#and obviously the lime green joints

[quantomeno]

One of my absolute all-time favourite moments in the Bionicle books is the introduction of Downfall, where Hahli is sitting on the shore of Ga-Metru, talking to Kopeke before she starts her story.

There are so many things about this scene I love, all the little implications.

I know Kopeke was chosen by fans to be the new Chronicler, but I really think it don't think it could have been anyone else. It's perfect from a narrative perspective, and the subtle "long a trusted aide to Turaga Nuju" just primes you to think of Matoro. By now, the reader has likely got some idea that Matoro might have to sacrifice himself, and this just places it front of mind.

What I really love it for is the atmosphere, because it is so calm. Hahli's sad but she's trying to hold herself together: "sometimes the best way to make sadness go away is to let it float from you on a tide of words".

And then when she tries to talk about it, she can't and instead talks about Jaller's belief toa are invincible, and how she was sure they'd make it home.

I mean, it just illustrates the key theme of the Ignition saga where things are no longer black and white like they were on Mata Nui, and where victory isn't a happy ever after. There's no magical 11th hour resurrection here.

“Sometimes a hero has to do something else besides beat the villains and come home covered in glory. Sometimes, he has to make a sacrifice so that a lot of people — people he’s never even met, and who don’t know his name — can live.”

It's such a beautiful scene and it's a testament to Greg that his writing manages to bring me to tears with just this short passage. He had a tendency to focus a bit too much on making things 'cool' and exciting, but the other side of that coin was he was very good at adding drama. I wish Bionicle had more quiet moments like it does in Downfall, because both this scene and Matoro's sacrifice are so poignant. (I call Matoro's sacrifice a quiet moment because, despite the rush leading up to it, everything slows down and it's just Matoro, the Ignika and his thoughts)

[peppapigvevo]

STYLISTA

Guess who got the Bootique Clawdeen.

Let's have a wholly unprofessional and unsponsored review post!

Boring stuff out of the way first; she was on Amazon for $44.99 USD. She's currently on a 7% off sale so you can get the set for $41.85 USD.

The back of the box shows off some styling ideas as well as a little blurb in multiple languages.

The sides have more styling options.

The top of the box has a nifty little inventory of all the things contained within.

I didn't take any pictures of the inside but the doll, furniture and accessories were packaged very simply; the accessories were inside white paper bags, the furniture was strapped in to fit and Clawdeen had her own compartment on the left side. Not a display packaging obviously, since the box itself has no clear portions. On that note, I think the QC for facial screenings has gotten better, since Skulltimate Secrets and now this were packaged with no way to see the doll until you open the packaging. all the Skulltimate secrets dolls and this Clawdeen have perfect faces.

This is how Clawdeen was packaged: wearing her purple jumpsuit, green belt, green earrings and the pink translucent booties.

The doll herself does in fact have the torso joint. The lighting in my room is a little yellow, so you can't see it clearly, but her lid and undereye are lavender, with a magenta crease. Her lips are a much more saturated fuchsia red in real life. her hair is a berry color, with the light lavender color she typically gets. On the subject of her hair...

...I am not an expert, i am just a doll-collecting homosexual, but it does NOT feel like the same kind of hair texture every other Clawdeen has. I can't be sure if its nylon or saran or whatever, but it feels denser and waxier than the polypropolene. It wasn't as tangled before or after a wash, and the ends weren't as frayed.

You can see how it washed. This does NOT look the same as my other Clawdeens I washed, so take that as you will. I still need to reset the curl pattern, of course.

On to the clothing. The jumpsuit is actually a pretty heavy and dense denim, in this purple leopard print with lavender and blue spots, and magenta and black slash marks. It has short, cuffed sleeves and a pointed shirt collar, and cuffs on the hem of the pant legs. the waist has lime stitching and faux pockets.

All of Clawdeens belts have 3 different closure holes, so they can be worn tighter or looser at your discretion. This lime green belt has a skullette buckle and a very long trailing tail.

The booties are a light fuchsia with spikes on the top, and the heels are crescent moons. I know a lot of new MH shoes have interesting detailing on the soles, but these don't, probably because they're clear.

I'm gonna do the outfit pieces in groups. The sweater is yellow, with blue, white and purple circle detailing. The chest has an aqua triangle, the same color as the slash marks. The collar, cuffs and hem are the same blue as the circles on the sweater.

The tank top looked black at first, but it actually has a very subtle bleach dye effect that looks like mist in the dark, it's pretty nice irl. The shirt also has a tri-moon vinyl on it, with a howling wolf on the center full moon.

The green skirt is a lighter weight denim than the jump suit, with darker green spots and a frayed hem under a stitch. The cupcake skirt is in a metallic fabric with a slight blue shift; its really pretty in person. The waist is black elastic and the skirt is covered with criss-crossing claw marks.

The dress is a one-shoulder thigh length ruched number. Because of the design, it doesn't look like much on a hanger but it sings on the doll. The dress is blue with purple and pink leopard spots.

The scarf is hot pink with gold metallic flecks. The stole is a softer pink.

If you're insane like me and already have Skulltimate Secrets Clawdeen, this bucket hat should look familiar. It's the same mold in a periwinkle blue, sans the leopard spots. The canvas and stitch molding is REALLY nice.

I thought the boots had layers of fur, but theyre actually molded to look like slouchy fabric boots, with a repeating skullette pattern. The heels are lined in spikes, and theres a tie molded at the top.

The lime sneakers are the exact same mold as Ghoul Spirit Clawdeen, but in a solid green.

The set also comes with 5 hangers for extra outfits. They're kind of swirly and dainty looking, more like g1 Catrine. They come in pink, lavender, purple, blue and green.

Our girl comes with a lot of accessories! The lime green necklace, again, is the same mold as one that comes with Skulltimate Sectrets Clawdeen. Its a short chain with three dangling crescent moons, with a longer rope chain under that. The magenta necklace and choker are recast from her g3 signature; a circular moon pendant on a crescent moon chain, paired with a star choker.

The gold fur bangle is reused from her Ghoul Spirit doll. The magenta spiked cuff and purple cuff are new though. The magenta one is a simple spiked band while the purple has teeth detailing all around it, I did a terrible job photographing these so if anyone wants any clearer pics just let me know lmao.

The glasses are her signature glasses, in black. The magenta comb is a tiger-striped crescent moon with a studded handle.

The long gold piece is a hair barrette that says MONSTER. The long purple piece is a three-finger ring with the triple moon motif on it.

The black earring is a double crescent moon. IIRC this appeared first on Ghoul Spirit from this gen. The blue hoop with the dangling moon is also from Ghoul Spirit.

I didn't take close up picks of hem, but the green earings are a spiked hoop and a triple moon, recast from her signature earrings.

The gold belt has a double crescent moon buckle, mimicking the Gucci logo:

Finally, her bag is a large tote or shopping bag, covered in the same skullette molding as her boots. The green "HOWL" is flanked by pink bands with small crescent moons, and the moon shaped handles have tooth details.

The furniture she comes with are really cute and would look ADORABLE with her bedroom playset. The coffin-shaped clothing rack is studded, with the triple moon detail at the top. At the bottom are purple trays, and the lavender wheels do function.

