#and charles is making telepathic puns

[icarusredwings]

Teaser snippet for chapter 4.

Ft. Charles having dad jokes since before the divorce.

It was heaven, surely it was. To be loved by someone you cared for so deeply, so excited to have you in their arms, so pleased just to be able to serve you sweet kisses on a silver platter. Though- hopefully not the one that the kettle was being lifted up on by now, levitating, the chair in the corner, the pen out of a drawer, his cufflinks, some of his trousers with a button on the front, the lamp, even the bedpost.

Really, now? 

‘I'm sorry, I can't help it.’

I can see that. But it's alright. I think you're MAGnificent. 

Erik scoffed from the pun, the skin under his eyelids becoming bright in embarrassment. Goodness gracious. Whatever was he going to do with him? 

I suppose for now, kissing him would have to do.

[jasperhaleobsessed]

The Telepath

Charles Xavier x fem!mutant!reader

Summary: Charles recruits you when looking for other mutants. And you become quite smitten, unbeknownst to you he is too.

Warnings: There may be some grammatical errors and some inconsistantices with X-Men First Class/timeline. Talking about awkwardness and not having the best self esteem but pretty fluffy.

Word Count: 1k

Notes: I'm obsessed thats all I can say!! 🙈😊 and I hope you all enjoy!!

Your POV

You leaned forward as excitement bubbled inside of you. The book you were reading was getting to the best part. You could feel it, everything was coming together like in a nice bow tying it all into one. You smiled giddly, as you read the page. You had been engrossed into your book and you hadn't noticed that someone had sat next to you.

You heard shuffling, perhaps someone picking up a book or sitting next to you? You weren't really sure but you paid no mind too excited for the ending. Lately, you haven't had the time to read or pursue any of your other hobbies but now that you could you were savoring every moment. You turned the page and smiled, you loved where the story was going but you needed to get up. You were far enough that it was the perfect time to take a break, you would be finished with your book in no time. Only a few chapters to go. But, you had been at your library for hours and you needed to stay hydrated. And you of course needed to move around, perhaps go out and eat, etcetera etcetera.

You sighed, as you closed your book. You stood up and noticed a man who was sitting next to you. A cute man. Actually you corrected that he was quite handsome. You couldn't help but notice his slick hair and his nice suit, it suited him well no pun intended. But he also had this look about him that said warmth and love. You felt like you gravitated towards him, he seemed kind especially with his eyes. His eyes were so right about how the eyes were the window of the soul. You didn't need powers to know he had tenderness about him. You noticed he looked like he was reading a book on mutations. Interesting. This made you think of how you had a mutation. You didn't like to think about it too much after all the way the world looks at "mutants" it's unfair and cruel.

You knew this personally. When you were younger you discovered you had powers. You could feel others emotions and project your emotions as well as anyone else's onto another person. Great, right? Not! Especially when feeling others emotions constantly can be draining and you don't want to control others or even your emotions. You didn't want your powers or your mutation to be used to do terrible things to good people. Innocent people, they don't deserve that. You could see it and feel how someone would use your powers, how they would manipulate it. You could imagine this fear of yours vividly. Because you wanted to be left alone, your powers felt useless for good, all you could see was the darkness in them. You didn't want that. You trembled at the thought of someone using you, if anything you would want to inspire others and to help them not destroy. But there was no possibility of that. You shook away your thoughts, you needed to leave and get some food.

You hadn't realized you were staring until the cute man with chestnut hair and striking blue eyes smiled up at you as he sat crossed legged in the wooden chair and he asked, "Interested in mutations as well?" He had a smile that could invite and make someone feel warm and cared for. It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. You could help but feel reassured and calmer. 

"Huh?" You asked. "Oh! Um, I was lost in thought sorry. I mean they're interesting but I'm no scientist, I'm actually majoring in literature, I'm quite the bookworm." You rubbed the back of your neck, nervously. You couldn't help but chuckle awkwardly. You felt yourself blush and he smiled kindly. He didn't seem to mind, usually people do care. You sometimes would feel awkward but somehow with this stranger you didn't, you felt like yourself. 

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, with quirked eyebrow. You felt confused. What kind of question was that? Okay perhaps that wasn't the dumbest question especially for you sometimes you're nervous and you aren't sure. And yet it doesn't change that you're confused. Did he think there was something more going on? As much as you were smitten with this man you couldn't help but wonder who he was and if he was a creep or something? "Umm of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" You laughed, nervously confusion etched across your face. 

"You just seem nervous. I don't mean any harm." It was as if he read your mind. Crazy, right? He slowly got up and inched closer. He wasn't too close but not too far. "I'm not going to hurt, alright? I'm going to step forward, all I'm trying to do is talk, okay?" You nodded, still feeling unsure but proceeded with caution. 

"I'm just like you."

"Just like me?" Did he mean a mutant? Or something else like in personality? You felt very confused. 

"Yes, I am a mutant. I can read minds, I am telepath."

You felt panicked rush through you, "H-how? A-at least give me something other than blind faith, give me proof!" You gaped at him, looking at him up and down. There was no way right? Right?

He stepped closer and placed his pointer and index finger on your temples, 'Hello, my name is Charles Xaviar and I am a mutant like I said I'm just like you. And if you don't mind me asking what is your gift?'

"Gift?" You pulled his hands away and you felt frustrated as you yelled at him. You felt guilt rush through you and you clamped your hand over your mouth, you looked around hoping no one heard you but then whispered, "My power is not a gift, I control people's emotions! How is that a gift?" You asked, trembling with anxiety. Tears welled in your eyes, "I can't." You murmured, shaking your head. He reached and wiped your tears away. 

"You can do so much more than that, let me help you!" he pleaded, you leaned away surprised by his devotion and passion to help you. You could swoon if this hadn't been such a serious situation. 

"Can you? Can you actually help me?" You asked, feeling uncertain. 

"If you let me and if you agree to help me." 

"Help you how?" You questioned, quietly. You looked down, deep in thought. Wouldn't it be better to give it a shot then live in fear? You looked back up at him as he said, "By letting me train you, I need your help." He paused and intertwined his hand into yours. You looked down and then back into his eyes, "Please, help us we can't do this without you. A mutant named Shaw is trying to end the human race and only mutants will survive. It will be the end of the world as you know it and you can do something to stop it, if you help us that is." He pleaded with you and you closed your eyes.

For a long time you closed out others emotions but for the first time in a long time you let the emotions glide past you, flow through you. You opened your eyes, you felt his hope and his compassion but you also felt his words ring true. He believed what he said and you knew it was the truth.

"Alright, I'll help you..." You trailed off, you bit your lip suddenly you felt confident as you said, "But you owe me a date." You say with a sly smile. 

He chuckled, a smile was evident on his face and he brushed a strain of your hair out of your face, "It would be my honor. How about I take you on one now?" You weren't one to do something spontaneously but you couldn't say no. For too long have you hidden and said no to opportunities in your life that could have benefited you. You were not going to continue to say no just because you were scared of who you were. 

And so you nodded and took his hand. You felt relieved and excited. You were relieved that you had the confidence to say yes and you felt excited to go with Charles. The chance to use your powers for good made you feel hopeful. Charles made you feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. You grabbed your book and left the library, the two of you walked onto the sidewalk, hand in hand. You leaned onto his shoulder as the two of you talked. You traded off disgusting books and other topics that interested you two. He smiled as you went on about your book. And you felt excited and intrigued when he talked about mutations.  You reached the restaurant and walked inside. You had a good feeling. It'd been a long time since you felt good about your gift. 

After all, maybe your gift wasn't a curse at all. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.

The End

[pendragonfics]

Victor’s Room

Paring: Victor Creed/Reader

Tags: gender-neutral reader/ no pronouns used for the reader, X-Men fusion (timeline, what timeline?), slice of life, mutant powers, secret relationship, domestic tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: There was a place in the house where if the curtains were drawn back, the sun would come inside at just the right angle. It wasn’t much of a luxury, but as far as things go, it was the best place to be.

Word Count: 1,237

Current Date: 2020-03-05

There was a place in the house where if the curtains were drawn back, the sun would come inside at just the right angle. It wasn’t much of a luxury, but as far as things go, it was the best place to be. Sure, living in a shared home wasn’t glamourous as far as sharing a bathroom was, and a house that was also a school could get a bit crazy, especially in the term time. But now on the second day of a long weekend, where many of the teens who attended Professor Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters were allowed home for the duration, it was heaven.

It just so happened that the place in the house that you loved so much, was in your boyfriend’s room. Sure, he and his brother rarely saw eye-to-eye on issues, but Victor was now nothing if not a reformed bad boy and never did anything bad these days. Well, the worst he’s ever done to you was watch Game of Thrones ahead of you and one time, he ate the last slice of pizza from under your nose.

How ghastly!

You just couldn’t see him as a bad guy; when anyone called him ‘Sabretooth’, you couldn’t see him as the wolfman that they spoke of. It just made you think of that animated Palaeolithic film from 2002. If anyone was going to pick up that he was bad, it was going to be you - especially since your mutation was what they called ‘telepathic empathy’. Sure, you could make people feel things against their will, but you also felt their feelings…and when you were around Victor, you felt anything but bad vibes.

It was almost time for the sun to hit the right spot, and grabbing all the things you needed to make a good afternoon an even better one, you try to hold onto them as you make your way to Victor’s room. Piotr offered to lend a hand, but what more was admitting defeat than allowing someone whose codename was literally Colossus carry your things? You passed Scott and Jean making out in the home cinema, totally ignoring the total cinematic masterpiece on-screen of American Ultra to trade saliva. They didn’t notice you, and so you kept on walking, making your way up the stairs.

Halfway through your struggle up the stairs, you wondered why a house owned by a disabled man had so many stairs. Professor X had to be super-rich; why wouldn’t he kit his school to be accessible? Just as you made it to the second-floor landing, you felt your notebook slipping from under your arm, but reaching for it, you almost drop the stolen tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream.

Everything slides out then, just like a skit based on predictable misfortune.

“Oh no!” you stage-whisper to yourself. Sure, this sort of events was foreseeable, and you did have too much in your arms, but who would have thought?

You scoop up your things, trying to cram every pen back into your fist, tucking a spoon in your back jeans’ pocket, looping all the books into your arms once more. But that’s when you hear a chuckle. Looking up, you see your boyfriend’s brother. You understand why Jean would have the occasional hots for him. But he’s not your preferred hot beverage; he looks dirty all the time and smells of sweat, wet dog, and cigarettes, and if asked, you wouldn’t lie, those metal claws kind of freak you out.

“Need a hand?” he asks.

You play it off. “Hand?” you laugh off, “No thanks, I’ve already got two.” Scooping the last book up, you continue your way to the third floor, where Victor’s room awaits your lounging for the lazy afternoon.

But halfway up the stairs, you realise that the man known as the Wolverine is still standing there, unbothered by your remark, but considerably curious. You don’t blame him; it’s not often that you, the school’s guidance councillor, left your office. And it’s even less often that you would steal a tub of ice-cream from the communal fridge and abscond with a bad pun. But you don’t owe him anything, hell, nobody knows that you’ve been seeing Victor for the last six months; it’s kept on the down-low for a reason, much less for your own sake, but for the sanity of those around you.

“Are you waiting for someone?” you ask, confused.

“You left your…bear?” Logan holds up a novelty eraser, and sure enough, the pencil-topper is absent from one of the pencils in your hands. You motion to him with a nod, and he tosses it to you. Effortlessly, you catch it in your laden arms as if they’re one large baseball glove (and you’re soon to make a home run). “…take care now.” he nods in return and continues onward to his way. It was just your luck that he was going in the opposite direction from you.

You take the long way to Victor’s room, if there’s any hope of ever shaking off anyone from the trail, and managing, at last, to get to his door, you open it with an elbow, enter, and close it behind you with your shoe. The sunlight is almost at the right spot, and you rush to it, unloading the burden you carry onto the small two-person fainting couch. It’s a small piece of furniture, antique, and a reminder of the bygone era that the old house used to be to the upper echelon of society.

Just as you sit, the door to the small en-suite opens. He stands at the edge of the tiles, in only his plaid flannelette pyjama bottoms, shirtless. He holds the hand towel, wiping his hands, and sees you just as he’s putting it back on the rack, and uncharacteristically for the former Magneto-aligned mutant, shares a smile with you.

“Right on time,” he chuckles.

“I got ice-cream,” you hold out the spoon to him with a flourish, and like that’s the magic word, he’s at your side at the fainting couch in a second. “Wow, Vic,” you quip, “you must love vanilla.”

“It’s not that I love,” he retorts. He’s fast, and before you realise, he’s planted a small kiss to your hairline, he’s already breaking into the tub, and scooping an amount for himself. “How’d you know this is what I wanted to do all day?” He says through his mouthful.

You feel your face heat up, somewhat ashamed at being so in-tune with your boyfriend, somewhat unbothered for your efforts. “I suppose…it’s something that I like to do, and you’re also something I like, and the sun isn’t too bad in this spot…”

He nods along, scooping once more. But this time, he holds it to you, and carefully, he feeds you a taste of the ice-cream that you absconded with. It’s delicious, but in all honesty, it’s better when it’s shared with your Victor.

“I can smell my brother,” he says, offhand.

“I think he’s catching on.”

“…let him guess, a little longer. I like having you all to myself,” Victor smiles. His sharp teeth peek from his lips, and it sends a sliver of a shiver down your spine. “If that’s okay with you?”

You lean forward, placing your head against his bare chest, relishing his touch, his scent, his presence. “Yeah,” you reply softly, “that sounds perfect.”

[secretlymagneto]

15, 21, 22! :D

Thank you so much for the ask!!!!!!!!

15. Rant about a character, movie, or ship

I don’t think people realize this so I’ll stress it again.

Charles has been utterly alone for almost three decades of his life in First Class. He is the only telepath he’s ever met. He consciously searches for others who have even a slight mutation (“heterochromia, quite a groovy mutation”) because at the very least they would understand what it feels like to Not be normal. They might even let him in their head if he builds that sort of trust.

Raven doesn’t let him in anymore. She’s his younger sister but he treats her like a child, and sees her as someone he has to take care of somewhat. This creates an uneven dynamic because Charles knows things about others without meaning to sometimes, while Raven wants to express herself. Where Charles likely wishes he didn’t know a lot, and that even visually passing doesn’t mean he won’t be found out, it manifests in his protectiveness of Raven and her even more obvious form. Essentially, they are not equals. Charles is lonely.

And thinking back to the genetics puns isn’t so funny anymore. Charles was searching for the root of his difference. The difference between him and everyone else. So he turned to science. And he still, even with answers, has almost no proof that other mutants exist.

He pretends the slight variation that makes the girl’s eyes different colors is a mutation like his. That it’s normal and that if he can point it out in everyone else, he must be “normal” too.

Then he meets Erik. Someone else utterly alone. Another mutant. And suddenly neither of them are alone, and Charles can actually express and be proud of his mutation knowing that there are more mutants like him and that his experience isn’t something he will have to hide from the world forever.

21. Who is your favorite original recruit (Hank, Sean, Alex, Angel, Darwin)?

Alex!

Ough he ends up being so kind by the end of FC. It’s expecially pertinant to point out that in the DOFP Vietnam scene. Alex is one of the few mutant soldiers who is white and passes as human, so when he questions Stryker on behalf of his unit, he is using his privelege to protect them.

He goes from an asshole jock to a Himbo okay

I am STILL mad that they killed him in XMA FOR NO REASON

22. What is your favorite movie? 

First Class! Why?

The homoerotic tension

The 60s aesthetics

Color pallette

60s music

The spy vibes

The amount of Magneto screentime

The First Class kiddos

Perfection

Out of all of the xmen movies that one is the most aesthetically and tonally consistent

I love it

[wildroseofarran]

Wand Magic, Cont. || Captain Issott

Leslie: "I'm going to list things off the top of my head, and I want you to tell me how interested you are, and how believable it feels to you. There's a very real chance I'm not the teacher for you."

Tristan: "Do I have to think the spell is believable in order to learn it?"

Leslie: "If it's too outlandish in your belief."

Tristan: "The only things I can think of that are outlandish are things people do just in everyday life. Lay 'em on me."

Leslie: "Why not elaborate on that for me."

Tristan: "I've been thinking about that tourist who tried to convince you that seafood and white chocolate go together since you told me about him. Every. Single. Day."

Leslie: That got a laugh, though a little more subdued and thoughtful.

"I think about that when people light up realizing lobster's on the menu. It'll stay with me forever."

He leaned back in his seat, fingers lost in his hair.

"Now that you know what I am, heard and seen things, how does your world feel now?"

Tristan: "It feels...bigger, and that's saying something coming from someone whose livelihood is on the ocean. Didn't think the world could feel bigger or more mysterious."

Leslie: "Do you feel a part of that bigger mystery?"

Tristan: "Just as much as I did before. Hell, maybe even more than I did before."

