. I sleepwalk, and talk in my sleep, and I hadn’t brought a change of pants. I only hugged a handful of people, and I didn’t lick anyone, if I am in any of the pictures, it will only be in the background. I didn’t fall over, and, when I showed one of my tattoos to someone, I did it out of the way, around a corner.

I knew I couldn’t walk back to the train station, so one of my babysitters took me outside, and managed to phone me a taxi. I missed the train I was supposed to catch, and had to get the next one. A gaggle of drunks boarded, and one sat next to me, it was bad enough when she started to do the drunk-wobble-falling asleep thing, it was hideous when she vomited into the aisle, but at least it didn’t splash on me. I’ve been in that state myself, and I don’t ever want to be that drunk again. Her ‘friends’ weren’t interested, which shook me up, and made me wonder where I’d be able to put my phone if I had to perform CPR if she asphyxiated on the vomit, after they just hauled her into the toilet and left her there. 

Missing the ‘right’ train also meant I missed the last bus from the city centre, and had to phone a taxi. Warpy-wrap-around-head phoned one from a company that DBS checks their drivers, and text-messages you the registration plate for the car. I had my ballpoint pen in my hand, and was ready to send the text-message out onto Twitter if the driver started going the wrong way. He didn’t, but that’s a worrying train of thought to have when you’re on your own, and going back to an empty house. I managed to cobble together enough money for the fare and a small tip, so had stayed within-budget for the night. I tweeted a photo, to let people know I was home safe, and I’ll periodically flick onto Twitter today, to check if I’m in the background of any photos scratching that spot inside my left nostril. 

I did it. There was no real point to doing it, other than to prove I could. I have no unexplained bruises, I won’t be the subject of any gossip, and I managed to get myself there and back without incident. There’s something to be said for going out and not getting drunk.

[americanahighways]

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

This story is about the night Pearl Jam’s lead singer went Americana, singing a cover of a Jason Isbell song. And how, despite the odds, my wife and I were there to see it.

On Sunday, closing out the Innings Festival in Tempe, Arizona, Eddie Vedder broke into “Maybe It’s Time,” the song Isbell wrote for Bradley Cooper’s character to sing in “A Star is Born.”

I was heading back to the spot Jill had saved for us while I shot the first three songs of Vedder’s set. After we purchased VIP tickets to see the festival’s second day, I sought a photo pass to shoot and write about it. My pitch, which the festival’s PR team graciously accepted, was an essay on how seeing Eddie Vedder live was a bucket list item for my wife of almost 23 years.

We traveled from our home just outside Washington, D.C., to Tempe to attend the festival, now in its second year. Our purpose was to hear someone whose voice and songwriting my wife appreciates as much as Isbell, a performer we saw live in several venues last year.

Little did we know what was about to happen.

******

Released in late 1994, Pearl Jam’s “Vitalogy” was a multiplatinum behemoth that completed a trilogy that started with “Ten” and continued with “Vs.”

The album included several hit singles. But no song was bigger or has had a more lasting impact than “Better Man,” an album-only track never released as a 45.

The story of a woman trying to get out of an abusive (physical, emotional or both is not specified) relationship, the song’s protagonist fears she’ll never be able to leave her partner. Vedder wrote the song in high school and later pitched it to the other Pearl Jam members, but the band initially refused to record it, feeling that it was too accessible for the style of music they were making.

Shortly after Jill and I met, “Better Man” started receiving airplay on the stations we listened to from nearby Greensboro and Raleigh. Trapped at the time in a cyclical relationship with no end in sight, “Better Man” particularly resonated with her during what is described most succinctly as a difficult time.

Fortunately, unlike the song’s protagonist, Jill finally got the courage to terminate the relationship. It wasn’t too long after that we married and had three children within the span of a year.

Flash forward a decade. Vedder has written the songs for 2007’s “Into the Wild,” a soundtrack that is an unlikely — though deserved — hit. Although our fandom doesn’t come close to matching that of Pearl Jam’s most ardent admirers, my wife always has had great admiration for Vedder’s playing and voice, especially solo. “Into the Wild” sealed it for her, and for me too.

Then, in 2009, Pearl Jam released “Just Breathe,” one of the three most beautiful love songs we know. (The other two are Isbell’s “Cover Me Up” and “If We Were Vampires, further completing the circle.) After hearing “Just Breathe,” Jill tells me Vedder is someone she’s like to see live.

Trouble is, between kids and busy work schedules, plus scant availability for any Pearl Jam show that plays within reasonable distance, we couldn’t seem to make it work.