The moon vanity has a circular mirror with two small shelves, a moon phases detail on the faux-drawer, and a moon shaped foot.

The pink stool has a starburst on the foot and the seat is molded to look like its padded or has draped pleats.

Final looks and thoughts in the next post!

[delicateflowerss]

Heartless (Rafe Cameron x Reader)

Series Masterlist

After crashing a party, you know better than anyone that Rafe Cameron has no heart.

Warnings: 18+, DUB-CON, smut, pogue!reader, dark!Rafe, voyeurism, degradation, choking kink, slight violence, mention of anal, self-hatred, mention of drowning, mentions of drugs, underage drinking, non-canon ages (pogues are aged up)

You hate lying, especially to them.

Your friends wanted you to stay, spending the rest of the night on the porch of the Chateau, a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. Normally, that would sound like the perfect night to you. But even they can’t distract you from how miserable you are.

You sat there and listened to Pope and JJ’s bickering, Kiara interfering when she was needed. Looking away from them, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at what you saw. Sarah sitting in John B’s lap, contentment painted on their faces.

So, you lied.

You told them that your mom needed you home, the poisonous words leaving your mouth with ease. You planned on curling up in your bed, deciding that your misery was best dealt with in private.

But as you get closer to your house, you feel the need to keep riding your bike, farther and farther away.

You don’t mind the long ride, enjoying the breeze on your face and the smell of sea salt wafting through the air. Your head feels clear for once, your only focus is keeping your legs moving and steering the handlebar.

It doesn’t hit you how far you are until you see it.

You come to a halt, stumbling a little off the seat of your bike, Your feet clumsy on the pedals. Your eyes scan the cars lining the driveway, types of cars you don’t usually see on The Cut. You can hear the deep bass of the music all the way from the street. People walk in and out of the intimidatingly large house.

You’re on the wrong side of the island.

Even worse, you’re at the Cameron’s house.

You could turn back now, ease your guilty conscience by actually going home.

You begin to realize that you have nothing left to lose. The idea of crashing a kook party sounds exciting, crashing a party hosted by Rafe Cameron sounds even more exciting.

Your heartbeat gets louder in your ears at the mere thought. Your fingers clench around the handlebars before riding past the gates.

The music is almost deafening as a sea of red solo cups surround you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen this many polo shirts in your life.

You remember why Sarah can stay at the Chateau tonight, Ward, Rose, and Wheezie are out of town for the weekend. She mentioned that to you a few days ago but you forgot about it. You guess you weren’t really listening in the first place.

Looking around, you don’t see anyone too familiar, just a bunch of kooks you never really talked to. You worry you stick out like a sore thumb. But no one even looks at you, too drunk or high to care.

You see someone pouring an unidentifiable liquid into cups. Without asking what it is, you down the lime green drink, grimacing at the taste. It’s exactly what you need. You’ll drink anything if it dampens the pain you feel, how your heart clenches at the thought of him.

You continue to look around, wondering if you’ll run into your host. Your palms still feel a little sweaty, so you refill your cup, downing that one too.

Leaving the kitchen, you spot Topper. A cup in one hand, the other on the wall next to the girl he’s obviously flirting with. If it means he’s over Sarah, you suppose you’re happy for him.

You move through the crowd, accidentally bumping into the people around you. It hits you how fucking depressing this is. At a party filled with strangers, your throat burning slightly from the alcohol. You could be with your friends, the people who care about you, actually having fun. Except it hasn’t been that way for a while.

Even Sarah’s noticed.

“So, he took me out on the water, and we just sat there, watching the sunset. It was so romantic, Y/N.” She smiled to herself, lost in the memory. “I think John B might be the perfect boyfriend.”

She looked over at you, her smile fading.

“Are you even listening?”

You nodded. “I’m listening and it sounds wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

Your tone didn’t exactly match what you were saying, the words struggled to come out of you. You hoped she didn’t notice, but she did.

Her eyes didn’t leave you, instead of anger, worry seeped in.

“Why don’t you come over later? My dad won’t mind.”

You avoided her stare, fiddling with the threads on your jeans. You just shrugged gently, not knowing what to say.

She sighed, leaning back on her hands. The two of you were on the dock, the sun shining off the water in front of you.

Ever since Sarah started dating John B, you two got close. You’ve been friends with the others for years, but you and her instantly clicked. It’s a kind of bond you’ve never really had with anyone before.

So, avoiding her was never easy for you.

“You haven’t wanted to come over in weeks… are you mad at me?” Her voice sounded softer, confusion creeping in.

You quickly looked up to meet her eyes, instantly seeing the hurt she felt.

“No, Sarah. I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you.” You felt bad she even thought that.

You saw her shoulders relax, relief flooding her.

“But why don’t you want to come over anymore?” Worry still lingered in her voice.

You took a moment to answer but before you could, she continued.

“Did something happen the last time you came over?”

You stayed silent.

“Or did something happen before that?” She prodded you, wanting any kind of answer.

“Why do you think something happened before that?” You asked, wondering where she got that from.

She moved off her hands, bringing them to her thighs.

“You’ve been distant. Like you’re holding something back. Maybe it’s in my head, but usually you tell me everything. And lately, it’s like there’s a wall there.”

You bit your lip, considering her words. You were careful with what you said next.

“Nothing happened. I’m sorry if I’ve been distant, I just… have a lot on my mind.”

You hoped that fulfilled her curiosity.

It didn’t.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head and said, “It’s just family stuff.”

She watched you, finally getting the message that you don’t want to talk.

You felt like the worst friend ever.

You can’t remember if you’re on your fourth or fifth cup. You’ve just been taking what’s being given to you.

You’ve made your way into the backyard. The blue ripples of the pool water stare back at you. It’s quieter outside, no one out here but you. It’s that time of year when it’s too cold to swim but too hot to wear a jacket.

You take in the big pool and pretty flowers. Sometimes, you like to fantasize about what it would have been like to grow up on Figure Eight. Being able to have nice clothes, a big house, maybe even getting a car for your 16th birthday. Not having to deal with sneering rich kids on their yachts calling you poor and dirty.

You try to snap out of your thoughts, your head already foggy. You should leave before you’re unable to ride your bike all the way back to The Cut. You thought the alcohol would help you to forget your problems, but instead it’s bringing them to the forefront of your mind.

You should’ve known that being here would only make things worse.

Something did happen the last time you were here.

You laid in Sarah’s bed, her steady breathing filling the room. The smell of burnt popcorn lingered as the TV flashed brightly in the dark room. The movie you two tried watching, plays with no sound. The white light is almost blinding.

Sarah fell asleep before you did, something that happens often when you two have a sleepover. You tried to get comfortable, hoping to join her in blissful slumber. But your mouth felt dry, and your throat felt scratchy. You sat up with a quiet sigh, annoyed that you have to get up to get a glass of water.

So, you tread lightly, not wanting to wake her or anyone else up. You could tell everyone else was asleep, the house dark and quiet.

That’s what you thought at least.

Before you could make it to the stairs, you passed by a door open enough so a glimmer of light peeked through.

That’s when you heard it.