Leslie: "Gimmie more, baby."

Tristan: "Everything we are comes from that vast pit of darkness and wonder we call the ocean. It's a part of us. From what I understand, magic is the same."

Leslie: Leslie's smile softened. Without word, he got to his feet and crossed the house to his box of things, leftover from his unpacking. He returned with a single white unassuming white candle. It was placed between them.

He looked Tristan in the eyes, softly blew against the wick. Soft gray smoke, the promise of fire which swiftly followed.

Fingers danced over the flame, extinguished.

The candle was pushed towards the sailor.

Tristan: Ah, now this was a familiar scene. Having watched Charles do this on the day with the fairy chest gave Tristan a reasonable amount of confidence that even if he wasn't able to light the candle today, he'd be able to do it eventually.

"Is there a method or anything I should bear in mind or should I just go with my gut?"

Leslie: "Don't think too much. First time I taught Charles, I made him laugh. I'd say things like, how do you make holy water?" He smiled. "You boil the hell out of it."

He blew on the candle again. A new flame.

Tristan: Tristan snorted a laugh. "You and your puns. That's a good one, gonna have to tell it to mama."

No overthinking then. This was going to be a matter of his gut. Except for the magic, not all that different from reading the sea and her moods.

He took a deep breath, let his mind empty.

"Am I extinguishing or lighting?"

Leslie: Leslie waved a hand over the flame. Out with a flit of gray smoke. "You know Oliver still uses an iPod? He named it The Titanic, so when he plugs it in, it says, 'The Titanic is syncing.'"

Tristan: "Jesus, that's fuckin' dark," Tristan chuckled. "Okay okay, gotta focus."

Another deep breath, more visualization. If belief was a factor, he just had to believe the candle would light. He had to will it into the universe.

A moment passed, then two, before Tristan gently blew on the wick.

Leslie: "Have you ever almost drowned, Tristie?"

Tristan: Tristan shook his head. "Surprisingly no. Always been a strong swimmer."

Leslie: "Tell me about a time where my merman has felt strain. Exhaustion. I know you're damn near perfect, but there has to be something," he chuckled.

Tristan: Tristan just laughed. “Every day, puddin’. Hauling up fishing nets is hard work.”

Leslie: "Not... quite the same," he chuckled.

Tristan: “As lighting a candle with magic? No not really. At least with the candle my arms aren’t screaming at me.”

Leslie: "I mean something so strenuous all you can do is breathe. The point is for you to push your will onto your spell. Don't think. You don't tell yourself to breathe in and out. You will it when it's all that's left."

Tristan: Had he ever been that tired? He'd been exhausted, he'd run on fumes, he'd been bogged down by weariness, but that was just in the course of work with various amounts of sleep.

The only time he'd ever been in a state like the one Leslie described was the time he and Murphy had been out in the sound when one bastard of a nasty storm came through seemingly out of nowhere.

He tried to feel now what he'd felt then. Not the lashing wind or the burning cold rain, but the single-minded determination it had taken the wrest the Adriana away from the brink of capsizing and bring her back to shore.

Eyes closed, he blew on the wick again, and the little flame flickered to life.

Leslie: Tristan's face was cupped in both hands and furiously kissed. He'd expected much from Charles, and even then it had taken half an hour. Tristan was not a telepath with absolute affirmation of the truth. This man was a sleeper. A fisherman.

"Baby!" Another kiss. "How did-" kiss. "You're so good! That was so good!"

Tristan: Tristan only had a moment to stare in wide-eyed disbelief at the candle before Leslie grabbed and kissed him.

"I did it.... I did it! Holy--mmph!" He laughed against his witch's lips, "LES! I FUCKING DID IT! I LIT THE CANDLE!"

Leslie: "I'm sorry. I should have been offering this all along. But I - But you know I - whatever. Do it again!"

Tristan: "Sorry, why sorry? You taught me how to light a candle!"

He took one more second to enjoy the fruits of his labor and blew the candle out so he could give it another try.

The confidence that had been present at the start was even more present now, only this time, it had a solid basis. Tristan didn't just believe he could light the candle, he had lit the candle.

And with that spurring him on, he was able to do it again after a few moments of concentration.

Leslie: "And just like that," Leslie waved his fingers over the flame, extinguishing. "If you can do that, you can do this."

Tristan: "Unto the breach then." But first, the candle needed to be relit. He managed it just a bit quicker this time, positively beaming with pride.

Leslie: "It's the same will. You want it out, so it will." The same gesture of his hand, sans the extinguish.

Tristan: Tristan practiced the movement a few times, not wanting to accidentally put the candle by creating air instead of using magic.

When he felt comfortable with the gesture, he took a deep breath and let himself go back to that place that had lit the candle.

The first try was unsuccessful, as was the second, but by the third, he finally managed it.

Leslie: "That's... unheard of. You're exceptional. Not bein' biased here. A man that could read my mind, knew without any barrier that this was truth, struggled more than you... are."

His smile returned to mask the subtle wrinkle of shock on his features.

Tristan: "I'm a sailor. I think that gives me a leg up in the whole suspending disbelief department."

Leslie: "Being a sailor does that much, huh?"

Tristan: "You have to be a bit of a romantic and a good bit superstitious to be a sailor. You can't out-logic or outwit the ocean, you need your gut."

Leslie: "Hmm. I'm not sure Oliver thinks the same way you do. Doubt that man is religious in any sense of the word."

Tristan: "He's very tethered to the earth, so to speak. Some people are down to earth, he's actually tethered to it."

Leslie: "He's not a sleeper; he's in a coma."

Tristan: "Not a bad way of putting it. He looks lighter lately though." He smiled. "And I think there's a very good and very blonde and very Scottish reason for that."

Leslie: "Intimacy will do that. Refreshes the body, mind, and soul."

The candle was admired. That last bit of smoke a reminder of what he'd just witnessed. He wanted to tell Clive and Hazel immediately. He already knew what his mother would say.

"It's about damn time," she'll say.

"Ready for me to list spells?"

Tristan: Tristan rubbed his hands together. "I am so ready for the wand. Harry Potter's gonna have nothing on me."

Leslie: "If I told you, last festival, my father turned into a large dog, and my mother a cougar with gray around her eyes, would you believe me?"

Tristan: There was that look again: pure wonder and delight.

"THAT'S SO FUCKING COOL!"

Leslie: "So that's a yes to belief," he laughed. "Okay, um... would you believe I can see in the dark?"

Tristan: "One thousand percent, but I also have questions. Can you see in the dark like it's day, or kinda like a night vision camera, or heat signatures like an infrared camera?"

Leslie: "More like daytime, and... ultraviolet. Just another reason why owls have fascinated me. Barn owls in particular. I know where not to step when walking in the woods," he smiled.

Tristan: "Did you know they're a bad omen in Mexico? Murphy's wife saw one in their yard once and prayed until it flew away. Confused the hell out of me, it was beautiful bird."

Leslie: "Can I understand discrimination as a witch?" Dimples appeared around his mouth.

Tristan: Tristan kissed Leslie's cheek. "You and the owls get a bad rap. So you can see like they do?"

Leslie: "Mhm." Fingers came to rest against his temple. Elbow to the table. "Can't do what Clive and Hazel do, but I can use their sight."

Tristan: "How long did it take them to learn how to transform into animals?"

Leslie: "Around my adolescence. A few years of befriending them. Studying them."

Tristan: "Do you wanna learn too? You'd make a great owl."

Leslie: "It's easier with things... human size. Why my mother's not a house cat."

Tristan: "Does it have to be an animal that exists? You can't learn how to turn into a human sized owl?"

Leslie: "I could, someday. It's not easy. I have to... absorb what I want to become. I all but cried..."

Tristan: "Oh... So in order to--they had to...?"

Leslie: "They were careful, patient. It's in their nature. Clive's old dog; roadkill Hazel found as a teenager."

Tristan: He squeezed his witch's hand. "Sounds like it was very gentle and respectful."

Leslie: "If you're going to hunt, you respect an animal. If you can't bring yourself to that, you just become an opportunist. Not everyone feels that way. It's how we feel about it."

His smile had subdued. "I tried to help her. Caught on a barbed wire fence." He shook his head.

Tristan: "Well, everyone should feel that way. I've known lots of other fisherman who basically just plunder the ocean, don't think or use sustainable practices."

He gave Leslie's hand another squeeze. "I'm sure you did the very best you could. Sometimes that's all you can do."

Leslie: "Should, yes."

Ah, the subject he avoided thinking about. "Like nets that don't catch whales and seals and other precious animals?" A roll of his shoulder. "No one is without sin."

Tristan: "Plastic ones, yeah. Don't wanna pay for non-plastic or tear up their hands making their own like I do."

Leslie: "That's what Clive did in his spare time across the pond. Walking the beach, rescuing animals. Almost cursed the fishermen. Surprised he likes you at all," he laughed.

Tristan: "I'm a sustainable fisherman that cleans up the beach and rehabilitates hermit crabs." He smiled. "I do my bit."

Leslie: "Which is why he's given his blessing."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "It's the way I was taught and I can't imagine doing it any other way."

Leslie: "We're veered off course."

Tristan: "Way off course. You were gonna list spells."

Leslie: "Yes, and you're only supposed to say if you believe. And I'm supposed to list lies, and things I actually cannot do."

Tristan: "Well go on, lay it on me."

Leslie: "I'm not good at lying." He considered a moment. Was there any lie?

"Let's change it to what interests you."

Tristan: "You're just too honest for lies, even white ones. As for what interests me...all of it?"

Leslie: "Doesn't work that way, but, that's good." Leslie stood up once more, in search of the nearest notepad and pen. The speech he had given Charles seemed worth repeating. Of the nine spheres and the dedication needed to master any as primary. The results of that primary on offspring, alteration of personality, aura, and philosophies.

"I'm what's known as Verbena. About as traditional as witchcraft gets. Rub shoulders with hedge witches like Charles on a daily basis. Others, for example Hermes, would sooner discard them."

Tristan: This magic thing was somehow both as intricate as Tristan would've expected and more intricate than he ever could've imagined. To think he'd spent his entire life with this whole other world just out of reach.

"Are hedge witches just new witches? Or novices?"

Leslie: "Both. They want nothing beyond a blessing here, a potion there. Some rationalize it as nothing more than holistic medicine. A rose by any other name."

Tristan: "Ahhh, gotcha. Hence the hedge part. Do full-fledged witches not like them?"

Leslie: "Verbena welcome everyone. Other Traditions," he waved his hand from side-to-side. Not so much.

Tristan: "Good thing Charles and I have you as a teacher then. For a lot of reasons."

Leslie: "Maybe." He tapped his pen to the paper. "What's your interest."

Tristan: “Going to the bottom of the ocean.”

Leslie: "Life... and correspondence?"

Tristan: “Definitely sounds like it’d be Life. Correspondence...well, there’s travel involved. That counts as correspondence, doesn’t it?”

Leslie: "Yes," he chuckled. "Taking something from somewhere else would include matter. Either of which I can help you with."

Tristan: "So I can conceivably visit the bottom of the ocean with enough time and know-how and practice?"

Leslie: "With the right teacher, yes."

Tristan: "Five year-old me would be over the moon if he knew that."

Leslie: "What's the adult you feel?"

Tristan: "Also pretty over the moon, honestly," he chuckled.

Leslie: "Maybe let's get back to this tomorrow."

Tristan: "All magic-ed out today?"

Leslie: "I don't want to overwhelm you."

Tristan: "Overwhelmed? I'm flying!"

Leslie: "Don't fly too high. That's only a small part of lesson one. Do you need a break?"

Tristan: "I feel great, Les. Really. Don't feel tired or anything. Actually that's a lie, I am starting to get hungry, but that's more to do with it almost being dinner time."

[4:12 PM] Aya: "What would you say to ordering take-away or delivery and we keep going?"

[4:21 PM] Cat: "Oh, can we order from the Chinese place? I'm craving fried rice and chow mein so bad."

[5:33 PM] Aya: "Alright. Five minute break, and we'll get back to it."

[7:46 PM] Cat: "Deal." He gave Leslie a quick kiss and pulled out his phone to dial the restaurant.

[8:39 PM] Aya: Felt as though he were constantly getting up, but up now for a proper notebook. There was one tucked away in one of his boxes. One he'd been reluctant to give for the very reason he'd been reluctant to share an unveiled truth.

"I have something for you," said after giving his order.

[9:27 PM] Cat: Tristan nodded as the kid on the line read his order back. "Yep, that's right. All right, thanks."

He hung up and smiled at Leslie. "Said it'll be no more than twenty-five minutes. Whatcha got for me?"

[9:30 PM] Aya: A blue leather notebook was presented in both hands. "The color suits you. Had it for a while. Since before I told you. Just couldn't find the right time, or an excuse. You could have denied everything and called me crazy. You didn't." His smile was soft again. "I've been delicate with you from the beginning. I don't mind what people think of me. I mind what you think of me. Just a bit."

[9:37 PM] Cat: The journal was taken and studied with a smile that was pure fondness. "It's beautiful, Les. My favorite color."

He tugged his witch down for a kiss, moved. "Well then you should know that I think the world of you. You're the farthest thing from crazy I've ever seen, and I believed that even before you taught me how to light a candle without a match."

[11:39 PM] Aya: The kiss was returned in kind. He wasn't existing in his head at the moment. Rather, it buzzed with emotion and curiosity, and he allowed himself to swim in it.

"You're a prodigy, and I wanna see how far that belief suspends."

Cat: "Who woulda thunk a sailor would be a magical prodigy?" he said with a chuckle. "Happy to be one though. Hopefully I don't disappoint."

[12:30 AM] Aya: "You wouldn't, but you should keep that far from your mind. Failure is healthy, and helps us learn."

[12:44 AM] Cat: "Healthy and definitely inevitable. There isn't really a manual for digging deep."

[12:45 AM] Aya: "Before we delve deep into actual spells, I want to alter my lesson plan, so-to-speak, and focus on the very basics. The depth of our Tradition."

[11:47 AM] Cat: "I'm good with basics. Gotta build a solid base before I try anything more advanced."

[5:05 PM] Aya: "This isn't to say you have to follow me." But he had his suspicion that he would. "I want to explain how I was raised and what my people believe."

[7:28 PM] Cat: "Even if I don't even up following you--" Which he too suspected he would, "--those things are still important to know."

[9:10 PM] Aya: "Will you tell me yours?"

Tristan: “How I was raised?”

Leslie: "Mhm. Your mother's every deep thought gifted to you."

Tristan: Tristan smiled and nodded. “All right. We’ll swap stories.”

Leslie: Leslie took to the floor beside the living room couch. He would begin. His first lessons were of Luna and her phases. The universal energy of Quintessence. Herbs Hazel used in soups, stews, and potions. Symbols his father carved in wooden figures, into the foundations of houses, etched into rocks surrounding the cottage. Ginger for an upset stomach. Black cohosh for menstrual and arthritic pain. Calendula for rashes and wounds. Every festival and their history. Gratitude for every harvest; the celebration of life and death, love and misery, and the journey in between.

A pause for delivery, tipping and waving goodbye to Su. He returned to the floor with his box of rice and broccoli.

"It's easy to teach a spell," Leslie confessed. "But my entire life isn't just spells. It's... a lifestyle. That's where I feel the gap with Charles."

Tristan: To Tristan’s ears, it sounded like being brought up in a fairy tale. Not because of the magic or the magical elements, though. The whole thing. The lifestyle as Leslie said.

“Hard to reconcile a lifestyle like that when yours has been so far removed from anything like it. I don’t know what sort of upbringing Charles had but I’m willing to bet it was at the other end of the spectrum.”

Leslie: "His most relaxed that I've had the pleasure to witness was in a lab, with latex gloves and a needle for my blood. In a room so void of the Gauntlet and Quintessence that I felt physically and spiritually drained. A microscope is his foci, and science is his paradigm. It's a wonder he could light a candle at all. I doubt he could have, had he not read my mind."

Tristan: “The lab is his comfort zone, I guess. It’s an environment he understands and he knows what to expect from it. All that goes a long way toward calming someone’s mind.”

Leslie: "He's a man in control, and I would assume, with what I understand, he wasn't always."

Tristan: Tristan nodded. “Well there you go. If that’s the case, then the lab in definitely his comfort zone.”

Leslie: "Now it's your turn."

Tristan: Tristan's upbringing had been much more mundane than Leslie's, but no less filled with wonder, for no reason other than the fact that his mother was a literature professor.

Megan had imparted her voracious reading habits on her son, nurturing his interests and providing him with a home life so stable, Tristan hardly even thought about missing a father.

He was taught to shave by the same man who had taught him to sail, and when he realized he was gay, had the luxury of it being as uneventful a topic as choosing what to have for dinner.