Enter the Innings Festival.

******

In 2018, organizers took advantage of Arizona’s springtime climate — or what we call May in the rest of the world — and the start of baseball’s spring training to throw a music festival at a park overlooking Tempe Town Lake.

When I saw Vedder would headline the second day of the festival this year, I moved quickly (for once) to snap up tickets. With the kids grown and out of the house, we have downsized and are working to check items off the bucket list when time and opportunities allow.

Like other events of this nature, the Innings Festival draws a diverse range of acts as well as a few baseball legends. Last year, for example, the Avett Brothers and Chris Stapleton were headliners along with Queens of the Stone Age, Phosphorescent and The Decemberists.

This year’s lineup included Sheryl Crow, Cake and Incubus on Saturday. Sunday’s lineup was an eclectic mix as well, with performances by The Record Company (a helluva opener), G. Love and Special Sauce, Jimmy Eat World, Shakey Graves, Liz Phair (strong), St. Paul & the Broken Bones (good in spots but not on their A game), Mat Kearney and Band of Horses (our favorites other than Vedder).

When we arrived Sunday so I could pick up the photo pass, Vedder’s soundcheck was coming through the PA. Although he was not singing, he was playing “Better Man.” Jill squeezed my hand. She had been waiting to hear this song live for almost 25 years, a sort of closure for something that dominated her life almost half a lifetime ago.

******

What I like about Vedder’s solo shows, based on bootlegs and videos from his sporadic acoustic tours over the past decade, are the variety of covers he chooses to play.

His loose, free flowing Innings Festival set featured, in addition to various Pearl Jam and solo pieces, covers of songs by Warren Zevon, U2, Tom Petty, and The Beatles. He shredded the ukulele on a cover of The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” followed by Bruce Springsteen’s “Open All Night.”

Nothing, not even the appearance by Chicago Cubs manager Joe Madden (one of Vedder’s closest friends) and several Cubs players “singing” back up on the “Hard Sun” closer, prepared us for “Maybe It’s Time.”

Vedder’s sublime rendering of Isbell’s song, a huge headline in music circles on Monday, makes sense. Cooper mannered parts of his “A Star is Born” role, who was from Arizona, on Vedder and met with the singer while developing the character.

But, as Isbell tweeted later, “Holy shit.”

Having shot the start of the set, I was making my way back to Jill when the song started and pushed my way through the massive crowd to reach her for the last two-thirds.

There we stood, amid thousands of Vedder and Pearl Jam fans, lost in our thoughts and alone together.

That moment eased the sting a bit when Vedder, for whatever reason, ended his set without playing “Better Man.” As I mentioned to my wife, his cover of a song by a writer we so appreciate may be the gateway to the next chapter, allowing us to put those long-ago memories behind us.

“Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die…”

Eddie Vedder’s setlist:

Keep Me in Your Heart (Warren Zevon) Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town (Pearl Jam) In Gods Country (U2) I Am Mine (Pearl Jam) Wildflowers (Tom Petty) Wishlist (Pearl Jam) Maybe It’s Time (Jason Isbell) Far Behind Something (The Beatles) Soon Forget (Pearl Jam) Rise Just Breathe (Pearl Jam) Guitar instrumental You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles) Unthought Known (Pearl Jam) Immortality (Pearl Jam) Lukin (Pearl Jam) Porch (Pearl Jam) Isn’t It a Pity (George Harrison) Last Kiss (Wayne Cochran) Should I Stay or Should I Go (The Clash) Open All Night (Bruce Springsteen) Improv Hard Sun

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

  Show Review: INNINGS FESTIVAL's New Beginnings and Closures @inningsfest @JasonIsbell @EddieVedder @shakeygraves @phizlair @ourrealityshow @sherylcrow @bandofhorses This story is about the night Pearl Jam's lead singer went Americana, singing a cover of a Jason Isbell song.

[gaiatheorist]

Choppy waters.

(No idea why I picked a maritime analogy, I loathe travel by boat, if I was meant to spend time precariously perched on flotsam, at the mercy of the waves, I’d have gills, but I don’t, I’m a human, not an axolotl. Immediate cross-over, there, because the axolotl can evolve from having gills to lungs, more easily than, say Germaine Greer and her ilk can evolve into the 21st Century.)