A moan, loud enough for you to hear, but quiet enough to not wake anyone up. A moan not belonging to him.

Your brow furrowed as you stepped closer to his door.

You held your breath as you peeked in, pushing down any guilt over an act that crosses every line.

You saw him moving on top of her, some nameless girl you’ve never seen before. His back muscles flexed under his skin with every thrust. The strands of his dirty blond hair brushed against her face. Gentle moans kept coming from her.

He brought his hand to her mouth, caressing her bottom lip. The light reflected off his gold ring. He moved his finger just to replace it with his lips. It was a soft, almost, loving action.

You tore your eyes from the scene in front of you. Nausea swirled in your stomach and your eyes started to sting.

You’ve tried to forget about that night, but it’s haunted you. You told yourself that Rafe wasn’t dating that girl, knowing that he doesn’t do girlfriends.

At least that’s what he told you.

Your eyes are still stuck on the swimming pool before you. You think about diving into the cold water, your blood turning to ice as you stay under while freezing water rushes into your lungs. Would people just continue partying when they saw you? Would he care at all?

So consumed by your thoughts and self-induced torture, you don’t hear the door open and close behind you. You don’t register that anyone is out there with you until you feel a rough hand on your arm.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks through gritted teeth.

Forcing you to look at him, you watch him with wide eyes.

You want to say he looks good, his blue polo shirt matching his eyes. His pupils are blown, telling you what he’s been up to. But his bruising grip hurts and before you can say anything, he pulls you back into the noisy house. No one notices how he drags you up the stairs, your feet stumbling a little, while he shows no care whether you fall on your face or not.

You’re pushed into his bedroom. You only know it’s his room from walking by it so many times. You’ve never actually stepped foot in here before. The door slams behind him and he fiddles with a lock and key.

You try to catch your breath as you take in the scenery of his room, drinking in details of how Rafe spends his every day. You notice the posters on his wall and the brand of deodorant he has on his nightstand.

“Y/N, tell me what the fuck you’re doing at my party.”

You look at him, his tone demanding your attention. You can tell he’s angry, his eyebrows pulled together and his jaw ticking. He looms over you, has he always been this tall?

You’ve seen Rafe angry before, who hasn’t? But it’s never been directed at you. You unconsciously fiddle with the hem of your shirt, not knowing what to do or say.

“I- I was in the neighborhood. I thought it’d be fun…” You end up mumbling.

He stares at you for a second.

Then he bursts out laughing.

His anger has dissipated but you know this is worse. Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

He finally calms down, a grin on his face.

“You were in the neighborhood,” he repeats, nodding, “Okay.” He acts like he believes you before breathing out another laugh, a smirk on his pink lips.

“So, why’d you really come here? Needed to see me that badly?”

“I just wanted to go to a party, okay? It has nothing to do with you.”

“I doubt that,” he says under his breath. But you hear him.

“Rafe.” He locks eyes with you at the sound of his name. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He rolls his eyes at the petty insult and steps closer to you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him. You can smell his cologne. You could never pinpoint the exact scent, just the slight smell of something woodsy.

It distracts you from how upset you are with him. But the next few words that comes out of his mouth makes it all rush back.

“I don’t want some dirty pogue off the street at my party.”

He doesn’t have that usual smirk or teasing tone to his voice. He seems genuine, like he truly despises you.

You can feel your chest start to tighten and your eyes beginning to water. You try your hardest to stop the tears, but it’s in vain.

“Aw, are you crying? Did I hurt your feelings?” His tone is now mocking, a short laugh following what he says.

“You’re being mean, Rafe.” You wipe the tears falling down hastily, struggling to get the words out through your trembling lip.

“I’m not being mean,” he says before reaching to grab your jaw, his fingers on either side of your face. You groan from the pain, his fingers digging into your skin. “But I can be. You want me to be mean?” He asks, his lips parted, eyes scanning your face.

You don’t respond, just watching him through your blurry vision.

“I think you do.” That smirk appears on his lips again. “You always liked it rough.”

“Rafe-.” He cuts you off by capturing your lips in a painful kiss. He can taste the saltiness of your tears, reveling in the hurt he’s caused you.

He pulls away, a smug look on his face. He takes his hand away from you, the pain dulling.

“You just can’t get enough of me, can you?” You can hear his pants unzipping.

“I didn’t come here to fuck you.”

You want to believe what you’re saying is true, but of course the possibility of it happening has been in the back of your mind since you walked into this party.

“Don’t lie to me,” he darkly whispers, anger tracing his tone. “You’ve been obsessed with me ever since I decided to put my cock inside you.”

He brings a finger to the side of his head, tapping it. “But what you still don’t get is, I was bored. And you were easy.”

The night of the bonfire flashes in your mind. You can remember the feeling of his hand on your waist and how beautiful he looked under the moonlight. He whispered in your ear, telling you how pretty you look. That was the sweetest he ever was to you.

After he led you away and fucked you in the dark, things changed between you and Rafe. You two hooked up for months, in places only you two knew about. He treated you nicely enough for you to keep coming back, hoping that he would look at you the way he did on the night of the bonfire.

He never did.

He became your best kept secret, cancelling plans with your friends just for him. Just for him to drop you, one random afternoon, telling you he was done and blocking your number.

He grabs ahold of your hair, yanking it, a yelp coming from your lips.

“I can’t believe how stupid you are to think I would ever date you.” A laugh falls from his mouth, “A pogue.”

Hand still in your hair, he moves you towards his bed, pushing your body down on the mattress.

You fall onto your stomach, your cheek squished against the soft sheets.

You guess him ending things wasn’t that random. It came just a few days after you asked about getting serious, which you realize was a bit naïve.

You feel him start to push your shorts down. You let him do what he wants with you. Even if what he says and does hurts you, deep down, you know it’s true. You believe the things he calls you. You are just a dirty pogue who doesn’t deserve him.

“What would your friends say if they knew half the things you’ve let me do to you?”

You feel your underwear get pushed down next, the cool air on your pussy.

“Like that time, you let me fuck you in the ass.”

He sounds proud of himself.

“Do your friends know you’re such a whore?”

They would be upset if you had been sleeping with any kook, but if they ever found out that you’ve been sleeping with Rafe, they would hate you. You’ve betrayed them and they don’t even know it.

He notices your arousal, already coating your inner thighs. He knows that your shame and desire are so closely linked.

“You’re soaking wet, and I haven’t even touched you.”

You can feel the tip of his cock poking at your entrance.

Your teeth sink into your lip and your face warms with embarrassment, and how turned on you are.

“I know you don’t let anyone fuck you the way I do. Maybe you’re just my whore,” he says before pushing inside you.

Your mouth falls open, him giving you no time to adjust. He groans as he pounds into you, using you and your cunt.

He moves his hand to your throat, wrapping his fingers around it, squeezing it.

A ragged moan comes from you as he continues to thrust into you. A roughness to them as he overwhelms you with pleasure.

After a while, he flips you over.

You look up at him, the strands of his hair damp from the sweat on his forehead. His quick breaths match yours. He looks down at you, a dark look in his eyes.

He puts his cock back inside you, his pace slower but deeper. You bring a hand to his arm, fingers squeezing his bicep.