"It's only now as an adult that I can see how lucky I was to have her as a mother. Like Brett Parker, the sheriff? His dad made him so scared to even look at another boy while Megan's over here fighting with the vice principal over whether or not I should be allowed to take a boy to homecoming and threatening him with a lawsuit."

Leslie: "That's a good upbringing," Leslie concluded, nodding. "I've heard things about Brett Parker. I was raised holistically. The Christian saying of... 'to every season' greatly applies. But I think, in Brett's case, perhaps a bit much." A brief wry smile. "It's strengthened him, no doubt."

Tristan: Tristan made a face. "I don't know if it did. Made him resentful, probably traumatized him, and made him unable to have the relationship a child is entitled to have with their parent. It's like life handed over a lamb to be raised by an iceberg of a lion."

Leslie: "Mm. I will never say trauma is good or healthy. When I speak of a holistic upbringing, I speak of how we handle trauma, not the merits of it. Lemonade from lemons? Or as Hazel said, learning to dance in the rain. Brett, in all his conservative nature, something tells me he's a dancer."

Tristan: "Well, he's happily engaged to a man and doesn't talk to his dad anymore. I'd call that some damn good lemonade. And you know what, I hope it tortures the old man every waking moment. He was an asshole to Megan when we were growing up."

Leslie: "I would rather his father learn from this, perhaps grow before it's too late."

Tristan: "At the risk of sounding like a cynic, I sincerely doubt it. Man's a relentless prick. A relentless, aggressively homophobic prick."

Leslie: "But he only has one son." And then his brows tightened. "Right?"

Tristan: "As far as I know, yeah. Of course there's always the possibility that he's a hypocrite as well as a homophobe and he's got a lovechild and mistress somewhere."

Leslie: "Hmm. I feel compelled to pay him a visit. Brett, not his father - maybe both. The optimist in me." He dismissed his thought with a flick of his hand.

Tristan: "Brett's a good guy." Tristan smiled. "He'd benefit from that optimism of yours."

Leslie: "People either love it or loathe it."

Tristan: "I love it. You put hope into a world that sorely needs it."

Leslie: Now that's a thought. Another soft smile in a series of soft smiles.

"I can't wait for the fireplace. Imagining the new house... all the best things I grew up with. I'm already ready for it to be over. Not for me, but... it's disruptive. The sooner it's over the better. Especially for the birds."

Tristan: "Hell, I'm already impatient to see it built. Or at least starting to be built. Mama already picked out a housewarming gift for us but she won't tell me what it is."

Leslie: Leslie pulled his knees to his chest and hugged.

"You're happy with the design? The additions?"

Tristan: Tristan grinned and nodded. “I can’t wait to be in it and see it. The fish are gonna be so happy in the screened porch.”

Leslie: "I'm ready to reorganize the herbs, fruits, and finally... finally have a greenhouse."

Tristan: “Can’t wait to see what you grow in there. Gonna make you some pavers and wind chimes for it.”

Leslie: "Not gonna be just me. This is your greenhouse. Your porch. Your kitchen."

Tristan: “Yes but it’ll be mainly your domain. I’ll help water things though.”

Leslie: "I'd love that. Teach you what's poisonous and what's healing. Some things are both." His brows fell with thought, raised with a more illuminating smile. "Feels like something's shifted between us once I told you."

Tristan: "Only one I know about that's both is belladonna. Mrs. Pennyapple used to put it in her tea to relax before bed."

Tristan leaned in to kiss that smiling face. "Shifted in a good way?"

Leslie: He closed his eyes to the kiss. A little content sound from the depth of his throat in affirmation.

"Not a bad way. Dunno if good. Just... different."

Tristan: “There’s no big life secrets between us now. Has to count for something.”

Leslie: To that, the witch swallowed.

Tristan: "...There are more?"

Leslie: Leslie looked up. "What?"

Tristan: “You went all quiet. It’s fine if there are, you don’t have to spill your guts just because.”

Leslie: "Oh. Um... No. Yes and no. I don't know." Another example of his supreme subterfuge.

Tristan: "Hey, it's fine. Some things need the right timing and mental preparation." He offered another kiss. "We're good, baby."

Leslie: "When I went back to Charlotte for Samhain, I said I was going to... settle my past." Dark blue eyes looked up, studied Tristan's expression.

Tristan: Tristan didn't really know what to expect, so he merely listened in patient curiosity. Unless Leslie was about to say that that Belmira person had threatened him in some way, surely there was no cause for concern.

Leslie: He could feel her name in Tristan's eyes. "I did see her."

Tristan: "Kinda figured you would. Was she civil?"

Leslie: "She was exactly as I liked to remember her."

Tristan: "So not a horrible soul-sucking menace?"

Leslie: Leslie looked down at his hands, at Tristan's hands, and the floor.

"She was confident, beautiful, and cruel. We cast spells together and spoke fondly of the past, as though nothing had happened. We stayed up most of the night by the fire, and she told me about her lover in Portugal, and I told her of a sailor. I asked her if it was true love. She said it was love from a bottle, and I left."

Tristan: "So still a horrible soul-sucking menace who's conning some poor son of a bitch into being with her possibly against his will."

Tristan shook his head. That Belmira sounded like a real fuckin' peach, and he found himself more grateful than ever that Leslie was no longer wrapped up in her bullshit.

Leslie: "For her to say it came from a bottle, means it's a temporary spell, and one like infatuation. There are those much worse. I know that sounds like I'm excusing her; I'm not. But one day he'll look at her and wonder what it was he saw and he'll leave."

Tristan: “And she’ll do it again because to people like her, the world is a fucking dollhouse and everyone is fair game to fuck with.”

Leslie: "Not everyone." Just sleepers. "But you're right; it wasn't right. I told her it was goodbye, that I didn't want a rift to remain between us."

Tristan: “Maybe this is just me being biased or whatever, but it sounds like there should be more than a rift between you. The Mariana Trench should be between you. But I know you don’t think that way.”

Leslie: "Whether she'll respect my wish, I don't know. I felt better about leaving." Only some, and it shown in his honest eyes.

Tristan: Tristan squeezed Leslie's hand and brought it to his lips.

"She better. I own several very large harpoons and I'm not afraid to use them."

Leslie: "You would not harpoon my childhood friend."

Tristan: "I would seriously consider it under the right circumstances."

Leslie: "What are the right circumstances?"

Tristan: "If she does anything at all to hurt you or bring you discomfort."

Leslie: "Discomfort's a part of life, baby."

Tristan: "There's discomfort and then there's the soul-sucking menace."

Leslie: "Don't waste energy on being upset when nothing's happened."

Tristan: "But it did, and it's happening now to that random guy. People have been harpooned for less probably."

Leslie: "What do you want to do about it?"

Tristan: "Guess there's nothing I can do. Except hold a grudge."

Leslie: "I don't want you to hold a grudge, please."

Tristan: "Can I have an ambiguous beef?"

Leslie: "So long as it doesn't add a wrinkle to your eyes."

Tristan: “Okay, deal.”

Leslie: "Thank you." Have a kiss for the effort.

Tristan: He would take that kiss, thank you very much, and steal another for good measure.

"Other than the menace, was your trip to Charlotte good?"

Leslie: "It was enlightening. My... coven had disbanded. Split into two, really. Those that felt the way I felt, and those with Belmira." It hadn't been a bloody affair. Not what he'd been told.

"Clive and Hazel are always fine." He considered a moment. "No matter the argument, I feel you should know, family was never threatened."

Tristan: Tristan nodded, very glad that not everyone had drunk Belmira's kool-aid and even more glad that Leslie's family was okay.

"Okay, good. That's another one of those harpoon scenarios, just putting it out there. But I'm glad they were left out of it."

Leslie: "Mm. No. They know better. There is no comparison to our capabilities and that or our mentors."

Tristan: "A sentiment Meg would thoroughly approve of."

And speaking of families... "Are we telling her? About magic?"

Leslie: "That's not for me to decide. What are her beliefs? Heavy Christian? Nothing?"

Tristan: "You've seen her, she's pure bohemian hippie. She believes everyone should read for pleasure and make love instead of war."

Leslie: "Refreshing, but when presented with the idea of life after death, reincarnation, god or gods, where does she stand?"

Tristan: "Pretty sure she believes in reincarnation and life after death. With all she's read, impossible for her not to."

Leslie: "What has she read?"

Tristan: "She's got a whole bookcase dedicated to world religions and mythology."

Leslie: So, a curious mind. "Someone told her, her invisible friend was an imaginary one, I bet."

Tristan: "Wouldn't surprise me. She'll read damn near everything you put in front of her."

Leslie: "Do you want to tell her your boyfriend believes in witchcraft?"

Tristan: "Feels wrong to keep it from her. Maybe we can tell her together?"

Leslie: He could understand. "When and how?"

Tristan: "She asked us to dinner one of these days, our choice. Could tell her then."

Leslie: "I'll ask if she believes in magic?" he smiled.

Tristan: "Meg always appreciates a direct approach," he chuckled.

Leslie: "She's probably already heard. It's an open secret."

Tristan: "She would've told me if she had."

Leslie: "Before?"

Tristan: "Before what?"

Leslie: "Before getting together."

Tristan: "Oh no, any time. If she saw magic right now, she'd be knocking down that front door to tell me as quickly as she could."

Leslie: "That's some deep belief."

Tristan: "Mama doesn't do things by halves, that's for sure. Never has."

Leslie: "And how was she raised; do you know?"

Tristan: "She's a hippie raised by hippies."

Leslie: "Did you know them? You don't talk about them."

Tristan: Tristan shook his head. “They died before she even met my sperm donor. Don and Elaine. They were both teachers, too.”

Leslie: He took Tristan's hand between his own.

"Tomorrow, then? We'll talk to her tomorrow."

Tristan: He smiled and nodded. “Tomorrow it is. What do we want her to make us?”

Leslie: "Let's try a childhood classic of your choice."

Tristan: That was an easy choice. “How do you feel about cheesy chicken and rice?”

Leslie: "I'll be diligent with my insulin."

Tristan: “She knows to tone down the unhealthiness when she’s feeding you.”

Leslie: "The horror," he laughed.

Tristan: “Hey now, grilled chicken is as good as fried.”

Leslie: "If I had a choice between chicken or salmon, I would always choose salmon. And oysters? Forget about it."

Tristan: “Salmon goes with her cheesy rice just as well as chicken.”

Leslie: "Next time. I want your childhood classic, not a substitution."

Tristan: “It’s still a classic, just with a twist.”

Leslie: "Nope. Chicken. I'll wrestle you over it if I must."

Tristan: Tristan laughed. "Promise?" A wrestling match turned makeout session was a very appealing concept.

Leslie: "You want me to promise a wrestling match?"

Tristan: "A naked one."

Leslie: "A naked wrestling match over chicken."

Tristan: "Absolutely," he chuckled. "Or is it over salmon? Either way, I get you all naked and sweaty."

Leslie: "I just want chicken," he laughed.

Tristan: "We can have chicken and a naked wrestling match. Win/win."

Leslie: "Okay," Leslie shook his head, "where is this going? Are you about to tackle me? Do I need to brace myself?"

Tristan: "Nah, not right now," Tristan chuckled. "We'll wrestle later. So! We're going over to mama's sometime this week for cheesy chicken and rice and telling her about magic."

He blinked. "Kinda feel like I'm describing a dream I had. Ever have those moments?"

Leslie: "All the time, baby." Deep breath. The tension in his shoulders had dissipated, but something was bringing it back.

"So! Where were we?" he laughed.

Tristan: "We got wayyyyy off track. We were sharing life stories and taking a break before doing more magic."

Leslie: "Right. I have some books you can - should - read. I'll be more vocal about things I'm doing in the future. Dried herbs, the garden, that kinda thing. But there's one more thing... I dunno if it should be a Yule... thing, or a now thing."

Tristan: "Mama raised a voracious reader, lay 'em on me. I'm primed and ready to learn."

Tristan gathered up their plates and the leftovers and took them into the kitchen.

"Thing? Is that code for present?"

Leslie: "Thing is code for present. Want a present now or later?"

Tristan: "Mmmmm...later. It'll give me something to look forward to and be excited about."

Leslie: "A man that likes surprises as much as I do."

Once more he excused himself, in search of the aforementioned wand which, typical of his memory, he realized, had been forgotten.

He couldn't hesitate with Tristan when he put so much effort into Charles and the girls. It wasn't fair.

"So," he began, returning with a long velvet pouch.

Tristan: "From you? Always." From rogue crustaceans? Not so much.

While Leslie was off doing whatever it was he was doing, Tristan took the opportunity to put away their leftovers, greeting his witch with a smile when he returned.

"So.... Whatcha got there?"

Leslie: "What do you think I have here?" Waved from its middle as a means to entice.

Tristan: Tristan's face lit with a gasp. "Is that a wand!?"

Leslie: Leslie burst out laughing. "Yeah. Exactly that." Offered without removal. Deceivingly light for its length. Tucked tip first. Pale driftwood, perfectly smooth, with fluid proportions.

"Something else I was doing in Charlotte."

Tristan: Tristan removed the want from its pouch and smiled. The driftwood was instantly recognizable; the perfect choice for a sailor.

"This is beautiful, Les. Thank you."

Leslie: "You're very welcome. Let's try lighting a candle with the wand now."

Tristan: "Does it work the same way as lighting a candle without one? Should I try to channel my will through the wand or try to direct it with the wand?"

Leslie: "You're the lightning, this is your conduit. As many people use a wand as don't. We're going to see what you feel is best. This? This is an extension of your hand, if you want it to be."

Tristan: "This is a lightning rod," Tristan said to himself with a nod. Minus the magic, this wasn't too different from how he handled his ship in dicey situations. At least as far as it being an extension of himself.

Who knew being a sailor would be so useful for witchcraft?

He took a deep breath. No time for counting chickens. He needed to dig into that place that lit the candle and channel it into his lightning rod.

And surprisingly enough, it only took two attempts this time around.

Leslie: The fact that his sailor was a prodigy was more of a surprise than this wondrous feat. What he now knew of him, a wand made complete sense.

"How did that feel? Better? Worse? Could you feel anything?"

Tristan: Tristan took a second to think before answering. "I'm not sure yet," he said, squinting at his hands and wand. "I think it's too soon to tell. Kinda wanna try it a handful more times both ways. Do you mind if I play around with it a little bit?"

Leslie: Leslie was just staring with a ridiculous smile, chin in hand. It had only just struck him how this man, this pillar of muscle and scars, handled something so delicate. With his long hair, rough vocal cords, it didn't seem cohesive, but it was.

"Go for it, baby."

Tristan: "Okay, cool." He almost blew out the candle normally before remembering to use magic.

Extinguishing it without magic had taken three tries, and as he was still getting used to the wand, this time it took four.

The next few minutes were a pattern of making the candle go in and out with his hands, then with the wand, then back to his hands, then back to the wand again. Each time around the result came a bit easier, but he still needed a minimum of two tries.

The verdict? "Feels pretty much the same? I keep thinking the wand feels easier but I think that's my brain latching on to the lightning rod thing. Reminds me of that scene in Back to the Future with the car and the rod going into the thing. I like the wand though! I feel cool using it."

Leslie: Tristan was watched patiently. Eventually, Leslie rested his cheek onto his folded arms, content with what he was seeing, and reminded of home. A wave of aching nostalgia warming his cheeks and eyes. He suddenly wanted Clive and Hazel. He wanted his coven. He wanted Charlotte. He wanted Tristan in Charlotte, but there was no Albemarle Sound in Charlotte.

"If you really enjoy using it, then it suits you. No harm in that, I promise."

Tristan: "I really do," he said with a grin, admiring the wand again. "Feels good. And just like my ship has both a motor and a sail, all the magic I practice will be perfected with both wand and no wand."

Leslie: "I fucking love you."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled and pulled Leslie in for a kiss. "I love you, too, puddin' pop. Have I won you over all over again with my magic skills?"

Leslie: "You damn well have." Although Merlin save him from those nicknames.

"I wanna go for a swim. The spirit grabbed me." He forced himself up to look outside. How cold was it?

Tristan: This time of year the water was definitely on the chilly side, but nothing that the body couldn't get acclimated to.

"Hell fucking yeah, let's do it. I'll grab us towels and blankets."

[marvelmando]

tempest [p.parker x o.c.] - before

notes: hi. so, I’ve already uploaded this before, but I don’t think enough people saw it, or maybe it was just bad in general. I’m not sure. please let me know what you guys think, I need the validation :)

contains: swearing, canon-typical violence, hostages

pairing: peter parker + fem!o.c.

word count: 4.4k

next chapter tempest masterlist

MARIN WASN'T SURE WHAT BUGGED HER MORE—the annoyingly steady thumping of Oliver Hall's foot, or the weight of the side-eyed glares Lucy Webb kept aiming her way.

Decidedly, Marin met Lucy's gaze with equal intensity. "What?" She clipped, not meaning to sound so sharp, but heights tended to do funny things to Marin's stomach, and unless she wanted a second look at her lunch, she kept talking to a minimum.