I hate boats. Well, not boats themselves, they’re inanimate objects, expending energy ‘hating’ boats would be a bit daft, what I mean to say is that I hate being on boats, it makes me physically uncomfortable. I can swim, and I’ve never been in any sort of boat-related accident, I just don’t enjoy the sensation of being miles from solid land, all rocking and tipping and that, completely at the mercy of whoever is in charge of the boat. It’s a really easy one to unpick, my near-phobia of boats. When I was a tiny child, my Father used to take my brother and I out fishing in a rowing boat, and I HATED not-being-able-to-see-land, stuck in a floating bath-tub, with a maniac in charge of the oars. When I started the relationship with the ex, it came to light that he enjoyed boat-travel, so I patiently explained that I didn’t. Then I commenced a 20-year journey of mollifying and appeasing him, and trying not to vomit on boats, because he didn’t ‘do’ sick, and his-needs-were-more-important. “Get over it!” said my ex, much like Germaine Greer.

My Dad, and my ex were both controlling men, not all men are controlling, Not all men want to make me feel at-risk. Not all men want to put me on a boat after I’ve said I’d really rather not be on a boat. (”But it’s not a boat, it’s a yacht, you’ll be fine!”- that one was when I was still breast-feeding the kid, have you ever tried to breast-feed on a yacht? It was horrible, insisting that ‘his’ wife and infant son go on his boss’ yacht for kudos man-points.) Not all feminists want to tell us to ‘get over it’, essentially to ‘man up.’ 

The older feminists are taking exception to this surge, this current of younger feminists, making another incremental push towards more-equal. I don’t know if I’m ‘allowed’ to call myself a feminist, with my tendency to generally-conceal my outwardly visible femininity, falling in the gap between the old, and the new, there. Sod it, there are no rules, the ‘new’ feminists can wear make-up and floaty frocks if they want, I’ll sit here in jeans and a hoodie, not-agreeing with the ‘old’ feminists, so, so many ways I’m ‘betwixt’ one thing and another. More Stig of the Dump than ‘the missing link’, fully engaged in my Crone-phase, I suppose I ‘should’ side with the old-school feminists. I don’t do ‘should’, though, do I? It’s a good thing I don’t drive, because the whole ‘pick a lane’ thing doesn’t sit well with me. (Oh, and I’d be one of those ‘women drivers.’) Maybe I am an axolotl after all, because ‘static’ isn’t really my thing.

The world got a little bit static, didn’t it? There was most-of a cultural shift way-back-when, when the ‘dusty desert dwelling gents’ mostly-stopped selling their daughters, then it slowed. My knowledge of history is mostly based on TV dramas, perhaps not so much ‘Britannia’, which is batshit insane, but I do love a good female-leader story. Boudicca-style, not Margaret Thatcher, or Theresa May. The Suffragettes did their bit, and then we had another static period, until the bra-burning and birth control advanced ‘the cause’ another notch. Here we go, ladies, gentlemen, and others, here comes another turn of the wheel, the ‘shrieking’ isn’t the ‘new’ feminists, as Ms Greer would have the world believe, it’s the ‘old’ feminists, digging in their (sensible) heels, and trying to stop the wheel turning, lest the ‘progress’ somehow undoes what they fought for. Stop resisting, old-feminists, as much as yonder orange clown, who didn’t look up what it was he was re-tweeting, wants to roll-back on the reproductive autonomy you fought for, you DID make those changes, and history won’t forget them. 

Various people are minimising the culture that still exists, in respect of the ‘Presidents Club’ furore, and the Aziz Ansari issue. That’s what needs to stop, the repression of the shudder of revulsion at a load of moneyed-men groping ‘hostesses’ just because they could, and poor old ‘Grace’ trying to find another word for ‘No.’, because Ansari didn’t hear that one. Society as a whole can’t keep falling back into the shadows of ‘boys will be boys’, or we accept the status-quo, and the foundation work really is undone. Greer and co  did that work, nobody can ever take that away, BUT, by asserting that ‘they’ had to put up with a lot of ‘handsy men’, and suggesting that the ‘new’ feminists should ‘get on with it’, I feel that a point is being missed. You know that thing, where a person says “Try one of these crisps, they’re HORRIBLE.” or “I’ve made you a cup of tea, but I think the milk is past its best.”, that’s what Greer and co are doing. “Well, this is awful, but it’s all we have, better soldier on.” No, no, and a thousand times no.