He moves his face closer to yours, his breathing fans against your face and his hair tickles your cheeks.

“Is this what you’ve wanted?”

You don’t understand what he’s saying, what you’re feeling takes over any thinking.

“You want me to fuck you like this, like I’m your boyfriend? You want me to fuck you like I actually care about you?”

He moves his thumb to your bottom lip, caressing your soft skin. He keeps his eyes on yours before replacing his thumb with his lips, giving you a gentle kiss.

A type of kiss you don’t usually get. That’s when it hits you.

“I know you watched me that night,” he whispers against your lips. “I could hear your footsteps, you’re louder than you think.”

You feel him deep inside of you, hitting your sweet spot. You start to unravel.

“You don’t deserve to be treated that way. You’re just a slut who keeps my dick wet when I’m lonely.”

“Rafe…” Tears run down your face as you come around him, your walls squeezing him.

His eyelids flutter as he takes himself out of you and strokes himself, spilling all over your stomach. His warm cum on the bare skin of where your shirt lifted up.

He gets up to get you a towel from his bathroom, throwing it to you.

“Clean yourself up,” he says while fixing his pants.

You do as he says, sitting up, already knowing how sore you’re going to be tomorrow. You find your shorts, slipping them on.

“And Y/N, get the fuck out of my house.” He opens his door for you, impatiently waiting for you to leave. “Don’t let anyone see you leave.”

You wish you could stand up for yourself, but a numbness has overtaken you. So, all you do is give Rafe a tear-stained glance and do as he says, wanting to get as far away from this place as possible.

You should’ve known you weren’t just crashing a party. You were walking right into the lion’s den.

[cutiepisenpai]

Kenma X GN!Reader

Warnings: Language (Swearing), 

Summary: Kenma and Gamer S/O streaming Among Us with friends.

A/N: Again it isn’t necessary to have played the game to read but if you understand the game it makes more sense. Enjoy. 

“Good evening everybody, welcome back to another joint stream, tonight we will be playing Among US.” You say to the camera in front of you.

“Tonight we will be playing with some of our friends. You may have seen them in previous streams.” Kenma adds. 

Kenma is red and you are teal. “The code is in the chat so you can go ahead and jump in.” Kenma says, and with everyone in the game begins.

Y/N: Teal

Kenma: Red

Kuroo: Black

Bokuto: White 

Akaashi: Dark Green

Hinata: Orange

Tsuki: Yellow

Lev: Dark Blue

Yaku: Purple

Yamamoto: Lime Green

“Alright everyone so remember your mics stay muted unless a body is reported or an emergency meeting is called.” You announce. 

“And you two remember that just because you live together doesn’t mean you can talk while we can’t hear you.” Kuroo replies.

“We don’t need to cheat to kick your ass.” Kenma says back 

The game begins and everyone is off in different directions. You are not the imposter so you start to quickly get to your tasks done. After doing a card swipe in admin you head to electrical, while you are fixing the wires Bokuto comes up behind you and kills you. You let out a small shriek, “Son of a *** !” You yell.

“I guess you died.” Kenma says, next to you. You continue to finish your tasks as a ghost until your body is discovered. 

CHAT

Kuroo: Aww who killed Y/N?

Lev: Probably Kenma

Akaashi: Where was the body?

Hinata: Electrical

Hinata: It couldn’t have been Kenma I was with him the entire time

While they discuss, you address your chat they obviously saw who killed you but because you and Kenma are in the same room you can’t say anything revealing. 

Chat

Kenma: So we skip for now

Kuroo: I guess

Bokuto: Ok? So we are skipping?

Hinata: Yes

Yaku: Yes

Yamamoto: Yes

Tsuki: Yes

There are 9 votes to skip. 

No one was ejected (Skipped)

“The only good thing about being a ghost is getting tasks done faster.” You say. While moving across the map you see Tsuki kill Kuroo before venting away and you let out a small laugh catching Kenma’s attention. He turns to look at you but doesn’t say anything going back to the game. A little while later you see Bokuto kill Kenma and Tsuki kill Hinata and Kenma huffs in his seat. Tsuki reports the body. 

Chat

Tsuki: Lev killed Kenma

Lev: What?! 

Lev: No I didn’t!

Tsuki: I saw you do it.

Tsuki: You killed him right in front of me

Yaku: Who killed Hinata

Yamamoto: Wasn’t he following Kenma around.

Akaashi: Yes he was.

Akaashi: So if you saw Lev kill Kenma how did you miss someone killing Hinata

Lev: I think this is a self report

Yaku: We can’t skip, we have to vote for someone because both imposters are still here.

Tsuki: I didn’t see who killed Hinata but it is possible that they killed him and vented before Lev killed Kenma

Yamamoto: I don’t know seems sus tsuki

Yaku: Alright everyone needs to vote.

There are 4 votes for Tsuki and 2 votes for Lev.

Tsuki was ejected.

“Do you think Bokuto can pull this off on his own?” You say to Kenma, now that he is dead too you can talk to each other.

“Bokuto isn’t as dumb as people think but Akaashi is still playing so I think he will notice.”

Chat Y/N: Ghosts get your tasks done

Lev, Yaku, and Yamamoto are moving in a group while Bokuto, Akaashi, and Kuroo move together. 

“So do you think Bokuto will kill Akaashi or Kuroo? They know that they are traveling together and he won’t be able to separate the other members.”  

“He won’t kill Akaashi. He might get lucky if he can do a stacked kill but otherwise they will find him out.” Kenma says.

Bokuto kills Yaku at the last minute as all tasks are completed and you are victorious.

A few rounds later you and Kenma get imposter together. You had come up with a strategy from having played together so much that you could win without needing to talk to one another. You separate you travel with Lev and Hinata is still following Kenma. Traveling with someone makes it more difficult to kill but it also comes with a built in alibi. You kill Yaku in med bay right in front of Lev and immediately report it.

Chat:

Y/N: Lev killed Yaku right in front of me. 

Lev: What no I didn’t. Y/N totally killed Yaku.

Y/N: Really why would I kill Yaku

Y/N: We all know you have it out for him.

Y/N: Everytime you are the imposter you kill Yaku first.

Kuroo: That is true Lev.

Yamamoto: Yea Lev why would you lie on Y/N

Tsuki: We all know you did it

Bokuto: Vote Lev

There are 9 votes for Lev. 

Lev was ejected.

“I can’t believe you pulled that off.” Kenma laughs beside you. 

While making your way around the lights go out and Kenma uses this as an opportunity to kill Kuroo with Hinata and Bokuto right next to him. Hinata reports the body.

Chat

Hinata: Someone killed Kuroo-kun right in front of us.

Yamamoto: Who was it?

Kenma: Lights were out we didn’t see

Bokuto: Kenma and Hinata were both right here with me and Kuroo

Tsuki: So it could be any of you

Bokuto: Why would we kill Kuroo when any of us could have seen?

Tsuki: Because the lights were out

Tsuki: You said it yourself, that you didn’t see anything

Y/N: Idk guys seems kind of sus

 Hinata: It wasn’t Kenma we have been together the entire time he can’t be imposter

Y/N: So you’re saying that out of the three of you it would be Bokuto

Bokuto: Dude really?!