Lucy pressed her full lips into a flat line, looking at Marin out of the corner of her eye until she slid her gaze forward. She adjusted her grip on her seat's straps. "Nothing."

Sensing the fire burning behind Lucy's eyes (a good, ironic pun, she commended herself silently), Marin waited patiently in her own seat to Lucy's right, watching as Lucy strung together words in her head. Unlike Marin, Lucy, admirably, was careful in what she said and how she said it—a great characteristic; exemplary of her leadership abilities, but completely inconsistent with the expected temperament that was typically associated with her mutant abilities. One would assume, with Lucy's ability to control fire, her personality would be complementary, but she was rather the exact opposite—mostly level-headed and calm. Marin could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen the older mutant lose her cool (another pun, she thought, I'm on fire! Whoops, did it again).

"Do you think you're... prepared... for the mission?" Lucy finally asked after a while. She was being careful again, Marin could tell. Her eyes said it all—the blatant fear, the hesitation, the caution; it was a look Marin had seen in all the eyes of those who knew her—knew her story, at least—since she'd come to live at the Institute nearly nine years ago.

"I'm going to behave," she responded, narrowing her eyes. "Since I know that's what you're really wondering."

Despite her occasional censure of Marin's behaviors, Lucy was one of only a few other mutants whoever looked at her with anything other than suspicion. She supposed that meant Lucy was her friend—her only friend, really—and Marin was glad enough for it.

Lucy gave her a disbelieving look. "That's what you said last time, Marin. And your heroism nearly cost us Sanchez's life, and all the information he had on the Crimson Circle."

"I'm well aware." Marin huffed, jostling in her seat as the jet jerked through a pocket of turbulence. She flicked away a section of her bangs that had fallen into her eyes. "Besides, I think the three weeks of probation was more than enough punishment for me to learn my lesson on how not to treat criminals like people."

Lucy rolled her eyes at the sarcasm. No matter how many times Marin got in trouble, no matter how many punishments the doled out to her, Marin would never lose the stubborn streak she'd had since she came to the Institute. For reasons Marin couldn't understand, Professor Charles Xavier had yet to kick her off of the X-Men team, and she wondered just how far she could go before he lost his patience entirely.

Marin was ambiguous about her role as an X-Man. On the one hand, it gave her an opportunity to help people in ways she wouldn't be able to if she was stuck back at the Institute every day. It often felt that this was the only reason why she hadn't just quit the team herself. The X-Men were an elite team at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, and her position as one of ten total members put her in an uncomfortable sort of spotlight—one even more unnerving than being the center of gossip on what happened the night her powers were revealed.

(Which confused her, since most mutants tended to have gnarly origin stories, and Marin felt like she was no exception. But she knew what they said about her—what they say she did. None of it was true, and the Professor never addressed the gossip, so she never brought it up. She'd just figured he had no idea of what they said about her. Besides, tattling would do nothing but fuel the flames further. And anyway, it didn't bother her; she was a loner either way.)

Whatever today's mission was, it apparently required five members of the team, accompanied by two of the older mutants. Hank McCoy sat at the cockpit, showing Avery Cho sequences of button-pressing and flip-switching. The girl looked bored, popping her gum against her teeth as she copied Hank's movements by flipping and pushing with a nudge of her mind. Logan (she wasn't really sure if he actually had a last name) was standing at the back of the jet, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and sharp eyes observing his wards. Marin suspected he was only there to make sure she stayed in check, and the way his gaze seemed to train on her periodically confirmed her suspicions.

With nothing left to say, Lucy fell silent. The consistent drone of the jet speeding through the air was only disrupted by Oliver's tapping foot. Marin knew he couldn't help it; his super-speed made him constantly hyperactive, and she didn't think she had ever actually seen him stay still for more than a second at a time.

As she observed her surroundings, she noticed for the first time that Lucy sat unaccompanied, surprised to find James' usual seat (always right next to his girlfriend) empty. The couple was practically inseparable, joint at the hips in a perpetual honeymoon phase—even if they'd been together for three years now.

James was also telepathic, and Marin figured that if there was one person who should go on all missions, no matter how inconsequential, it should be the guy that could read and control minds. Not for the first time that day, Marin wondered what the mission was that they need to travel all the way to Queens for, and with half of the team, no less.

The last person Marin observed was Juniper Pierre, and as far as Marin knew, she'd only been at the Institute for little over a year, and that she could control plants or something. She was nice enough, though, from the few interactions Marin had had with her.

Feeling the lurching impact of the jet setting on the solid ground had a similar effect on jerking her out of her thoughts. She clicked her straps loose, standing with a stretch to regain feeling in her numb behind.

Everyone gathered around Lucy, who had taken head on the center of the now-lowered gangway ramp. She cleared her throat and began reading her exposition off of a small packet of folded papers she pulled from the inside of her X-Men jacket. "Witnesses reported seeing a flash of green light before calls were made into local responders after a neighbor noticed smoke coming from within the house. The sheriff department's lieutenant then contacted the Institute when he found our subject, Mary Tellers, aged seven, inside the home and abandoned by her parents— crying, but otherwise untouched by the fire. Lieutenant Collins informed us that when he tried to drag the subject out of the house, she emanated the same green light witnesses noted seeing earlier. Our best guess is energy manipulation, and we should tread with caution."

A weirdly heavy feeling settled in Marin's stomach, but the group was moving before she had a chance to contemplate as to why. She was still unsure why this recruitment mission needed so many people, but followed anyway.

Logan and Hank stayed behind as usual. Marin realized they'd landed the jet in a secluded plot of flat land that was surrounded by a thick layer of trees. According to her own smaller packet of information, which she referenced with a passing glance, they were heading to the police department located in Richmond Hill.

She wasn't sure exactly how far away they landed, but it took a solid twenty-five minutes for the group to reach the precinct. It must've looked strange, even for New York, to see a gaggle of teenagers dressed in matching blue and yellow leather jackets, approach the doors of the police department with varying levels of determination and severity. Marin was the last to enter the building, only pausing with her hand still holding the door open to let an officer pass through before she hurried along after the group.

They huddled into a small waiting room, where a little girl still covered in soot sat in a padded chair with her knees tucked up to her chest, wrapped in a light blue blanket. Next to her was whom Marin assumed to be the lieutenant. Lucy exchanged a few indeterminable words with him before turning to the girl.

"Hello," Lucy smiled kindly down at her, gently taking an empty seat beside her. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Mary Tellers," the little girl whispered, the missing front tooth giving her a slight lisp.

"That's a very pretty name." Lucy cooed. "My name is Lucy, and these are my friends: that's Oliver, and Juniper, and Avery, and Marin." She said, pointing to each in turn. "Can you tell us what happened this morning, Mary?"

Mary flicked her eyes hesitantly between each of them. "It's alright," Juniper spoke, her honey-smooth voice warm and gentle. "We're here to help you."

Mary nodded slowly, taking them in. "I don't kn-know, I came home from-from school and Mommy was putting clothes in a big suitcase, and Daddy said I had to go live with Na-Nana because they couldn't take care of me anymore, and I just—I just—" tears overcame her, and the little girl hugged her knees tighter as she buried her face into them.

"It's okay," Lucy shushed the girl—comforting her, but not touching her. If there was one thing all mutants collectively excelled at, it was dealing with people who had experienced trauma. "It's okay, Mary. You're not alone."

Mary eventually calmed down enough to pick her head up from between her knees, watching as Juniper approached her slowly, holding out a flattened hand so she could see a small daisy bloom in her palm.

"You're not a monster, Mary. You're a mutant." Lucy explained, the girl's eyes going wide. "So is Juniper, that's why she could grow that flower. We all are."

"Really?" She asked, and when everyone nodded in response, she seemed to calm down.

"There's a place where you can go and be safe to use your powers. That's where we all came from, and we would all love it if you came and joined us there. Would you like that?"

Mary nodded slowly, unfurling herself and standing on wobbly legs. Taking Lucy's hand, Mary was led out of the station with the rest of the group. By that time, the sun had begun to set, and the streets were surprisingly empty for a brisk April evening.

Barely five minutes had passed, and Mary was already starting to cheer up as Juniper popped out flowers one-by-one, so the two could fashion them into a braided crown.

Marin, once again, lingered behind, too caught up in her passing thoughts. The team had come to a relatively quiet intersection, only the occasional car passing them by.

The air was still and calm, but the tranquility shattered as a shrill scream rang out through the street, coming from behind them. Marin bristled, immediately alert and aware of her surroundings. Surprisingly, no one else seemed affected, as if they hadn't even heard the scream at all. No one else except Mary, who tugged on Lucy's hand.

"What was that?" Her lip quivered, the half-made flower crown shaking in her tiny hands.

"Oh, I'm sure that was nothing, sweetheart." Lucy responded with a saccharine smile, before giving the rest of the team a discreet jerk of her head that said 'we've got to go'.

Marin was shocked but not entirely surprised to see the rest of the group follow Lucy without hesitation. Marin watched their retreating backs frantically as the headed in the opposite direction of where the scream came from.

"So—we're just going pretend like we didn't just hear a woman screaming?" Marin blurted, causing everyone to turn and look at her. She noticed the glares they gave her, but she decided that she didn't particularly care; instead, she felt stunned that she was the only person concerned. "We're just going to ignore them, even if they probably need help?!"

"We can't do this now, Marin." Lucy clipped, making to grab Marin's wrist. But Marin twisted away, taking a couple steps back.

"No," she shook her head incredulously, gesturing around with her arms. "We—we've got to do something! We can't just abandon them!"

Lucy made up the difference in the distance Marin had put between them in a fraction of a second. The sudden close proximity to the heat radiating off of Lucy was stifling and caused Marin to drawback. "And why exactly do we have to do anything, Rain?" Lucy sneered Marin's horrendous code-name like it was a searing fire poker, branding painfully on Marin's flesh. She had made it obvious of her disdain for the name in the past—it had become a permanent reminder that she was stuck at the Institute, that she'd forever be an X-Man. (That, and it was kind of a hideous superhero name.)

"Don't call me that." Marin snarled back, clenching her fists. Her voice was sharp but pained, displaying obvious weakness to a trained ear. Lucy noticed, of course, because she quirked an eyebrow like Marin was challenging her (and failing, too, judging by the haughty weight in her eyes).  Marin inhaled shakily. "We—we're heroes, aren't we? I mean—isn't that what we should do? Go out and save—"

"No." Lucy snapped, her eyes glowing a vibrant orange with barely-controlled rage. Stunned by her sudden hostility, Marin cowered. It was there, in her eyes—a resentment too familiar to Marin. Lucy was supposed to be different, she thought pathetically. "We are not heroes, Marin Frost. We are mutants. And we are certainly not those irresponsible, arrogant fools playing dress-up and dropping cities out of the sky. We are not the Avengers—you are not an Avenger. Your stupid delusions that you are one, need to end now because you never will be."

Marin's breath seized in her chest, she felt like she was boiling from the inside out. As she glanced around at the others, Marin noticed that no one was coming to her defense. No one even looked sorry—just annoyed and impatient. They didn't care about her—it was a realization that, while not entirely surprising, still slammed into her like a fist to the solar plexus. Marin fought through the large hole of abandonment burning through her heart.

(She could still hear the distant cries for help.)

"Fine." She conceded with a choking sound, appearing defeated. As Lucy nodded and led the group away, no one bothered to see Marin's eyes scorch with bright defiance.

No one even noticed she was gone until they had climbed into the belly of the jet, and no one was there to trail in behind them.

+++

This was a bad idea. The worst she'd ever had, if Marin would admit it to herself (which, of course, she wouldn't).

She was already on thin ice with Charles after her last act of defiance, and she was positive that this was the last stunt she would pull as an X-Man. But she couldn't find it in herself to regret her actions, not when she could still hear those women screaming for help. She relished in the rush of adrenaline sweeping through her body as she followed the commotion to a bank down the street. She took only a few precious moments to catch her breath, yanking off her X-Men jacket and exposing her bare arms to the cool air. Digging through her jacket, she pulled out her reusable water bottle and unscrewed the lid for easy access. Despite the chill in the evening air, Marin flushed with slight perspiration.

Peeking around the corner from where she hid next to the building, Marin looked in the window, taking inventory of the people inside. Four men in ski masks, all carrying handguns; two women huddled in the furthest corner of the bank with one criminal keeping his gun trained on them, and one woman being held in the clutches of the center-most robber, his gun digging into her temple. The other two men had their guns aimed at... a boy, Marin assumed, wearing blue sweatpants (were those red knee-socks they were tucked into?) and a red hoodie, his arms waving minimally in the air. Was he... wearing a mask? And what were those chunky black things wrapped around his wrists?

Marin didn't know what this kid was doing walking around dressed like that in public, but she supposed that she was still technically in the city, and she knew the truths behind stereotypical city-dwelling crazies. Still, the masked weirdo was a hostage just as much as those women were, and with how his hand gestures kept getting increasingly more erratic, Marin didn't want to waste another second.

"Well, I must say that I'm disappointed I wasn't invited to the slumber party," She waltzed through the door, adopting a casual tone as to not startle the criminals and jeopardize the hostages' safety.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man holding the female hostage by the neck demanded, aiming his weapon at the boy, while the other two whipped theirs on Marin.

"That is... incredibly rude, sir." Marin tutted, taking small, careful steps toward the scene. The fabric of the ski mask shifted like he was scrunching up his face, most likely in confusion. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you and your buddies to leave this fine establishment."

The man scoffed, adjusting his grip on the gun. "You've gotta be kiddin' me."

"Afraid not, Mr. Criminal. I only kid on Tuesdays and Fridays exclusively, and today just so happens to be a Thursday." Marin sighed, continuing to inch towards them. "Now, why don't we let these nice women and... boy... go? Surely you'd rather things stay nice and clean so your face doesn't get any uglier than I'm sure it already is."

Curse her improvising ass. She always ended up insulting someone when she was on a roll, and to do it now was asking for trouble. She had a split second to realize that he turned his gun on her, but she was prepared enough to react. She flicked her hand up, summoning the water from inside her bottle and surrounding the bullet with it. Instantaneously, she turned the water to ice, trapping the bullet in midair and swatting it to the floor beside her, barely missing her head.

Silence fell over the room as everyone watched in astonishment.

"What the hell?!" Marin heard a voice cry out. Shifting her head to spare him a glance, the boy had his hands clutched to his head in shock. Were those goggles?!

In her moment of distraction, one of the extra thugs took the opportunity to strike, lashing out at Marin's forehead with the butt of their gun. She yelped in surprise but didn't have enough time to recover before the other man stepped forward and kicked her hard in the stomach.

Her breath flew out of her with a grunt, the force of the kick sending her sprawling back into a couple of chairs lined against the front wall. Just before she moved to right herself, red and blue flashed in the peripherals of her vision. She straightened as best as she could, clutching her stomach and determinedly ignoring the throb of pain radiating in her forehead.

To her complete and utter surprise, Marin found the boy in red and blue pajamas on the ceiling. What... the hell?

As he hung upside-down, somehow keeping himself attached to the stucco ceiling of the bank, he took turns fighting the three criminals that had gone to attack him. He lashed out only occasionally, letting the criminals to most of the work for him; ducking and dodging swings he couldn't have possibly seen, even out of the corner of his eye. Then, almost strangest of all, he shot out his hand and released a white fluid from the black thing on his wrist, attaching itself to one assailant's face.

What. The. Hell?!

Marin flipped her gaze over to the women, who were being corralled to the opposite side of the bank, away from the action, by the fourth criminal. As he shoved one of the women, Marin retrieved the shattered ice laying on the floor, turning it back into a liquid and gathering it in her hand. The man shoved the barrel of his gun into one of the women's face, so Marin thrust out her hand, using the water to snatch the weapon away. With expert precision from years of training, Marin released the magazine from the gun with one hand, and turned the water back to ice with the other. She chucked the sphere of ice at the man's head before he could react, knocking him out instantly.

A pained gasp yanked at Marin's attention. She pivoted to find the boy on the ground, curled into himself for protection as the three thugs took turns beating into him with whatever means they could use. They weren't using their guns on him—an observation that told Marin that they would rather drag out his pain and suffering than stop him from retaliating.

Marin felt her anger surge as she watched the boy take the beating. Images flashed against her vision: Lucy digging into her soul, ripping her psyche to shreds and reveling in it—watching as no one came to defend her—enduring the years of isolation and animosity—remembering the night her powers surfaced, seeing the look in her father's eyes as he—

The first thing she noticed as her vision began to return, and her mind began to clear, was the ringing in her ears.

"What the hell are you?!" A feminine voice exclaimed in terror. Marin blinked away the dark spots clouding her vision. What... what happened? Marin wondered, taking in the scene before her. The lights overhead were blown out, bathing the bank in darkness. The criminals were tied up, trapped to the floor under a blanket of whatever came from the boy's weird wrist gadgets, unconscious but alive. Marin glanced around, only to find the boy gone. Where was he?