There is no denying that society and culture were more difficult for Greer’s generation, the advances they made were phenomenal, EVERY daughter is indebted to them, but to accuse these new-daughters of ‘whining’, for not just-getting-on-with the status quo they were seeking to challenge in the first place, they’re not just halting progress; they run the risk of reversing their own. Nobody is minimising the misogyny that Greer’s generation lived through, and sought to challenge, nobody is denying the progress made, but, to hold that level of progress as the apex we can aspire to isn’t enough for us ‘daughters’. Yes, we can have a career, rather than being barefoot-and-pregnant, but recent events have proved that we’re really not ‘having our cake and eating it too.’ (I’m not going to veer-off on the body-image-diet-plan tangent for once.) 

Between-generations, and without a ‘daughter’, I’m coming at this one from a bit of a tangled starting point. My parents were an utter omnishambles in terms of instilling any type of aspiration in me, I was ‘supposed to be a boy’, like every first-born on my father’s line forever, and my mother was terrified of men. She had reason to be. The ex’s family were very traditional in terms of gender stereotypes, the women might as well have had caps and aprons for all the autonomy they had in real terms. I REALLY rocked that particular boat, by refusing to be quiet and go back into the kitchen. If I had a list of aspirations, popularity wouldn’t be on it. I was “This girl can” shocking and defying the in-laws 20 years ago, and I haven’t spent 40 years defending myself and deflecting dubious digits from about my person to ‘sit down and shut up’ now.

Yes, they are difficult conversations, yes, a lot of it is quite uncomfortable, but we, as a society can’t continue to dismiss the ‘keep trying’ mentality in Ansari, or the blatant abuse of power at the Presidents Club. Yes, these things do happen, but they don’t have to. Greer and co telling us to ‘toughen up’ only stagnates progress. A certain type of older lady, clutching her pearls, and being aghast that ‘Grace’ was in that position at all runs the risk of reversing progress.

Choppy waters, it’s a cyclic thing, Greer and co are effectively Betamax, telling the rest of us that VHS will never catch on. The pearl-clutching-ladies, and the odious swines who “did not witness anything of that nature” at the Presidents Club are old-people-trying-to-use-a-computer. No, ‘we’ youngsters can’t all do long division in our heads, or recite Latin verb-endings, but we also don’t have to have twelve children by the age of 30, in case some of them die. The world is changing, it’s not 1900, or 1960, or even 2000, the pace-of-change has been ratcheting up the gears (don’t skew-off to the bloody Doomsday Clock.) it can’t ‘stop’ here, because this-is-how-it-has-always-been. We’re seeing the opposition to progress that others might have seen at the end of the Witch-trials, or the crossover between shitting in a trench and the introduction of sanitation. 

The ‘new’ feminists aren’t ‘weaker’ than the originals for complaining about issues that the older ones ‘put up with’, the point of a movement is that it keeps moving, I’m not preaching unrealistic-expectations, just progress. I’ve crafted this particular life to protect myself against some known-inequalities, my son has seen a ‘strong woman’ as a role model most of the time, he hasn’t seen all the times I’ve had to peel off wandering hands that men felt entitled to place on me. He has seen my frustration turn into resentment at his father, and that wasn’t healthy, but it kept him connected to grandparents he adores, I suppose the end justified the means there, even if his grandparents enabled a lot of my ex’s coercive and manipulative behaviours. I’m small-collateral there, I’m out of that now. 

The ‘new’ feminists AREN’T undoing the progress of the ‘old’ ones if they decide to wear make-up, or skirts, as much as I bang on about not painting my face, or wearing clothes that make me look ‘available’, the progress made by the ‘old’ feminists can’t be held-stagnant in crew-cuts and dungarees. At that point, it ceases to be progress, and becomes a plateau. What I think the ‘old’ feminists are failing to see is the element of personal choice, which was what they were fighting for all along. I joke about not wearing make-up, and mooching about the place in jeans and hoodies, I haven’t ‘had a hair-cut’ since 2014, just because I don’t buy into the aesthetic-angle, that doesn’t give me the right to criticise anyone who does. ‘Men’ are not animals, the vast majority of them don’t go around licking us because we smell nice, but that undercurrent, that perception that they will-because-they-can is what the ‘new’ feminists are, rightly, challenging. Even if ‘we’ do wear pink, or have hair-styles, that doesn’t mean we’re back-to-before, all dainty and helpless, because progress has been made. 

Right then, choppy waters to navigate, and this storm WILL get worse before it gets better, nobody ever discovered new territory by staying where they were, or turning back around to the relative safety of where they were before that. Humanity needs to start pulling in the same direction, and not be distracted by certain parties sticking their oar in where it’s not needed.