Kenma: We need to skip there are seven of us. 

Yamamoto: Yea and we already know that we got rid of one of the imposters.

You have to put your hands over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing.

There are seven votes to skip. 

No one was ejected. (Skipped)

“Holy shit. I can’t believe that worked.” 

The next run through you kill Tsuki before running away. You meet up with Yamamoto and stick with him following him through. Kenma is stacked with Hinata, Bokuto, and Akaashi and kills Akaashi. Kenma reports it.

Chat

Kenma: So it is definitely Bokuto

Bokuto: No it wasn’t 

Bokuto: Why would I kill Akaashi

Hinata: It’s Bokuto-San

Bokuto: Hinata?!

Yamamoto: So.. no one is going to talk about Tsuki?

Bokuto: See that couldn’t have been me

Hinata: What about when you separated from us?

Kenma: Yea you left for a while.

Kenma: You had time to kill Tsuki

Bokuto: But I wasn’t alone 

Bokuto: I was with Akaashi

Kenma: And now Akaashi is dead

Kenma: Vote Bokuto

There are 4 votes for Bokuto, 1 vote for Kenma.

Bokuto was ejected.

Back into the game you are sure Yamamoto and Hinata have realized their mistake by now. Kenma’s kill down is still going but you kill Yamamoto winning the game for both of you. 

“Oh my god.” You laugh. “I can’t believe that worked.” 

You can hear your friends yelling through the headphones about how they could have not figured that out. 

“You can go back and watch our lives. We didn't talk or come up with a plan, we are just better than you.” Kenma says to their complaints. 

[savethelastdan]

Sesskagu

"Now I'm of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret

Somewhere downtown where a burlesque queen may even ask my name

As she sheds her skin on stage

I'm seated and sweating to a dance song on the club's P.A.

The strip joint veteran sits two away

Smirking between dignified sips of his dignified peach and lime daiquiri.

And isn't this exactly where you'd like me

I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know

Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety

Oh, and isn't this exactly where you'd like me

I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know

Praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety."

He doesn’t know why he’s here. 

It’s 2am. It’s 2020. Sesshomaru has lived hundreds of years long enough to find better uses of his time, than to be sitting in a worn leather chair in the corner of some near-empty club.  Yet here he sits, arms crossed and glowering at the stage on the other side of the room. The waitresses gave up trying to entice him hours ago. Sesshomaru only drinks when the company of others demands it, and right now his only companions are a group of giggling college girls at a front table, and a single man sitting in his own dark corner twenty feet away. 

It’s 2am (she comes on at 2:05). He should be at home, sleeping. Planning for the week ahead. But the wind blows cold tonight, and home is an empty place. 

What seems like a lifetime later, the lights come on, and she walks on stage. 

Despite the poor turnout, the smile that stretches across her face is wide. By the stage, the college girls scream with excitement, and she blows them generous kisses in return. (Her lipstick is purple in the stage’s glow, but red in daylight).  

As she hits the center of the stage, their eyes meet. Maybe it’s an accident (maybe she remembers).

(Maybe not.) 

She begins to dance. 

Each of her movements is melodic, a careful routine that must have been practiced a hundred times in a box-like studio apartment and the club’s back room. (He waits in the parking lot, only driving away once he’s seen her leave safely). His nails dig into the leather of his seat as each layer of her outfit unfolds, unties, unzips. 

The first time he came here, it was with a group of clients from work. Foolishly, he’d assumed that the combination of debauchery and utter ridiculousness would force all lingering regrets out of his head - perhaps he could become one of them, these demons of the modern era that could fully embrace their vices. After all, the old kingdoms, treaties, battles were all dead and gone. 

All those lost in them, gone as well. Perhaps, better off forgotten. 

(He should have known better.)

One of the college girls gets up to order another drink, crouching so as not to block her companion’s view. As the dancer spins, she catches his eye again. Her smile reels him in (easier than it used to be, perhaps the years have softened him). 

Then her gaze shifts, to the other customer in the corner. The man, who swings a drink of something colorful and bubbly back in forth in time to the music. From the lazy smile stretched across his face, he seems to be a regular. Even in the dark, Sesshomaru notes pierced ears and long black hair tied at the crown of his head.

Her smile changes--widens, but the joy fades. He doesn’t know what to think of that (he only knows what he wants to think, which is that she knows that he’s not like the other people here. That he’s not a customer, he’s a witness.)

When she finishes, the group of girls all leap to their feet with tipsy applause. She scoops up her clothes with a laugh that he can hear over the music, and it echoes like a memory long after she’s run offstage. 

He doesn’t know why he’s here. (He does.) 

-

“Hey.” 

He turns, hands shoved deep in his pockets, to see her leaning against the brick wall behind the club’s front door (he sensed her, obviously, but did not expect her to address him). She’s wearing leggings and a huge coat with sagging pockets; tucked in her arms like a baby is an open bag of chips. 

“You sure come here a lot.” She pops a handful of chips in her mouth to punctuate her accusation. The green beads of her earrings swing in the wind, and he finds himself cataloguing them along with every other detail of her up close - scarlet eyes, long black hair twisted up and pinned, the careless way that she crosses one leg over the other. “You don’t ever buy any drinks, though - don’t you know that pisses the owner off?” 

He frowns, but then her eyes travel to the mark on his forehead, and she straightens. 

“Huh. Dog demon...” Crunching with abandon, she leans close, sending a faint scent of perfume wreathing around the both of them. He restrains himself from leaning in (wrapping both arms around her, the way he never did before). “Don’t take this in a weird way, but you’re not bad-looking. You ever think about--” 

“No.” Disappointment (she doesn’t remember, she never remembers) settles like a bad drink in the back of his throat. He should head for the car, so he can go home, but one click of her tongue and he’s frozen. “What.”

“If I asked your name, would you tell me?” Her eyelashes flutter shamelessly. How she has survived this long, with such a lack of self-preservation, he’ll never understand. 

“Would you tell me yours?” 

She smirks, shakes her head. Sesshomaru takes that as his cue to leave. 

His hand’s already on the handle of the car door when she shouts at him from across the parking lot. “See you next week! Maybe I’ll get it out of you, then...”

-

It’s almost 4am by the time that he gets home. As he pulls into the driveway, Sesshomaru catches his reflection in the rearview mirror. 

He’s smiling. 

-

send me song lyrics in the ask box + a ship and I’ll use them to write a short one-shot

[begrudginglytumbling]

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four,  Part Five, Part Six

Part Three!

...or I suppose technically it’s part two of Part Two since this one will finish up what the other one started.

Shall we return to Grow Up?

(This’ll be long even though I managed to be a little ruthless and cut some of the images.)

We’ll start with the staffroom and finish with the dorm rooms.

I am only assuming it’s a staffroom. For all I know it could be some kind of common room. But they spend a damned lot of time there. They eat. They hangout. They study. And it’s not just the students, so I’m calling it a staffroom.

Anyway! This breakfast bar thing props up a fair amount of leaning, from general side leans.

To the favoured elbow hook lean.