Remembering who had spoken, she snapped her gaze to the women still cowering in the corner of the room. Her heart dropped when she saw the fear in their eyes. The adrenaline rushed out of her and she was left with nothing but exhaustion and the feeling that she was about to shatter into a million tiny pieces.

"I-I don't—I'm sorry, I—" Marin stuttered, and realizing she was still gripping the unloaded handgun, she dropped it like it had stung her. She stumbled, tripping over her feet as she crashed through the doors. She gulped down a shaky breath, the crisp air burning a path down her trachea. Her throat ached with the desire to cry as she reached to pick up her jacket where she'd left it lying in the alley next to the bank, and collapsed against the wall, taking heaving breaths to keep herself from crying.

Suddenly, just as she'd managed to settle her breathing, a figure jumped down in front of her.

"Holy shit, dude!" She yelped and would've lashed out instinctively if she'd had enough energy to even get up off of the ground. Instead, she only clutched at her chest and didn't get up from her spot in the dirt. "Give a girl some warning next time you leap from outta nowhere!"

It was the boy, hovering over her hunched figure like a cross parent lecturing their child. "What the hell is your deal, lady?!" He shouted, pointing vigorously down at her. Marin immediately went on the defensive.

She screwed up her face. "What the hell is my—you should be thanking me right now! I just helped you—"

"I had it under control!" He growled forcefully. "I didn't need your help!"

Marin scrambled to her feet, enraged. "Are you fucking kidding, dude?! Waving your arms around like that? You were basically a human neon sign, screaming 'hey, come and shoot me'! I saved your ass, and if I didn't intervene when I did, you probably would have been shot—or killed!"

"Well, your little light show almost did kill those criminals in there! Not to mention that those women could've been killed, too!" He fired back. Marin's expression closed up as she glanced away. She had no idea what he was talking about, and her head was throbbing too much for her to come up with a response.

As the two regarded each other in silence, Marin realized something. This wasn't just a weird dude dressed like he was going to Comic-Con—he had powers. She didn't know what the whole deal was with his wrist devices, but she recognized his enhanced sensory abilities—the way he could detect movement even out of his line of sight. Then there was the matter of him being able to stick to the ceiling. As she looked down at his chest, she noticed a design drawn onto the fabric with a black marker.

"Is that a spider?" Marin pointed to his chest.

Startled by the sudden change in tone, he glanced down at his chest. "Ye—yes, it's a spider!" He screeched. Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm—I'm Spider-Man!"

That explained the white fluid—they must have been his version of spider webs. Marin cocked her head, thinking. "Hmm."

"What?!"

"I'm Marin."

"'Marin'? That's a weird superhero name."

"That's because it's my name, dingus."

Before he could respond, a throat was cleared. In front of them stood Logan, looking angry as hell with his claws out and on full display. Marin only gulped, but Spider-Man took a few frantic steps back.

"Shit," Marin's face twisted. "I'm screwed now, aren't I?"

"You're in real deep shit this time, kid," Logan grunted, obviously holding back his rage for the sake of the boy standing—well, behind her, now. "Say goodbye to your boyfriend, and get going."

"It was nice meeting you, Spider-Boy," Marin lamented, dropping to grab her jacket and water bottle. She muttered as she passed Logan, "And he's not my goddamn boyfriend, claws."

Logan grumbled a half-amused sound as he dragged her away, leaving a very disturbed young superhero in the darkness of the alley. Spider-Man grimaced to himself in disbelief.

"Spider-Boy?!"

[fifiliphaser]

Don’t Give Me Flannel (Cherik Ficlet)

[AO3 Version]

“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU

So, yeah, here we are. It was supposed to be a shorter one-shot, around 1,000 words or so, but I sort of took that prompt and ran with it, because apparently I cannot write something without any world-building in it. But it was a pure pleasure to write, even if I should've been working on my other WIPs. *sigh*

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this short—yet still somehow almost four times longer than intended—ficlet.

It's not beta-ed, just edited and proofread by myself, so you know the drill—and I'll be really grateful for any valuable remarks!

“Can you finally go to bed?”

Although Erik’s voice is hoarse, his annoyance seeps through very clearly. As a result, the question sounds more like an order, despite it not really being Erik’s intention. Nonetheless, he’s too groggy to care.

Generally, Erik Lehnsherr has always prided himself in being quite a heavy sleeper, capable of sleeping through anything and everything ever since he remembers. Even when he was just a few years old, he would occasionally wake up to hear about the storm roaring through the night, which did little to disrupt his sleep. His mother used to joke that the bomb blowing up nearby wouldn’t manage to jolt him awake. The manifestation of his powers in the early teenage years disrupted his routine for a while, but he managed to go back to it by the time he started university, and this time he hasn’t let anything get in the way of getting a healthy amount of sleep.

Willing himself to fall asleep has never been problematic either, even with a lot of background noise. Unfortunately, it seems like the light is his ultimate weakness. He’s been struggling to doze off for quite a while now, but a small lamp still kept alight turns it into a truly challenging feat. Facing the wall that his bed was pushed to, his eyes closed shut, he’s desperately trying to force his mind to finally shut down, having already given a shot to counting sheep and focusing on his breathing. Sadly, without the comforting darkness to drown out any unwanted late-night thoughts, he is unable to succumb to sleep. The worst thing is, he’s slowly growing more and more desperate and the thought to just ask Charles—the very culprit behind his current predicament—to do this for him keeps lingering at the forefront of his mind.

A quiet groan escapes his lips as Erik turns around, towards the rustle of paper behind him. Charles Xavier, his roommate, the fellow student who also happens to be a mutant, is sitting on the carpet between their two beds, surrounded by an array of textbooks and notes. He is, by far, one of the very few people whom Erik tolerates and who somehow tolerate him in return, which is still somewhat unbelievable to Erik—how such a person as Charles, so unbearably idealistic and impossibly kind, would like to as much as simply be in his presence continues to escape his comprehension.

Nevertheless, here they are, Charles spread on the floor and Erik failing to fall asleep. Overall, Charles is quite a nice roommate, certainly much better than the previous ones that Erik was unlucky to live with. (Or maybe it was them who were unlucky enough to cross his path, Erik wonders sometimes.) Although a chatter, Charles doesn’t bother with meaningless conversations and he has a quick wit, which is even more prominent over the chessboard that they sometimes use to play, all of which make him a pleasant enough companion even on the worst of days. His bright big eyes, with their remarkable blueness only accentuated by the flannel pajamas he is currently wearing and with his floppy hair falling over them, make him look rather appealing, as a quite impressive group of both male and female students can corroborate. Despite that, Charles’s favourable looks are no more than a pleasant addition, or so Erik tries to convince himself of.

He cuts that train of thought short, though. They are friends, even though this label hardly conveys the depth of their bond. Charles may be the closest person Erik has ever been to, other than his parents, which makes him just about the only family Erik has left. To ruin the most meaningful friendship in Erik’s life due to his irrational sexual urges is just unthinkable. So he proceeds to do what he’s been doing for weeks now, burying the budding attraction deep enough that the telepath won’t see it.

“I can’t fall asleep with the light on,” he grumbles, seeing that Charles has hardly reacted to his previous question. When that doesn’t work either, Erik continues, his brows furrowing, “I have an exam tomorrow, too, you know.”

Charles finally looks up at him, and his eyes are sparkling in the warm light of his bedside lamp, his liveliness evident despite the dark circles under them. Erik shouldn’t find that sight so endearing, and yet, he’s mesmerised all the same, almost forgetting his own annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry,” Charles says apologetically, gazing down at the notebook he’s just been leafing through. His lips, even redder than usual, what with the way Charles continues to chew at them, curl into a little self-deprecating smile. Erik can’t help but trace their movements when his friend adds, “Just… five more minutes.”

It’s clear how tired Charles is, leaning on his hand which is perched up on his lap and visibly fighting off the urge to let his head drop on his notes. Erik rolls his eyes, irritated with Charles’s insistence even more so now that he sees his exhaustion. It may even explain why Erik’s own tiredness feels so profound; if Charles is on the verge of falling asleep, his shields are prone to get weaker and sometimes he starts projecting his feelings, as if his mind was trying to get rid of the sense of fatigue simply by pushing it away.

In truth, Erik doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He minds feeling more tired than he actually is, that is, but not the mental contact itself. It never fails to surprise him, how much he actually enjoys having someone brushing against his thoughts. Of course, he believes that all mutants should be treated equally, regardless of the nature of their mutation; and yet, telepaths are often facing quite a lot of resentment, even within the mutant community itself. For many, it is one thing to pass someone with a tail or a pair of wings on the street without batting an eye, and something else entirely to have a stranger overhear your thoughts—something intimate and meant to exist only for you to listen.

Erik can understand where such reservations might come from, even though he himself doesn’t view telepathy as so problematic. In fact, the anti-psionic bias seems to be chiefly the product of ignorance—there aren’t that many telepaths, most of whom not even powerful enough to fully enter someone’s mind without touching that person or at least being in a very close proximity to them, but people nevertheless are afraid of feeling so exposed, with more than unfavourable portrayal of telepathy in the media as manipulative and exploitative only feeding their fear.

Not that telepaths are actually interested in reading or controlling everyone’s minds; the fact that is obvious to anyone who has actually met a telepath. It would be exhausting, after all, to listen closely to every thought that comes your way. Not even mentioning the fact that a lot of people think they’re incredibly interesting and worthy of attention, while, in actuality, their thoughts are mundane and their secrets nonsignificant.

Erik has crossed paths with enough telepaths to know that. Besides, if telepaths truly did always listen to one’s every thought, Charles would already bloody well know how annoyed Erik has been for quite a while now.

“You’ve been cramming it for—” Erik reaches out with his power, tugging at the magnetic lines surrounding him, and feels the hands of Charles’s watch which is still wrapped around his wrist.

The soft hum of its metal is pleasantly familiar. Charles takes it off only to sleep, and its constant presence allows Erik to sense him, even if his friend is out of sight. It never ceases to surprise Erik how comforting he finds it, the possibility to feel Charles’s warm skin against the stainless steel of the watch anytime he wishes, wherever he is.

Erik reads the hour and groans resignedly, “—for six hours straight. You know everything that you need already.”

“I have to ace it,” Charles mutters, his gaze fixed back on his notes.

He bites his lower lip, again, and it’s truly infuriating how captivating it is. Erik spends entirely too much time looking at those plush red lips of Charles’s, wondering distantly if they’re as soft as they look and if their redness would be even more intense after a thorough kiss…

It’s getting ridiculous. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such things, especially not about a telepath.

“Did you even touch the tea I made you?,” Erik demands instead, resisting the temptation to ask another question that sits at the tip of his tongue, one that is as improper as it is stupid.

A quick glance at Charles’s nightstand confirms what Erik has already suspected. The green mug with a cat and a silly chemistry pun printed on it is standing exactly where Erik put it three hours ago.

Charles looks up once again, his lips rounding in a way that is both adorable and infuriating. What’s more, the sudden movement makes his hair, ruffled from the way Charles runs his hands through them every now and then, fall down his forehead, and Erik barely battles the urge to reach out and gently brush them away.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, his wide eyes making him look like a puppy whose owner has just scolded them for something that they are absolutely guilty of. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” he says sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I’ve got too immersed in all of this.” His hand flies around over all the books, the sleeve of his slightly too big flannel pyjamas tumbling down his forearm and falling over his wrist.

Why Charles insists on sleeping in that atrocious thing, whose only saving grace is its nice blue colour, remains a mystery to Erik. Their dorm room is relatively warm, even in winter, and yet Charles seems to be perpetually cold at night, sleeping under a pile of blankets all year long. Erik is reluctant to admit it, but it worries him that although the summer is about to start, Charles’ nightwear hasn’t yet changed. If he’s so cold, perhaps there could be a way to warm him up a bit. Which is hardly the best line of thinking for now, because the only solutions Erik can think of involve things that he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want.

A small shudder runs down his spine, and Erik has to clear his suddenly dry throat, forcing his mind to think about something else—anything else, really. He ends up recalling the details of a few cases which will most probably prove to be useful during tomorrow’s exam, trying not to wonder how it would be to wrap his arms around Charles and pull him under the covers.

Frustratingly, even repeating in his head what he already knows by heart isn’t tedious enough to put his mind to sleep.

“You can’t keep doing that.” Erik’s voice sounds annoyed even to his own ears, more so than before.

“I know, I know…,” Charles says under his breath, clearly having completely recovered from his previous mortification.

“You should’ve started earlier.” Erik’s tone might be a bit too harsh, certainly more than he intended. He can’t help himself but be frustrated, though, what with everything that watching Charles raise his hand and gently tap his fingers against his lips does to Erik’s insides.

Charles sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I know that too.” Erik can barely hear him, his voice muffled by his fingers, but he can tell that Charles must be annoyed with himself too. “Just… this isn’t half as interesting as the project I’m working on,” he explains, with an edge to his tone.

Erik rolls his eyes, though there’s hardly any malice behind the gesture. “I can believe that, but it’s getting annoying,” he says a little less sternly, despite his patience seriously dwindling.

“Sorry.” But Charles doesn’t look so sorry as he grabs one of the textbooks and opens it, back in that study mode of his.

Taking a deep breath, Erik barely refrains from raising his voice, his irritation only worsened by the worry about Charles’s awful sleeping habits. “You know all of that. Go to bed already.”

Charles’s thoughts are clearly far away from their conversation when he mumbles, “Just… let me finish—”

“Charles, you’re overtaxing yourself.” Erik’s tone is yet again harsh, though this time he can’t keep worry out of his voice.

The telepath doesn’t even respond, his whole attention at the textbook on his lap. Despite his immersion in the text, Charles’s head continues to be drooping, his back leaning heavily on the frame of his bed, and Erik doesn’t know what to do anymore to make this man finally get some sleep.

It’s still somewhat bewildering to him, to care for another person’s well-being so much that he starts completely brushing aside his own. It’s not like he is uncaring, but ever since his parents passed away Erik hasn’t allowed himself to get too close to other people. His wounds haven’t properly healed yet, and the thought of losing anyone else is so unbearable that he’d rather isolate himself than face the prospect of going through that again. Yet, he finds himself growing more and more fond of Charles with every passing day.

Although everyone seems to love Charles—that goes without question—Erik isn’t like everyone and a creature of very little trust, so he can’t be easily swayed into liking someone, even if confronted with the smoothest of flattery. But Charles isn’t like anyone else either and hardly an overconfident and snobbish smooth talker that Erik thought he was upon their first meeting. It took more than a couple of heated discussions during quite a few classes and the mutant rights club meetings and one memorable party, however, for Erik to start appreciating Charles’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, his infuriating idealism and the admirable faithfulness to his own ideals, and, most of all, his unconditional kindness. 

As a cynic and a firm believer in the need for separation between baseline humans and mutants, Erik naturally would never agree with Charles’s integrationist ideas, though deep down he has to begrudgingly admit that such an approach might be beneficial in some instances. Besides, it’s not his fault, really, that Erik can’t resist that warm laughter, the playful quirk of that red mouth, and the mischievous glint in those hauntingly blue eyes. If he didn’t know much about telepathy, he’d think that this endearing charm is just a trick, but he knows better. Charles really happens to be just as charming, as if having the magnetic personality of an opposite pole, whose call is quite hard for Erik to resist.

Which doesn’t make Charles’s late-night study sessions any less irritating.

Erik must do something to make Charles finally go to sleep, and if the Charles way of talking and negotiating doesn’t work, it’s time for the Erik way. He slips from under the covers and jumps to the floor.

“Erik, give it back!,” Charles shrieks the second Erik snatches the book away from his hands, though his protests are much weaker than usual.

“I need sleep and so do you,” Erik says stubbornly, hugging the book to his chest. “So, just put it all away, or I’ll do that for you.”

Charles looks at him for a long moment, the exasperation in his expression mixed with something else, something odd. There’s a heaviness to his gaze that makes Erik shift minutely, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles says eventually, although he doesn’t sound resigned, only mildly amused.

“You’re the one to talk,” Erik snaps back, albeit good-naturedly.

Signing once again, Charles just shakes his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. Then, he fixes Erik with a stern gaze.

“I’ll go to sleep when I finish this chapter,” he says seriously, and the determination that is colouring his eyes suggests that he won’t step down this time.

Erik purses his lips and regards him for a moment, contemplating the offer. The chances for negotiating conditions more favourable for Erik are scarce, and now is not a good time to pick up a fight. It seems best to relent.

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Erik decides, slowly releasing the book from his grasp.

Charles quickly goes to grab it before he can even let go of it, the telepath’s fingers brushing against Erik’s forearms and leaving a trail of the pleasant tingling sensation behind. Erik can’t help but sit here transfixed, the plush carpet soft against the bare skin of his shins, as Charles goes back to studying. There’s something enthralling in watching him in his element—because as exhausted as Charles is, there’s still so much passion in the way he’s practically devouring what is written on the pages before him. His eyes are alight again, and his lips are moving—lightly, captivatingly—as he’s quietly repeating the crucial tidbits of information.

Erik has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.

Although the book is once again laying open on his lap and stealing all his attention, Charles looks up from it, apparently having noticed Erik’s dumbfounded expression. “You can go back to bed now,” he points out lightly, his brows drawn in mild confusion.

“Not until I tuck you in first,” Erik responds before he has time to think much about his words.

He doesn’t even get a chance to start feeling self-conscious, however, as Charles is seemingly taking it all in stride. “That won’t be necessary, my friend,” he says, giving Erik an amused look, the corner of his lips—so distractingly red—rising in a half smile, and Erik finds it hard not to stare at them.

Instead, he narrows his eyes. “We’ll see.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Charles snorts and glances down at the book, his fingers finding their way back to his mouth.

The tip of his thumb begins to slowly trace the outline of his lower lip, back and forth, drawing all of Erik’s attention to that one delicate motion. He cannot help but be hypnotised, wishing against his better judgement that he could reach out and replace Charles’s fingers with his own. To map those lips with his touch, to explore the softness against his fingertips…

Erik looks up abruptly, his eyes boring in the ceiling. Breathing out, he almost groans, but refrains from doing so not to distract Charles. It’s really of no use, allowing himself for such mental escapades. This absurd infatuation has already made Erik’s life miserable enough, there is really no need to add fuel to the flames.

Except, he finds himself unable to stop. Everytime he sees Charles, hears his warm laughter, feels his fingers brushing against his own arm, is confronted with a clever and spot-on counterargument during their arguments, or witnesses a particularly cunning move during the game of chess, Erik can’t stop his mind from being consumed yet again by the thoughts of his best friend. It’s truly a miracle that Charles hasn’t picked up on those thoughts yet, and for once Erik is grateful for Charles’s strict moral code.

Nonetheless, Erik knows he has to put an end to it. It’s just a silly crush, after all, nothing worth putting their friendship on the line. No more foolishness from now on—he’ll just focus on getting through his studies, pushing all the other matters aside.

After some time, which seems to have stretched from mere minutes to long hours, Erik abruptly hears Charles close the book. He drops his gaze in time to see his friend put it down and then proceed to gather all the rest of the study materials into a pile.

“Okay, I’ve finished, happy?,” Charles says, pushing the pile closer to his bed. “You can tuck me in now.” He looks up and momentarily furrows his eyebrows. “Erik?”

Somehow, the earnest look of those beautifully blue eyes makes Erik’s resolve snap. So much for an end to all the silliness. Before he can stop his traitorous lips from moving, the question is already leaving his mouth, the one he’s been longing to ask for so long.

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Charles’s eyebrows slowly rise, disappearing underneath his dishevelled hair. He’s still for what feels like an eternity, and Erik can feel the tendrils of the telepath’s thoughts retreating from his mind, folding in on themselves, which can’t possibly bode well.

Panic begins to rise in Erik’s chest. With his breath quickening, he does his best to slip on a mask of indifference over his face, hoping against hope that Charles hasn’t seen anything damning in his mind, especially not any of those lewd thoughts he’s been having lately. But before dread can consume his mind like a wildfire, Erik sees Charles’s expression soften and then the telepath is leaning in, stopping only when his face is a few mere inches from Erik’s.

He’s so close that Erik nearly goes cross-eyed, Charles’s breath ghosting over his lips. Erik remains frozen, waiting for his friend’s response, anticipating and dreading it in equal measure. He sees that Charles’s eyes are flickering all over his face, filled with… Is it excitement, or rather nervousness? Regardless, his look is clearly inviting, so Erik lets himself hope that maybe his friend does want the same thing.

“Yes.”

For a second, Erik isn’t sure if he has heard it correctly. It was barely a whisper, and Charles agreeing to such a ridiculous request sounds too good to be true. It soon becomes clear, however, that Erik’s ears were not playing tricks on him when Charles gives him one last smile and leans in farther to close the distance between them.

Erik’s eyes close on their own accord, and it takes a heartbeat for their lips to meet. It doesn’t feel like a particularly world-changing moment—or maybe it does, just not in the way Erik expected. It’s not like a lighting strike, turning his world upside down and igniting a raging fire inside of him, but it rather feels as if long-lost puzzle pieces finally fell in their proper places.

Kissing Charles feels like coming home.

His lips are just so soft, pliable against Erik’s, the warmth of their gentle touch spreading through Erik’s whole body like little electric shocks. The kiss is rather chaste, close-mouthed; even so, Erik can feel the air between them slowly changing and starting to crackle with the kind of tension that has barely reached the surface before. The wave of excitement mixed with lust that swiftly encompasses his mind proves that he’s not the only one who notices it.

Erik senses something else, however, something much deeper and warmer, as his hands find their way to Charles’s face. He runs his fingertips over the expanse of smooth skin, gently stroking Charles’s cheeks, and he can feel the warmth rising there. He can’t help but smile against his friend’s lips, feeling an affectionate nudge in his mind in return.

And then Erik hears it, a soft murmur permeating his thoughts.

I thought you’d never ask.

If anyone's interested, here's the mug Erik was reffering to (I found it funny, don't at me ^^').

And I'm considering perhaps writing more in that 'verse, so if any of you has any ideas, prompts, or requests, I'll be more than happy to oblige ;)

(Generally, I have more in store for Cherik, especially after Dark Phoenix (we'll always have Paris, after all), but those works are also getting longer than expected. Still, I'm cautiously optimistic about finishing them in August.)

[xmenwickedgame]

Character meme: Charles Xavier

Reminder: this meme is for Charles as he appears following the events of this AU

NAME: Charles Francis Xavier NICKNAME:  He doesn’t really have one.  AGE: 51 SPECIES: Mutant

PERSONAL. MORALITY:  lawful / neutral / chaotic ///  good / neutral / evil RELIGIOUS BELIEF: His adopted brother (Balthazar) is an angel...were it not for that, he’d likely be an atheist. SINS:  greed / gluttony / sloth / lust / pride / envy / wrath (all of these apply to life before 1962) VIRTUES: chastity / charity / diligence / humility / kindness / patience / justice  PRIMARY GOALS IN LIFE: He’s still searching for one. Right now, any would-be goals are shadowed in doubt. LANGUAGES KNOWN: English, passable German, French and Hebrew SECRETS: Charles keeps various secrets from various people. All have to do with his fifteen-year absence from the X-men. SAVVIES: Despite having minimal access to his powers he still possesses a deep understanding of telepathy and mutation. He also holds more tentative philosophies regarding humanity and the human (and mutant) heart...

PHYSICAL

BUILD: scrawny / bony / slender / fit / athletic / curvy / herculean / pudgy / average HEIGHT: 5′6″ WEIGHT: I’m not even going to pretend I know how to calculate weight. Call him a touch underweight due to stress. SCARS/BIRTHMARKS: Several: many are mental/emotional but there are a lot of physical scars as well. Most are the result of abuse except for three: a scar on his leg following a broken leg that left him with a limp and one on either wrist from a suicide attempt. All are concealed under clothing except his wrists on occasion. ABILITIES/POWERS: Technically, Charles is a telepath but he can’t access most of his power, anymore. See below for explanation. RESTRICTIONS:  Charles spent fifteen years aligned with the Brotherhood of Mutants. During that time, he was conditioned to access his powers only when instructed to by someone else...primarily Erik. Without regular mental exercise Charles lost much of his range and control, only confident using it in small bursts on his own.  Since his return to the Family’s Institute and the emergence of Professor X he takes a serum made by Hank McCoy that deliberately restricts his abilities. This is mostly for everyone else’s safety: his Professor X personality has full access and control over his telepathy.

FAVORITES There were several years Charles avoided vocalizing certain favorites. He’s more open about it, now. FAVORITE FOOD: Anything Balthazar bakes, especially scones.  FAVORITE DRINK: Tea FAVORITE PIZZA TOPPING: He doesn’t really have a preference:  Pizza’s never been a favorite food. FAVORITE COLOR: Blue FAVORITE MUSIC GENRE(S): Any kind of easy listening, especially the Beatles. (Classical music is an exception to this rule for various reasons) FAVORITE BOOK GENRE(S): He doesn’t have a set favorite anymore: he’s become something of a quiet cynic regarding most fiction...he’ll occasionally read science fiction as a way to relate to his nerdy son. He’s also rekindled a small spark towards science and discovery (which also helps relating to the nerdy son. Said son is obsessed with Star Trek.) FAVORITE MOVIE GENRE(S): He doesn’t have one FAVORITE SEASON: Spring. Everything blooms and life starts, anew. FAVORITE CURSE WORD: He doesn’t have a favorite and hearing some of the harsher curses from others occasionally triggers anxiety. That said, when he does swear he’ll usually say ‘damn.’ FAVORITE SCENT(S): Home-baked goods fresh out of the oven and the soothing warmth of seasonal teas.

FUN STUFF.

BOTTOM OR TOP:  okay so even though I don’t RP smut I may as well throw this in-- Sex is a no-go for Charles. It upsets and makes him anxious for a number of reasons. I can think of one scenario that might pave a path towards healing but it only works for one hypothetical ship so for now we’ll say no.  SINGS IN THE SHOWER: Rarely. LIKES BAD PUNS: Sometimes.

Tagged by: no one Tagging: @the-captains-table, @divinethief, @the-renegade-child-of-time, @shieldshawk, @destructivesummers

[forest-of-stories]

The “Evolution” of a Problematic Shipper

[I’ve been working on this lengthy post, which is about my early adventures in X-Men: Evolution fanfiction, for a very long time.  So, here it is, friends.  Please note a content warning for some discussion of abuse, mostly in fiction.  Also, my individual recollections are my own, and extremely subjective; others might remember the fandom differently than I do.]

Quite a few years ago, I wrote about how X-Men: Evolution was “the first fandom in which I participated heavily: watching the show as it aired, obsessing with other fans about the stories and relationships within, and writing reams and reams of (mostly very bad) fic.”  I still think that this is somewhat true; XME certainly inspired me to do all of those things more publicly and enthusiastically than I ever had before, especially where my One True Pairing was concerned.

For those who don’t know, X-Men: Evolution, which ran from 2000 to 2003, was essentially an animated High School AU of the X-Men comics in which our heroes lived and trained at the Xavier Institute but attended classes at their local high school.  For the first couple of seasons, mutants weren’t public knowledge as they are in the comics or movies, so a few characters used their powers for the first time without understanding what was going on.

The second episode, “The X-Impulse,” introduced viewers to (this world’s version of) Kitty Pryde, a lonely, sheltered fifteen-year-old who was terrified of her newly awakened ability to walk through walls, and to Lance Alvers, a juvenile delinquent whose own powers caused him to make awkward faces and terrible puns (and also earthquakes, I guess).  When they met, Lance seemed happy and excited to meet someone else with super-powers, but he quickly developed a plan to manipulate Kitty into helping him in his criminal shenanigans.  He presented himself as helpful and supportive, gained her trust, and, when she refused him help him, became aggressive and violent toward her and her family.  The episode ended with Kitty recruited by the X-Men and Lance joining the bad guys, and the two of them spent the rest of the season as enemies.

Watching this episode for the first time as a teenager, I knew that Lance’s behavior toward Kitty was wrong and abusive.  And yet, there was something about their early interactions that captured my imagination.  Maybe it was the fact that, whatever else might have happened, he was the first person to show her how to find confidence and joy in her powers.  Maybe it was the hug that they shared, or his line, “Once you own it, nothing can own you,” or the possibility, thwarted though it might have been, that they could have formed an understanding despite very different backgrounds and attitudes.  I liked forbidden romances, and I liked flipping the script to make unquestioned heroes seem villainous and villains seem sympathetic, and I liked when characters rebelled against controlling authority figures and communities, which is how I reimagined the X-Men when I first started writing about them.  I’m not saying that I explored any of those ideas well, but they were what started me writing: at first in collaboration with a friend from summer camp, who still deserves a lot of the credit, and then on my own.  I posted my solo stories on Fanfiction.net, where this fandom would enjoy some remarkable popularity that I’m not sure has ever transferred to any other platform.

I wrote about Lance infiltrating the X-Men (with psychic shields in place), and having to choose between his original mission and his romance with Kitty, whose own commitment to her team and its mission was starting to waver.  I wrote about her trying to figure out her identity beyond her friends’ expectations of her, even as Lance tried to be a better and less destructive person.  I wrote about Charles Xavier mind-controlling Kitty into dismissing Lance and falling back into unquestioning loyalty, giving way to several well-received sequels in which some of the characters tried to free themselves and each other from Xavier’s telepathic chokehold.  I wrote without much direction or concern for established continuity and characterization, and assumed the whole time that the show would never explore what I saw as the unrecognized potential of my OTP.  When canon actually went there, I was as surprised as anybody.

--

After Lance had spent the entire premiere of Season 2, “Growing Pains,” acting like a complete jerk to Kitty and her friends, his destructiveness endangered her life, and he saved her.  They became romantically involved soon afterward, and he became noticeably less of a jerk toward her and slightly less of a jerk toward others.  The series of fics that I was working on had decisively departed from continuity by this point, but I still incorporated elements of the season premiere into the installment that I was posting at the time.  And my fellow Lance/Kitty shippers, believing that canon had vindicated us, were transported with joy.  

If XME were popular today, I believe that there would be a lot more pushback against Lance/Kitty, in both good and bad ways.  Even at the time, the pairing was not universally beloved.  There were probably those who thought that its dysfunctional beginnings outweighed any potential for functionality or sweetness, and there were definitely those who thought that both characters would be better off with someone else.  It’s tempting to rewrite history with claims that “in my day, we shipped and let ship,” and it’s true that yesterday’s shipping conflicts didn’t use all of the same weapons that today’s do, but the fandom was still full of snarky, self-important brats who, no matter which side of any given argument we were on, believed that only we understood these characters and this world.

I say “we,” because I was not exempt from these behaviors.  I’ve sometimes thought that participation in this fandom brought out some of my worst habits.  But a lot of positive things came out of it as well.  It gave me the inspiration and confidence to write more prolifically than I ever had before (or maybe even since), and a chance to explore ideas that became deeply important to me: perhaps most importantly, I don’t think I’d written so extensively or publicly about the horrors of mind control.  Mutual devotion to our show and its fandom, and mutual conviction that Lance and Kitty were meant to be, connected me with a number of friends with whom I started exchanging emails and IMs and LiveJournal comments, and I’ve kept in touch with a couple of them to this day.  And even though I didn’t always respond constructively to attention and validation, XME fandom gave me what I think fandom has given a lot of creative young people: a wider audience for my writing, and a community who cared about the lives and feelings of cartoon characters as much as I did, and in many of the same ways.  My experience in this fandom was as uneven and as flawed (dare one say… problematic?), and often as delightful, as the show that inspired it.

And, for me, it had all started with Lance and Kitty.   As the show progressed, and for years after it ended, I continued to write more canon-compliant one-shot stories about them: missing scenes or predictions for the future. Their relationship was a given in more or less everything I wrote, whether or not they were the focus, and even when I’d fallen deeply into other fandoms, I still regarded it with nostalgic fondness.

--

I think that a lot of us have faced an uncomfortable tension between our social consciences and our nostalgia for the uncomplicated adoration with which we viewed our “problematic faves” as children.  I can’t provide a one-size-fits-all solution for that conflict.  I don’t know if one exists.

“Although I'm not going to say that I never thought that I'd be engaging with XME again in any way,” I blogged in late 2013, as my local cartoon-watching group began the first season, “I was somewhat surprised that I had any feelings about this show left, or anything else to say.”  But I did, and I said a lot of it in short ficlets of less than 500 words, which - since I was in graduate school at the time - were usually all that my energy levels would allow.

At around the same time, I started reading fandom-related posts on Tumblr, including the ones that stated or implied that redemption arcs in fiction, and/or shipping characters with people who had mistreated them, were universally bad because they would increase the likelihood of real-life abuse.  It’s not like I had never thought about that aspect of Lance and Kitty’s relationship (I’d addressed it more than once in the intervening time), but something about phrasing of those posts - or maybe something about my own mental state when I saw them - sent me into a spiral of self-doubt.  I wondered I would have to publicly apologize for and cast aside my affection for a pairing and a narrative that had been so deeply formative for me.  I wondered if my friends would consider me an abuse apologist if I didn’t, or even whether I might secretly be one.  