What I find funny about this particular surface is that Bai Yu’s legs are so long that he actually can’t sit ‘properly’ at it. If he sits straight, then he has to lean forward, since his knees are knocking into it. And when he does sit close (his feet aren’t on the floor, since he’s on a stool, so he can sit properly), he has to spread his legs in some form of obscene manspreading fashion that made me cackle and that I apparently managed to not get a screenshot of (and annoyingly I can’t remember which episode it was in).

Right then, on to the table.

Literally.

On to the table.

Because, clearly, Bai Yu can’t resist sitting on a tabletop.

I made a post about it a while ago, but I’m still not over it so, just as a quick break from the sitting - that outfit is certainly a choice of the wardrobe department.

I mean just look at it, with it’s mustard trousers paired with that top, and a lime green tie. It’s like someone threw the 70s at him or something and went with whatever stuck. I feel like it shouldn’t work. But why does it? Is it a Bai Yu thing?

I mean I know he can pull off some slightly questionable fashion choices - that denim on denim look he has as Zhao Yunlan is something I’d normally say isn’t a good idea, but he looks damn good in it. There is also the jacket with the buttons on the back that I’m still questioning to this day. And the time they apparently rolled him in glitter. And, ok, I happily admit that I don’t tend to understand fashion, and I understand even less of Chinese fashion, but, just, how did this choice come about? Pretty much everyone else in this show seems to wear ‘normal’ sedate clothes. Then there’s this guy. With his bright colours, his polka dots on polka dots, and his cravats. Honestly, mixing his outfit choices with his sitting preferences and relationships, I’m becoming convinced that this is just another example of Bai Yu giving his character Disaster Bi energy. The dude ain’t straight, and the dude ain’t gay. I’d say this dude is a Certified Disaster Bi.

Ok, back to the table and Bai Yu’s leaning back in an almost draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls manner.

And, like, there is a chair right there.

But nope.

The unpadded table is apparently more appealing for this man’s relatively flat arse than the padded chair that is right there.

I mean, yeah, he makes an appealing picture that’s visually different from everything else going on, but that does not negate the fact he ignored the empty chair that’s right next to him in favour of draping himself over the table.

And look, he can sit at the table as opposed to on it. There’s quite a few instances where he’s sitting at the table in a chair like a proper person. Granted, in pretty much every instance he’s sitting with his legs crossed, because god forbid he have both feet touching the floor.

But of course this table also sees moments where he’s doing something different to the others. Like here. Everyone is standing, he’s sitting.

I think he’s sulking a bit in this one, but still. Different position, different aura, still not supporting his own meagre weight.

And here with his gay little scout-esque neckerchief/scarf thing, leaning back, not sitting properly.

He does this lean back on the sofa too.

The shot is only a couple of seconds long, then he’s standing up, just like in Part Two, where he’s the only one sitting when the Teacher Doctor guy opens the door, and I touched on this a little in the previous part. But I’m really starting to think it might be a deliberate thing that’s quite clever in drawing the eye.

I should probably preface this with saying I know basically nothing about the processes that go into acting and film making. I am however technically a historian by degree and, therefore, fully capable of pulling theories out of my arse which I will then scrabble around to find sources to back them up.

So! The theory is that movement naturally draws the human eye, and if everyone is the same then a scene can fall flat. Sameness is boring, your eyes can flit over it and not take in any details.

Bai Yu?

Bai Yu is a fidget (seriously go watch his livestream videos, he fidgets, fiddles, and wriggles), this movement can be used to his advantage in drawing the eye. That scene up there? He’s not just leaning back, he’s also shifting about. He’s not in focus, but you can be damned sure that movement made my eyes focus on him before I even knew it was him.

And for combating the sameness? Look at the examples above - he’s lounging on the table, different posture to everyone else - he’s sitting while everyone else is standing -�� in the previous part he’s standing while everyone else is sitting. I thought at first my eyes were drawn because it’s Bai Yu and, well, he’s a favourite of mine so why wouldn’t my eyes be drawn. But then I realised they would’ve been, regardless, because he’s different. He breaks up the sameness, he stops it being flat. It reminded me of a scene in Pride and Prejudice, where the Bennett girls turn one way, but Mrs. Bennett turns the other. I remember watching or reading a commentary about it, the move being praised. I don’t remember exactly what was said, just that it was praised for being different and adding something to the scene, and it made me wonder if Bai Yu makes similar decisions?

Ok, onto the seating area proper.

He was actually sitting on an armchair properly before this, with both feet on the floor and everything...he looked so uncomfortable. Then he moved to sit on the arm of the sofa, because of course he did.

Y’know, pillows get hugged a lot in this programme, mainly by Bai Yu, but by others too sometimes.

And why sit normally when there’s a perfectly good coffee table in front of you to rest your foot on and make some viewers wince because why is your ankle bending that way? How is that even comfortable?

Just look at it. Barely resting on the table with his other foot adding weight to it.

You make my joints ache, sir.

Ok so technically I probably could’ve cut this one, since he’s just sitting on the sofa, nothing fancy, legs crossed, arm slung over the back as he pulls faces while she’s playing a game - she’s training to be a doctor but has a fear of blood so to get her use to it his character gets her to play fighting games(?) and someone else puts red dye on her hands - but this ends up leading to...

...this.

And just...what? How...?

That can’t be comfortable, surely.

I don’t even...are your joints even real, sir?

If your own joints are twinging in sympathy pain, this is your chance to go give your arms a shake and your body a wiggle before we head to the last section of the dorm rooms. Make sure everything is where it should be to remind yourself that you’re not the broken marionette doll Bai Yu can apparently become.

Right. All shook out? Good.

First stop the girls’ dorms, last stop the boys’.

There’s not much in the main girls’ room, really, just his usual sitting with his legs crossed because obviously the floor is lava and can’t be trusted with both feet.

I’m not sure how much he can be blamed for this one, as he’s technically been thrown into the chair by the little doctor trainee whose character reminds me a bit of Wen Qing.

As a side note, when you’re watching something that you don’t understand the language of, scenes like this can really throw you, because you’re just sitting there minding your own business, when suddenly they’re alone in the room together and Bai Yu’s character is taking off his tie, before striping off his shirt and tossing it on the sofa, and then you’re sitting there like wait, what? When did...? I thought...? What? But then he just gets tossed into the chair and some kind of conversation happens that makes you relax because, yeah, from your vague understanding of the characters, that makes more sense.

Even though he was tossed down, he didn’t actually need to keep his feet on the chair, but of course that didn’t stop him.

He is actually capable of looking comfortable sitting in this particular chair, he even gets to hug a pillow while doing it.

Now then, the boys’ dorm.

He came in, he saw them, he plopped down on the coffee table.

He could’ve sat on the sofa, he could’ve pulled up a chair, but nope. Coffee table.

Obviously, as previously mentioned, the floor is lava, so at the first opportunity he lifted both feet on the table and happily sat on it like an indulgent cat or something.

The sofa.

This sofa is not big enough for a full Bai Yu stretch out, but he can happily curl up on either end.

You could turn him into Bai Yu themed bookends.

Now, from watching Guardian we are all aware that this man is fully capable of embodying the spirit of a cat.

I, however, raise you the spirit of a Great Dane.