One of the reasons why it took me a long time to write this retrospective is that I wanted to avoid too many lengthy tangents or blanket statements about critical consumption of media, the toxic elements of “anti-shipping,” and the relationship between fiction and reality.  I do believe that such a relationship exists, but it’s much more complicated than “impure fiction is dangerous, especially if people might be enjoying it in ways that are not politically conscious or wholesome enough.”  Anybody who reads my blog knows that I am intensely critical of purity culture, and I do not believe in being unkind to real people on behalf of fictional characters (and I say this as someone who used to do exactly that).  Also, if you were going to ask, “So you’re saying you support [taboo and/or illegal act]?” please don’t.  I am not saying that, and we are not having that conversation.  Not all “problematic” stories are interchangeable or should be talked about in the same way, and all of the issues that surround them are bigger and more complex than any individual character or romantic arc.

So I am not suggesting that Lance and Kitty’s own romantic arc should not have happened, or that people shouldn’t enjoy it, when I point out that was built on some incredibly inappropriate behavior that reflects toxic cultural attitudes  even if it doesn’t “normalize” or “promote” them, and I can understand why some people (including at least one of my Cartoon Night buddies) would see it as irresponsible storytelling.   In “Growing Pains,” Lance harassed Kitty despite her trying to tell him off, used his powers in publicly destructive ways in order to hold her attention, and tried to keep her from leaving school with her friends.  Even when his protective leap caused her to regard him as something besides an enemy, it seemed to be setting up an arc in which her love - or the possibility of her love - would make him a better person. 

In reality, of course, it’s unrealistic at best for anyone to expect that they can “change” or “improve” the morality of a partner who has treated them (or others) badly.  But it’s an enjoyable and compelling fantasy, as are the “opposites attract” and “forbidden love” aspects of the pairing, all of which we shippers ate up with a spoon.  It’s vital for shippers to recognize the difference between reality and fiction, but it is not my place to assume - based solely upon the nature of the fantasy - that they’re unable to do so.

And, in-universe, I can absolutely understand why sheltered, idealistic Kitty might have given in to this fantasy.  But it doesn’t play out in the way that she - or I - initially expected.

I’ve seen the Season 2 episode “Joyride” so many times that I didn’t have to rewatch it in order to write this essay.  That’s the one in which Lance briefly joined the X-Men, in order to be close to Kitty and, hopefully, to become the kind of person that she might admire.  The story was full of cute moments in which they flirted, bantered, and ultimately worked together to solve a crisis.  It also spotlighted one of the biggest obstacles to their relationship, and despite what a lot of fanfic - including my own - suggested, that did not come from their respective teams’ objections.  Professor Xavier even encouraged Lance’s potential for redemption (which didn’t stop me from reading, writing, and endorsing fic in which he regularly meddled in his students’ love lives), and the other characters reacted to the situation in a variety of understandable, if not always admirable, ways.  No, the telling moment occurred when the team was running through aquatic rescue scenarios, and Lance cheerfully broke rank and “drowned” two other people in order to pull Kitty out of the water.  Here was his entire approach to redemption and to their relationship, summed up in one gesture: he wanted to ensure her safety and well-being, but didn’t always care what or whom he knocked down in the process.  This became even clearer toward the end of the season, when he tried unsuccessfully to chase her (and only her) away from a fight between their two teams, although her friends would still be in danger. This tension exploded in the third episode of Season 3, when Lance and his friends once again attacked the X-Men on school grounds, and Kitty shouted, “This is the real you, isn’t it?” Lance responded, “That’s right! I’m never going to be good enough for you!” (I typed that out from memory, too.)

Naturally, my fellow shippers and I were devastated by this development, and I, for one, wrote lots of angsty fic (often interspersed with the lyrics to late 1990s/early 2000s pop music)  in which the former couple pined for each other despite having been Torn Apart By Circumstances.  Years later, however, I’m proud of Kitty, and of the writers, for drawing that line in the sand, and for realizing that - although, as Charles pointed out, it would have been a good start - it wasn’t enough for Lance to be good for her.  Whether or not this was an intentional writing choice, the later seasons reflected an awareness that he was primarily the one responsible for making himself a better person.  

Yes, after Lance and his comrades joined the climactic battle even though he’d insisted at first that he didn’t care, he and Kitty got back together in the series finale. There were probably viewers who thought their reconciliation hadn’t been earned, as well as those who thought it had been.  Obviously, eighteen-year-old Nevanna (by then in her first semester of college) was one of the latter.  But I appreciate the time that they spent apart, and the fact that it came at least as much from from internal motivations as from external pressure, far more as an adult than I did as a teenager.

To be clear: you don’t have to like Lance/Kitty or pairings like it.  When I say that I regard it differently now, I am not trying to assert that “my ship is Unproblematic after all, so there!” because it isn’t.  Nor am I trying to suggest, “It’s okay that I had a Bad Ship, because I regret it now, and the rest of you are filthy sinners who should do the same.” I don’t, and you’re not, and you shouldn’t.  Or, rather, how you feel about your past shipping, and what kind of person it makes you, is not for me to decide.

I loved and built upon this pairing both despite and because of its problems, and that is one of the reasons why I try not to condemn other people - as long as they maintain that all-important boundary between fantasy and reality - for loving and building upon stories that have similar problems, or different ones altogether.

--

I was sixteen when I first started writing XME fanfic.  I’m thirty-three now.  I can easily imagine some of you asking, “When are you going to get over these imaginary fake not-real cartoon characters and get a life, Nevanna?” That is, I hope that my friends, whom I love and who love me, aren’t thinking along those lines, but it’s certainly a question that I have asked myself more than once.

Even when I was cheerfully participating in fandom in my youth, I still feared that my obsessions with fictional characters were bad for me, a sign that I wasn’t equipped to deal with or care about “real life.” In one diary entry, I wrote with certainty that I would have to abandon my fannish interests entirely when I started college.  If a large contingent of fans had loudly insisted that my interests were not only bad for me but bad for the world, that I was actively hurting others simply by writing about my chosen subject matter, that I was likely to enable or engage in actual criminal activity… I’m not sure what I would have done, but it probably wouldn’t have been what they wanted me to do, and it likely would have made me an even more unpleasant person to be around.

I tried my best to balance academic obligations with fandom and creativity when I did enter college, and sometimes failed spectacularly, but that owed as much to anxiety and poor time management skills, both of which are still everyday challenges for me, as it did to caring “too much” about stories.  I eventually earned a master’s degree, and found a series of jobs, in a field that is just a bit concerned with making sure people get to read whatever they want.  If I’m still “getting a life,” which I believe is an ongoing process, then my fandoms are just one part of it.  And after all this time, X-Men: Evolution is still one of those fandoms.  I find it easy and comforting and fun to write about these characters, and the only person who gets to decide whether I’m “over” them is myself.  

The last time I wrote anything that focused specifically on Lance and Kitty was a little more than two years ago, and the fic didn’t shy away from the troubled history of their relationship.  I have a preference for stories that at least acknowledge that history and the tension that comes with it, but I would never barge in and assume that because a content creator doesn’t check those boxes, they support real-life abusive relationships.

Would I still ship Lance and Kitty if I encountered them for the first time today? It’s difficult to say. Many aspects of their relationship are still things that I enjoy in fiction.  But my early interest in them was based on a specific set of assumptions about the characters, their world, and even the purpose of fanfiction, as well as, yes, some amount of ignorance about how romance and attraction worked.  I don’t want to enjoy their story, or others, solely in the way that I did when I was younger.  Most of the time, I prefer the all the ways that I enjoy stories now.

As I said earlier, I’m not proud of some of my actions in the XME fandom.  I regret sneering at the fanbase for another popular pairing that had dysfunctional beginnings, as if my OTP didn’t.  (The two pairings didn’t even have any common characters, so it’s not as if they challenged each other as far as I know, not that my attitude would have been okay even if they had.  I think I partly just enjoyed hating what so many people liked.)  I regret participating in an LJ community that publicly mocked specific people’s writing.  I regret sticking my nose into people’s reviews just to beg them to read my latest chapter, but not as much as I regret leaving at least one hostile review, with a very thin veneer of playfulness, when half of my OTP hooked up with another character in the middle of a multi-chapter fic.   And, all of that aside, there is a much longer list of regrettable choices that I made as a writer.  But I don’t regret looking at Lance and Kitty in their introductory episode and thinking, “There’s a story there, and I want to find out where it might go.”

[delkios]

About a week ago I was talking to @robininthelabyrinth about doing some Rogue-centric comics recaps, starting with the brief time Heatwave worked at Cadmus with Superboy.

For those of you wondering “Why is what is generally a criminal working with a hero?” here’s a brief rundown of things that happened that lead up to this point:

Back in the mid-90s there was an event called Underworld Unleashed in which Nero, DC’s version of Satan, tricked most of the Rogues into attacking key points around… some continent that is literally unrecognizable on a map.  Those points exploded, killing them.  The event went on, Trickster I figured out Neron’s angle and helped the heroes defeat him and the Rogues remained dead at the end of it.  A couple years (real time) later, Flash issues 125-129, Neron is back to his old, manipulating people into giving him unlimited power schtick and brings the Rogues’ souls to Earth, this time as unkillable, power-amplified specters bent on causing as much death and destruction as possible.  Through Linda and Wally’s teamwork and love for each other, Neron is forced to retreat while restoring the Rogues their souls/life.  In the New Year’s Evil special issue, Trickster I tricks the Rogues into going after a sacred treasure in a Zhutan temple when, surprise, Neron pops back up and Heatwave, who emphatically does not want his soul back in Neron’s clutches, convinces the other Rogues to help Tricks and Piper defeat him.  It was a convoluted issue.  After Neron is, yet again, defeated, Heatwave decides to stay with the Zhutan monks, hoping to save his soul by being good.

That is, to my knowledge, the last we see of Mick until his appearance in Superboy 65.  Recaps are taken from issues 65, 76-81, 87-90

For those unfamiliar with this particular run, here are some characters to know:

Superboy/Kon-El: a psuedo-clone of Superman who debuted following The Death of Superman storyline.  Very 90’s teen-with-attitude, he’s one of the founders of Young Justice. His powers weren’t originally copying Superman’s (he was originally a modified human clone rather than half-Kryptonian) but mimics the basic flight/super strength/super durability through the use of tactile telekinesis.  Lives at a Cadmus facility.  At the time, his relationship with Clark was very… hands off.

Guardian/Jim Harper: another Cadmus clone who acts as chief of security and mentor to Kon.  As a clone, his body was modified to be stronger, faster, etc, with accelerated healing.  He also has an indestructible shield.

Dr. Serling Roquette: former head of the genetics division with a sense of style that is both terrible and amazing.  Has a thing for Kon.

Mickey Cannon: Cadmus admin director. Called ‘the Mechanic’, he’s said to be able to fix anything.  Uh… that’s about all I can say about him, really.

Dubbilex: one of Cadmus’s experiments known as a DNAlien, part chaperone and part mentor to Kon.  He is a powerful telepath and can use telekinesis.

Dr. Dabney Donovan: co-founder of Cadmus and creator of various genetic experiments.  You remember that line from Jurassic Park about scientists being so concerned if they could they never considered if they should?  This guy never bothered to hear the second part of that sentence.

Dr. Helen Angelico: head of genetics, called Doc Angel.  Not nearly enough of her.

So we start with Kon crashing a ship into the aptly named Planet Krypton- a superhero-themed restaurant that, thankfully had just been shut down for renovations -with some Challengers of the Unknown.  Who will continue to be unknown because I don’t know a thing about them.  He’d been gone for so long, Cadmus was trying to find someone to replace him as a field agent.

Always fun to play 'Who Can You Name?’

Some heroes decide it isn’t their scene and bounce, others attempt and fail to make themselves look good, and others still- notably Young Justice to the side there -just want some news on Kon.  Steel and Kyle, meanwhile, are there as JLA reps, passing along info about Superboy as it comes (which, at the moment, isn’t really anything).

Guardian, please.  Cadmus hires much worse than a crook with a flamethrower.

After being exposed, Punch and Jewelee take Serling hostage.  Luckily that’s when Superboy finally manages to make it back.

Figuring with Kon back in the picture, a new field agent is no longer needed so the heroes begin to disperse.  Until Cannon decides to hire Mick as a back up agent.

And potential patsy.  Nothing comes of this mental aside.

Jumping forward to issue 76, a little backstory is needed to understand the current situation.  Originally Kon’s genes were modified to stop aging at 16 because of a clone disease, but, immediately proceeding this issue, the events of Sins of Youth caused Cadmus scientists to restart his aging, unfortunately at the expense of his powers leading to Cadmus to call in their back-up agent.

He’s not without his own gadgets, of course- a Legion ring grants him flight and a Cadmus scientist by the name of Gadget Guru gave him a shield that can fold and expand in an instant.  Kon tries asking Harper to train him but Harper declines despite preferring to have Kon watching his back over Mick.

Donovan tries to get Serling to cash in on a favor she owes him but, before she can meet him, gets into a reconstructed space ship with Kon, Cannon and the Guru which takes off into space.  As Cadmus tries to locate them, Rex Leech, Kon’s former very shady manager, comes in carrying his unconscious daughter, Roxy.  Meanwhile, a pair of Cadmus guards are transporting an important blood sample that Donovan, mad that Serling didn’t follow his instructions, decides to take for himself.

Oh comics.

Doc Angel has Roxy stabilized in a containment tank while Rex tries to schmooze up to Mick.

Harper gets an urgent call to get to a storage vault.

For some reason they call Mick “Rory Calhoun”- and it’s not just here.  There’s at least one issue in the Flash- written by the then current writers -where he’s called that.  I don’t know why this is a thing.

Anyway, a bunch of guards dead on the floor, their armor torn open but whatever killed them instantly cauterized their wounds.  On the wall are the words 'Rip’ and 'Jak’.  An alarm goes off, announcing a fire in Lab Three- Doc Angel’s lab.

Quick shout out to Paul Gambi, the Rogues’ tailor, for making some fantastically durable costumes.  Mick’s in particular has been noted on more than one occasion to not only survive some of the hottest temperatures around, but also protects him well enough he barely breaks a sweat withstanding those temps.

Doc Angel is missing but Roxy’s tank was damaged in the fire meaning it’s time for the Guru’s apprentice Tekka to step up.  Harper, meanwhile, explains to Mick that they had a possible sample of Jack the Ripper’s blood and Donovan is the most likely person to make a clone from it.

Tekka finds a hole in the floor that’s venting heat like a volcano.  In true, heroic fashion, Harper and Mick head down.

Ripjak attack!  Turns out that Ripjak’s blood and even touching his skin burns on contact.  Harper says Donovan must have infused Ripjak’s blood with pyro-granulite, something Donovan’s done before. Unfortunately the build-up means he’ll explode, destroying anything or one near him.  They chase him to where Doc Angel is being held. Harper plays bait while Mick frees the doc.

Ripjak does a number on the two before they toss him into the geothermal reactor, including partially melting Harper’s shield and managing to burn through Mick’s suit.

They’re both treated and expected to make a full recovery, and Tekka stabilizes Roxy.

Meanwhile, in Kon’s half of the plot, the bad guy he’d been fighting, Kossak the Slaver, gets beaten out of his own ship and escapes, following a beacon that leads him to Cadmus.  He heads to Lab Three and claims that Roxy is an escaped slave he’s here to collect.  Kon gets back in time to stop Kossak from attacking Doc Angel and, in the ensuing fight, Roxy’s tank explodes.

Roxy is actually possessed by… something, which makes her skin turn bright red and her eyes glow.  She agrees to return to Kossak so long as he leaves all the people in the lab alone and, when she goes to say goodbye to Kon, imparts her power on him.  Which somehow kickstarts Kon’s powers again and Kossack leaves after another butt-kicking.

Superboy, back in costume, visits Harper, passing over the gauntlet with collapsible shield since Harper’s was destroyed.

Roxy is back in the containment tank after giving Kon her power and Doc Angel called in a doctor from STAR Labs, Sarah Charles.  The two promptly get snippy at each other and Kon has them leave to cool off.  Which is, of course, when Roxy busts her way out again as the red sun critter thing, saying she won’t be kept imprisoned.  She flies off, Kon gives chase and when Harper does the same.

She starts destroying property in a town called Kurtzberg and a local cop, with all the logic and protocol of a generic comic cop, calls for the two of them to freeze while simultaneously firing directly at Roxy.  The bullets, however, melt in the heat she’s generating but Roxy doesn’t enjoy the unintentional pun.

I’m not quite sure how Mick managed to get there before Harper who is in a flying car.

Anyway, it turns out the people Sarah called are the Titans who immediately peg Roxy as unstable (as in, unwilling to calm down) and decide they need to use force to contain her.  Kon isn’t having it and puts himself between them.  Tempest uses a hydrant to freeze Kon and Mick shoots off a blast of fire to free him.  

How can you be a jerk to that face, Harper?

Eventually Doc Angel and Sarah make it over and explain how Roxy’s sharing a body with an alien entity and they need the entity to expend its energy to get Roxy out.  The problem is eventually solved through what essentially amounts to the power of friendship.

If you’re wondering how Arsenal got the heat gun, it’s because Nigthwing took out Mick in pretty short order.  Which, really- Nightwing vs Heatwave is no contest.

Mick doesn’t show up again until issue 87 where Harper dies in the line of duty, protecting someone from Shrapnel.  Mick doesn’t have over much to do this issue as Kon feels responsible for Harper’s death (Harper went out on that mission instead of Kon) and gets taken on an astral jaunt with Deadman.  There are a couple choice moments, though.

I should note that Kon’s tactile telekinesis doesn’t work when he’s unconscious, making him as vulnerable as a normal person.

I find it hilarious they gave Mick a flamethrower bigger than his torso.

But, at the end of the issue, there’s a cryptic conversation between Amanda Waller and Lex Luthor (he might’ve been president at this time, I don’t remember) and someone trying to steal Harper’s remains.  Kon manages to take it back and, upon opening the casket, finds there’s a baby inside.

Next issue, the Wall is very unhappy to see that her super-clone cargo has disappeared (aka with Kon) and threatens Cadmus as, being the Secretary of Metahuman Affairs (so yes, Luthor is president), they fall under her jurisdiction.  Cannon, not a fan of the kind of pressure Waller and the new administration is putting on them, decides to get rid of Cadmus.  Literally.  Asides from a hole in the ground, the building is gone.

In the span of a few days, baby Harper grows a couple years, old enough to talk and, with the memory of his previous life returning, worries that he’ll have to fight.  Oracle finds tech and data traced from Cadmus at a LexCorp building and Kon follows her directions to a sewer where he promptly fights tofu critters and finds Mick and Serling.

I gotta say, artists generally make Mick the beefier of the Rogues (when they bother to give them different body types) but this artists really put that heroic build on him.  His shoulders are literally twice the width of his waist!

A random encounter with some sewer ferryman later, the quartet makes it to a weird underground compound where they jump a robot-looking thing and pull the equivalent of three-kids-in-a-trenchcoat with it.  They come across Talia al Ghul experimenting on a gender-flip Superman Blue by the name of Strange Visitor who I know nothing about.  After Talia and Waller’s assistant leaves, the gang bust out of their disguise and take out the guards.  Mostly.

And then this ability was never seen again.

Kon and Mick go to rescue Stranger who very much does not appreciate it.  Talia re-enters and calms down Stranger and the group is captured.  When they come to again, they’re on a space station.  Some guy in a flying chair named General Good makes an army of clones from Harper against Harper’s explicit wishes.  Kon destroys the incubating clones and the quartet is rescued by Sgt Rock who drafts them into the upcoming war.

This issues then follows into the Our Worlds at War event which I never read so if Mick shows up anywhere there, I don’t know about it. Superboy was also canceled shortly after.  In the following year Mick shows back up Flash comics in issues following up to Rogue War where his attempts at reformation are retconned as the Top’s influence in order to tie into the ongoing Identity Crisis event. And these issues are promptly forgotten by everyone and we are all deprived of Kon confronting Mick about going back to the Rogues. Especially egregious when Mick helped kill one of Kon’s best friends.  I mean, yes, Kon was also dead at the time but you’d think that’s one of the things you’d follow up on when you come back to life!

[uncannynerdversenetwork-blog]

ASTONISHING X-MEN #7 REVIEW **SPOILERS**

Writer: Charles Soule Artists: Phil Noto Letterer: VC’s Clayton Cowles Cover Artists: Mike Deodato, Jr. & Frank Martin NCBD: 01/03/18 Publisher: @marvelentertainment Review by: Rob Carey Charles Xavier has emerged from the Astral Plane, using the body of Fantomex as a vessel, and the X-Men are, naturally, very suspicious, particularly Rogue and Psylocke. Charles, going by X now, gets straight to work, purging London of the Shadow King's presence and granting Warren full control over his Archangel persona. In turn, Warren is able to successfully diverted the Royal Air Force's bombs out of harm's way. With the crisis adverted, Psylocke head to the Astral Plane to check on the psyche of Fantomex, who sees this opportunity to donate his body to Xavier as his greatest sacrifice as a hero. Xavier says that he has "gifts" for the whole team, not unlike what he did for Warren. But before he can proceed, the team realizes that in the process of his own rebirth, Xavier brought back another long-deceased character: Proteus!

While a certain other telepathic character is making a more circuitous come-back, Soule gives us something a bit more direct: psychic Charles Xavier did a mind-swap with Fantomex in the last issue. And here, we get to see how that narratively pays off. First, it is right and appropriate that the X-Men's first reaction -- both given the Shadow King's recent shenanigans and Charles' own dubious morality -- is one of suspicion. So this sets us up for an unforeseen tender moment with Fantomex, as he explains he agrees that Charles' life has a greater value than his own, eliciting deep and sincere sympathy from Psylocke. The curing of Archangel resolves a long-lingering plot point for his character that's been around for a few years now, which allows Warren to finally grow and develop going forward. X's bestowing of gifts on to the team is an awesome cliffhanger; what will each teammate receive? And the decision to bring back Proteus was truly unexpected and is most certainly welcome. As usual, Soule is a writer with a thousand brilliant ideas so neatly distilled into twenty-something pages with each issue, and it's a thrill to read. 

The art, on the other hand, looks a bit unfinished. From this single issue, it appears that Noto's strength is his penciling as evident by several moments of brilliant concepts throughout the book (Psylocke's power set and the final appearance of Proteus are specifically awesome). But the execution of it all looks incomplete. Consider the faces of each character. We see this immediately on the first page with the close-up of X, where the border around his face seems unfinished and the lines of his expression look more like a draft than a final piece. Likewise, Noto also served as the colorist for this issue, which revealed a lot of missed opportunities. The first main scene takes place in the sky as X telepathically speaks to Archangel, and the backgrounds are rather bland and lifeless; a sky scene is often a colorist's opportunity to soar (no pun intended), and that's entirely missed here. There's likewise a lack of light and color awareness on the character's faces (Warren looks like a lifeless blue smear of ink when talking to Logan and Remy), and there's loads of details missing in wide panels and areal shots. This is all unfortunate because it looks like this a talented artist who had an off day or too little time to turn in a final product, which is tough for anyone who is working as the sole penciler, inker, and colorist on the same issue.

This issue had some pretty incredible moments, and it's a great first issue to Act II. Sadly, the art wasn't commensurate with the writing. At least we know that Soule is still at the helm for the story until the end of the series.

8/10

Hear more discussion of Astonishing X-Men #7 on the X-Men Monday Podcast, here.

[comicbookrearview]

Uncanny X-Men vol.1 issue 294

X-CUTIONER’S SONG PART 1

It was February 1993 by the time this issue came out at newsagents in Australia, it was already four issues into collecting uncanny x-men. The cartoon had aired in America, i guess it was around this time it started on Australian TV in the morning before school. 

This issue was poly-bagged (and this is where i learned the term, to this day only comic book kids will know what that is) with a Skybox X-Cutioner’s song trading card. Sure! What the hell, i’m a kid.. i like stuff.. i have no money so it helps if that stuff is free too!

Aw man.. it’s Xavier... 11 year old me: *Yawn.

THE COVER

The cover price is $2.25 Australian, pricey for ‘93, poly-bags must cost more to make because the last issue was only 1.80.. hey everyone, lets all hug and reminisce about when we could afford things! 

The corner box lists the Australian price so the kid who learned about the whole speculators market a few years later will tell you this is already worth less than a “legit american copy”. The corner box was your standard head shots of the team members of this book, i wish they still did these today, not for any other good reason besides nostalgia, but it’s just an inconsequential thing that kids thought were cool, it complimented the logo i guess (shrug). Also what i miss is what i think is Marvel’s greatest ever company logo, before they changed it to hide that they were about comics and it was the M with the word comics scrawled through it.. c’mon, some graphic designer was really tuned into the demographic with this, i hope that paid for a wing on their house.

The image is by interior artist Brandon Peterson. We’ll talk about his art later on some but i do want to note that it displays the two most used depictions of eyes being drawn at the time. Grim and gritty shadowed over, serious, moody, dark. Or you have completely devoid of anything, “what i’m reacting to is so intense in some way that my eyeball has lost all pigmentation, my pupils are no longer there.. je suis mort”.

The image is an already cool AF Cable holding a big ass gun, standing over the smoldering body of a pupil less Professor X with a corresponding big ass hole in his chest, possibly made by the big ass gun, i can’t say for sure. What i can say for sure is that this was drawn by somebody with a better grasp on anatomy than the infamous creator of Cable, Rob Liefeld, because everything is in proportion, has been researched or well thought out, Cables gun is big, but not scientifically so big that he shouldn’t be able to hold it in the air even with the aid of a 90′s AF cybernetic arm. His pouches, which i’m guessing Peterson may have been loath to draw and are possibly an editorial edict, look as practical and functional as they can, they look full and in use. I know it’s cool to rag on Liefeld, I've nothing against the man, he’s genuinely earned his place in comic book history, but all i’m saying is if we had to endure accessories like this as staples of the genre at the time, effort like Peterson’s was the most correct way to go about things. Anyway, white background, cool, our focus should be solely on the jarring image the cover confronts us with.. the cover should make you want to read the book and tell me you didn’t suck in a room full of air and snatch this of the stands when it came out.

THE STORY

We start off with a splash page (we’ll talk about them on the whole in the art section) Warren Worthington III is taking his girl on a date. Where? Where would a guy in a tux with a bouquet of flowers and access to a limousine take somebody dressed in leathers and a white tee? To a concert in the park.

A peace rally in central park. Hey! I know central park, i know places geographically because i read comics and watch TV ... thanks world, screw you school I owe you nothing. We cut across to different pairings of x-men characters discussing either there feelings about Xavier's speech that is about to transpire or events in their personal lives that are happening or have happened in surrounding issues. Little asterisks direct us to the relevant issue if we’d like to catch up these ourselves. Thanks comics, it was actually very helpful back then to have a point of reference to call back to or to further our reading.. another thing comics seemingly have abandoned today (can anybody reading this tell me why?). These conversations give the characters their voice and straddle a good balance between the picture/word ratio an 11 year old wants to see in a comic book. Scott Lobdell only got better at this as time went on but read through this issue and you’ll find he did so well to cram in foreshadowing, back story, character and truth into those speech bubbles, the man, i feel, has been forgotten in a way since the 90′s, his talents seem under appreciated. 

Another thing he does well is to control pace and actually build towards events, we’re four pages in before the title card/opening credits/ splash page hits us and it happens after a third page so you have to turn the page for a reveal, it’s not given away by accidentally glancing over to page 3, no, page 4 is the perfect place for these pages. What is the reveal? Two anti-mutant terrorists are planting explosives to violently disrupt the peace rally, making bigoted slurs and all until BRRZT... BRRZT ..Cable shoots them both in their mother effing backs, stops to reveal himself and pose for the camera and ...what... HE’s got dibs on Xavier? Uh-oh.

We’re left hanging as we’re then shown Cyclops daydreaming as he waits for Jean Grey. His telepathic girlfriend walks in on him fantasizing about teammate Psylocke.. yes Scott.. that’s why Jim Lee re-designed her as such, we all did that. This sequence takes on different meaning at each age that i’d read this issue. 11 year old me sort of got it, teenage me got it but didn't completely get it and adult me wold get conflicting emotions about getting it. See, Scott Lobdell could write soap opera with merit. Same goes for the next scene where Iceman and Colossus in their civilian identities are doing the x-mansions grocery shopping. Because the x-men weren't the Avengers and were always more relate-able because they did things actual people did when they weren't superheroing. Everyone can relate to a supermarket run. I probably coerced my mum to buy me this very issue while she was on said supermarket run. My man at the time Gambit is interacting with storm, this is what i thought was cool at the time kids. A roguish (no pun intended) charm, a trench-coat over a singlet top and shorts... the undercover exercise look, was all the rage in the early 90′s.. look it up..go.

Then we cross to a sidebar of other x-team, X-Factor, preparing to watch the concert. Lobdell writes them with all the spirit, voice and character that Peter David, who was writing the hell out of X-Factor at the time, did.

So lets re-assess, so far Lobdell has shown us Archangel on date, Professor X and Lila Cheney, Bishop and Rogue, Storm and Gambit, Cyclops, Jean, Iceman and Colossus and name dropped Beast, Forge,and Psylocke AND shown us X-Factor. And i’m still on the edge of my seat already because of the ominous way Cable has been introduced. This is how you write a team book that’s going to have it’s reach into a 12 part cross over. We aren’t even at the catalyst event yet. Scott Lobdell, again ladies and gents, Scott Lobdell.

Suddenly...

Cyclops and Jean are ambushed by ex-X-factor teammate Caliban. We’re given a page of Cable in the crowd as the tension builds, we cross BACK to the action away from the concert we’re colossus and iceman are attempting to join the Caliban/Cyclops/Jean fracas until they’re ambushed by War and Famine... um.. the characters, they aren’t suddenly having an existential crisis with the actual concepts, and then we’re back to Xavier. Who’s giving an inspiring speech about race relations that is extremely relevant 25 years on. This again is a great example of Scott Lobdell’s talent to shift from fever pitch to still and thought provoking in a manner of pages. Even the layout of pages 18 and 19 are in contrast to each other while being at the same time relevant to what the written words are saying.

And then...?

BRAM... “CHARLES!!!!!”

Cable takes his shot, shooting Xavier from the crowd, and even though you knew it was coming (It’s on the cover remember), it’s still a shock, it still jars the reader. Lobdell slaps you in the face and shakes you, but doesn't let you catch your breath as we’re back immediately to battle with Caliban and the side battle with War and Famine (the people not the concepts).. the action has reached it’s fever pitch. Both battles end abruptly and as a reader you’re thrown into total confusion with this three pronged attack of events in succession so by the time you’re back to the chaos of the concert you’re in the same emotional state as the characters should be.. reacting to these overwhelming events that have just unfolded.

In a nice nod to the theme of the issue on race, something Lobdell also writes well and treats with detail and respect, it’s revealed that Archangel is wearing an image inducer to blend in with the crowd, speaking in a subtle and layered way on identity. He springs into action, or reaction, going straight for Cable as some of the other characters we’ve seen in this issue race to the Xavier’s side. The situation is dire. Cable eludes Archangel by teleporting out. (”Celebration bound” you absolute asshole, Cable). And then we’re taken to the current whereabouts of another team, X-Force, who are Cables charges and are just now witnessing the news footage of events and we’re left on a cliffhanger with them.

The executioners song has begun.

THE ART

Brandon Peterson, i’m assuming, was given the art duties on this title because his style was similar enough to Jim Lee’s. I don’t mean that as an insult, it stands enough on it’s own so that the two can be distinctive of each other but at least the influence or some of the stylistic tropes are there.He does extremely well at adapting to the pace of the writing in the book and he moves the story sequentially very well. I hadn't realized he more or less has 6 splash pages in this issue, but they’re used well and effectively at the right times to visually tell the story and give the right moments weight and impact. A hallmark of the early 90′s culturally and in artistic meaning, was the mullet, and Peterson’s mullets are right up there with the Bagleys, Romita Jr’s and Lims of their day. Another 90′s thing to do for some reason, and it would only get more pronounced through out the 90′s, was the tendency to use a characters trademarked logo when their name is being shouted out, see the point where Archangel soars towards Cable. How would that sound i wonder? Bucking the trend at the time, Peterson’s expressions aren’t just blank or gritted teeth. Faces in a panel are reacting to what is happening in that panel logically. Also characters aren't just dressed in some stock depiction of clothing. Only Jamie McKelvie, i feel, has a knack for capturing the clothing and trends of the exact minute, but Peterson’s characters dress to reflect their personalities, even Gambit (discussed above) and with only the exception of Rogue, who’s civilian outfit is a rejected costume idea with a military green X-jacket that she’s torn the logo’s off (I’m on to you Rogue). Bishop is dressed like the militant tightwad that he is, Cyclops is fathers day catalog K-mart. Jean is Danielle Steele non-descriptive female actress. Archangel is rich guy wears suits. Iceman is swinging single guy, Colossus is drab, loose fitting artist. I used to wonder why nobody wore brands in comics or dressed like people i knew but they wouldn’t. You wouldn't get the visual idea of their character in one glance if they all wore street brand hoodies and designer jeans.  Peterson is also really good at slightly playing with convention and perspective. Larger than life moments like Caliban bursting through a ceiling or Colossus and Iceman changing form and charging into action are embellished by exceeding the borders  and constraints of the panel. 

So that’s it for this issue. 

Thanks for reading if you’ve read it through. I’d love to talk about it more with any of you, these posts are also on the twitter link if I've done it correctly. The Instagram account is where i share photos of the tattered issues I've just danced down memory lane with and i’m hoping to get up a curated playlist of things relevant to this review on the YouTube channel in time. (Just give it time).