I see no difference between these two images.

Also not even this character’s mother can get him to sit properly. She prods him up and shuffles him over, and the first thing he does is pull up a knee.

Y’know how people starfish in bed? Well Bai Yu can apparently starfish in an armchair. He just plops down and flings his limbs out.

I almost didn’t catch this one, it’s part of some studying montage thing, and I thought he was sitting properly since he’s leaning forward, and I can clearly see his slippers.

Then I had a ‘wait, hold up’ moment, went back, and looked properly.

There are no feet in those slippers.

There are no legs attached to them.

So even when you think he’s sitting properly. He isn’t because he is kneeling. And I almost missed this ridiculousness!

Yes, Bai Yu, sit on a bed post that is clearly not meant to be sat on.

This is a moment where he could’ve leant against the wall, but evidently saw even the smallest flat surface as an invitation to sit.

Is that post migrating to places a bed post shouldn’t be migrating to?

Should’ve thought of that before you went and sat on it.

Not only does illness and subsequent surgery give him an excuse to lay on a gurney, it also gives him an excuse to lay in bed!

Apparently being tucked in by other men is also something not entirely unique to Bai Yu’s Zhao Yunlan. That bloke, the roommate that he went on a not-date-but-looked-like-a-date-with-wine-and-everything, seems like an absolute sweetheart and I’m still pissed at what they did in the last episode. It was uncalled for, script writers, uncalled for!

Although, I suppose, in regards to this project, it is kinda ironic that by the end, of the three men in their 'friendship group' of seven, Bai Yu’s character is the last one standing.

If I was a ‘they were roommates. Oh god they were roommates’ kinda writer these beds would be a bloody godsend. Just look at the watching and pining potential if top bunk guy was mooning over bottom bunk guy, while top bunk was doing work at his desk, and bottom bunk was sleeping.

The potential, people, the potential.

So that’s it. Grow Up is all done, and I can confidently put this in the column of Bai Yu quirks that become character quirks.

If you want to watch it, it’s available on Youtube, but there aren’t any subtitles. It’s on Dramacool too, but, again, no subtitles and the quality is horrid compared to Youtube.

Considering I couldn’t care less about the main storyline, it’s not actually a bad little drama.

Part One, Part Two , Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

[gayenerd]

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie 

by Tom Lanham 

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

 Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not). 

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids. 

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true. 

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake. 

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!" 

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers. 

* * * 

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not? 

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time. 

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves. 

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job. 

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living. 

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

 BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead. 

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right? 

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly. 

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs. 

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so... 

TC: Sickening! 

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too? 

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10? 

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music. 

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls. 

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

 Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]? 

MD: At work, doing their own thing. 

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her. 

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school. 

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable. 

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs. 

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky. 

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food. 

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen. 

Why name your disc Dookie? 

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer." 

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine. 

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"? 

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland! 

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night. 

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you. 

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label. 

Is Green Day angry? 

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry. 

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible. 

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently? 

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building! 

* * * 

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract. 

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set. 

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude. 

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura. 

* * * 

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless. 

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed. 

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids? 

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want. 

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways? 

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything. 

=Was this something you went through personally? 

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything. 

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show. 

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week! 

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move? 

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

 =I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you... 

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

 =OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction... 

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?" 

=And you let just anybody touch it? 

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced. 

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut. 

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89. 

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones. 

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it. 

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too? 

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time. 

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"? 

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!" 

=As they say, you can never go home again. 

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?" 

=And if that teacher could see you now! 

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself. 

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own? 

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give. 

* * * 

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham

[jimclassicstoycollection]

Beast Wars: Transformers

Masterpiece (MP-46)

Blackarachnia

by Takara

I got this figure on Christmas 2019.

Collector’s Card:

Starting things off with the collector’s card, Blackarachnia comes with one as well.

Blackarachnia’s character art looks great! She’s in a cool action pose, she’s on model, and the Beast Wars background is just like it looked in the 90′s.

She’s got her stats on the back, I can’t read Japanese, but you product shots of the bot and spider mode.

Accessories:

Blackarachnia right out of the package you see she’s in beast mode accompanied with several accessories.

Blackarachnia’s display stand is much appreciated.

The Energon Cyber web looks very much like it did in Beast Wars. I has to be assembled, and the five parts easily connect together to the articulated support strut and the base.

(Maybe I should have dusted the stand before taking pictures of it...)

Along with Blackarachnia’s gun we also get two anchor shots, one meant to go inside her gun, and the other one with an attached energon thread which is meant for the beast mode.

The anchor shot has a nice aux gold color, with some silver paint, and lime green Predacon symbol on it, and it fits snugly in her gun.

This headset is was used only once in Bast Wars episode, but Takara included it here. I couldn’t figure out how to attach the wires, but the headset fits well on her head.

Beast Mode:

Let’s address the elephant in the room…The beast mode’s a mess.

The Prosoma (the bulbous rear) of the spider is an oddly shaped abomination.

A black widow spider’s prosoma should rounded, however since there’s about 45% of a robot mode curled up in there (you can clearly see parts of the robot mode’s legs exposed) the beast mode is great compromised.

Still...you see a lot of good texturing and paint details on the spider mode.

My camera’s not doing it any justice, but you can even some nice eye details in her her eight eyes.

Articulation of the spider mode is pretty decent. Each leg has a ball joint at the base, or (is shoulder appropriate...because Blackarachnia has 8 of them...) and one hinge joint.

If you do it right you can get all 8 legs to support the body, but I wouldn’t hold your breath that it’ll last very long...

The spider’s head is either on on a ball joint and some kind of universal hinge (to be honest I really can’t tell, but it allows a great range of head motion.

And lastly the spider’s mouth pincers open an close on a petite hinge joint (just be careful with it...I wouldn’t be too rough with it).

The anchor shot with the energon web pegs into her...spider butt, and if you attach it to something above her, you can get the spider mode to dangle, as if the She-Spider’s moving on her next prey.

(I couldn’t get the spider to stop spinning...)

The spider mode even attaches to the web stand via a couple of methods, however since the spider mode’s as janky as it is, it rarely worked for me, so what i did was balance her there by the spider feet.

But however you manage to do it Blackarachnia looks great perched on that poisonous energon web.

Transformation:

Transformation to robot mode is more like swiveling and un-folding spider parts, and turning them in a robo-woman.

Some of the parts are very small, and you need to be very careful while transforming her.

I’ve got rather large hands, so it was a bit tricky for me at times to do everything in a timely manner, but this is not an impossible transformation 9it’s really quite easy once you accustomed to it), it’s just a finicky one.

Robot Mode:

Let’s just get this out of the way and address the sexy fem-bot in the room…this is a sexy fem-bot....

Looking at this robot mode, I am really glad that Takara sacrificed the beast mode for this curvaceous beauty.

This figure is very on model to the old Beast Wars cartoon; Takara captured all the details.

She’s got a great range of motion, you can get Blackarachnia in all sorts of poses, and this figure has so much personality.

However there is one thing I would like to address...

Where the beast mode (visually) is a mess, the spider mode is compact and solid. Contrast to the robot mode which is probably about 65% hinges and ball joints Blackarachnia does stand (and stands well I might add) she has so many  articulated parts that it could take you forever to get her into the pose that you want.

It suppose it’s a minor complaint, but posing her how you want will take some level of patience.

Blackarachnia has to two optional faces; one with a smirk, and the other green painted eyes (which was seen in only one episode).

Final Thoughts:

MP Blackarachnia is a really strong figure, though not a perfect one. The beast mode was obviously sacrificed to make this exquisite, show accurate femme fatale.

Just keep in mind that many of Blackarachnia’s parts are very small, so please treat this lady with some respect, and don’t break anything.

Scaling doesn’t quite work with retail Beast Wars figures; I’m pretty sure Blackarachnia’s supposed to be shorter than Waspinator, and Megatron and Inferno TOWER over the other Predacons...aside from Rampage, of course.

I’m sure with other MP Beast Wars figure she’ll fit right in...however I don’t own any of them...

Looking at the MP Blackarachnia with the Takara you can see she’s a smidge shorter. 

Blackarachnia’s scaling with Thrilling 30 Rattrap looks pretty good; it’s a lot more in line than with the Ultra class Megatron.

[primehorded]

Biomechanical Horde

I came into watching She-Ra as someone pure and untainted by the old series. Everything I learned about the characters and the universe, I learned from this show, and I wanted to write a breakdown of all the is-he-a-robot-is-he-an-alien evidence we see from Hordak, his brothers, and Big Brother himself, Horde Prime. (IDK if it was in the original but - Big Brother is watching, big brother sees all...inch resting and not at all political. Insert eye emoji)

FIRST we meet Hordak. Hordak appears to be a humanoid of no specified race, sharing some attributes with other races depicted in the show, but having some characteristics reminiscent of a robot. He has hair, he has ears that move and reflect his moods, similar to Double Trouble and Catra in that regard.

He also seems to have some proponents that are distinctly unnatural-looking. There isn’t enough detailing to be quite sure - no metallic glint on his skull-shaped face, for instance. Yet his eyes very distinctly to glow with light, even in darkness, and he has markings on his face and neck that could be where plates of metal/whatever unnatural material might meet, seams between the different parts and pieces he is made up of. However, these neater lines that look like plate seams also flow neatly into curved lines indicative of more natural-looking facial features. 

He has very sharply defined cheek-hollows the same darker grey as his neck - but also going into his ears, which  do not seem mechanical. 

Then we later start to get a better idea of what Hordak is, when Entrapta walks in on him changing (tee-hee). Here his unnaturally white skin seems to be changing color, affected by his declining health, the dark blue spreading like tissue damage. He also is physically frail and dependent on clothing engineered to hold him together and allow him to function. Also, he’s in a halter top here. You’re welcome.

After Entrapta nurses him back to consciousness, he admits to her that he is a clone, and reveals a series of pods where more clones seem to be growing. He says he was created with a defect, and cast out because of it. It is unclear if the clones are still growing or if they were failed experiments, but I’m leaning towards failed experiments. It is also not specified if Hordak was intending to clone himself in order to add to his army, or if he was trying to create a new body to somehow transfer his own consciousness into later. Horde Prime is shown to have gone through many vessels himself, and also states his brothers “lend their life force to him” so that he can live indefinitely. Considering how expendable Horde Prime’s “little brothers” are to him, it seems doubtful that he would even bother allowing them their own indefinite lives through some sort of life-force taking or vessel changing. There is a possibility that Hordak might know a little bit about how Horde Prime’s process of doing so works, seeing as he seemed to be a clone closer to Horde-Prime before his defect was discovered. We are not given any clear answers on this. (I tried to find a cap of Hordak’s attempted clones but typing in anything like “Hordak’s Clones” into the search engine didn’t work cuz, ya know)

The only creation he seems to have successfully cultivated is the imp, pictured above in the lower right-hand corner. The imp also seems to have some biological properties - ears, hair, even eyebrows, as well as a distinct nose shape and seemingly natural wings. Flesh wings. Not metal wings or whatever. I don’t like referring to stuff as “flesh” though, my overlord says it really blows my cover. The imp definitely has mechanical properties as well though - glowing eyes similar to Hordak’s and, most notably, the ability to kind of tape-record things he can hear. When he catches Catra sharing some secrets and brings them back to Hordak, he doesn’t repeat them as if remembered or even imitate them, but just opens his mouth for the duration, like to allow access to a speaker in the back of his throat, and a tinny voice-recording of Catra’s voice can be heard. He also uses this ability to mock Hordak, because he’s a little asshole. Otherwise, the Imp doesn’t speak, other than a few vague noises like hissing. Do we ever find out what happens to the imp? I feel like we don’t. Rip

Entrapta creates a new kind of suit for Hordak, this time built like an exoskeleton to allow him to move and function beyond the ability and energy his original body can give anymore. It functions like part of his body, but isn’t surgically connected to him or anything. At least, that we see. Entrapta do be a freak like that tho. 

When we finally meet Horde Prime, he too seems to share a mix of biological and mechanical aspects. He has the same snow-white skin, with markings that could resemble creases between plates/materials. He also has glowing eyes, as do his other clones, but he has white pupils that show in any body he inhabits when he moves his control/consciousness, as he seems to be able to fluidly among his clones and anyone chipped.

He has a few attributes that his clones do NOT share. He has extra eyes on his right side, with pupils of their own that are often looking other directions. This is the only part of him that is not symmetrical, and all of his clones are created and dressed in symmetrical clothing and features. He also has metal finger attachments on his index-fingers, which is very sexy but seems to cover a finger rather than replace them. 

The other attribute he has that none of his other clones bear is them GLORIOUS, GLORIOUS LOCS. I mean I’ve heard of cyber locks, but this is ridiculous. Bad joke. At the crown of his head, his hair appears white, the same as his skin and the hair on the heads of all of his clones. There appears to be two beads or sections, one on each side at the parts of his hair that frame his perfect evil face. Further down though, the pseudo-dreads turn a medium grey, and then are capped off with sharp tips that DO reflect light the same way metal drawn in the show does. So do the metal creases under the tops of his shoulders - cheeky off-the shoulder armor, or metal joint? 

He also has the ability to travel in the hive-mind network of every chipped being (including his clones), and access information like a file. Entrapta later “hacks” it like a software. Can you uninstall Horde Prime? Does he have ad-blocker?

We also see him utilize an unspecified green liquid, a pool of which he uses to make Hordak “pure”. Hordak alights in sparks when he enters it, like a toaster in a bathtub. This obviously effects him though in a very natural physical way, crying out in pain, and Horde Prime remarks that his suffering is necessary for his purity. If he was just throwing some water on him to short out his mechanical processors for a HARD hard reboot, he wouldn’t have any reason to have this lime green pool of...whatever. And whatever this substance is, it’s important enough to be the only color in or on Prime Horde or any of his clones. I’m gunna call it Horde Juice. It’s not the quenchiest.

Back to the hair. His “hair” is kept back and tied out of the way for most of the time, except for in the finale, when we see it being used to kind of funnel the Horde Juice straight into his brainicals. Horde Prime’s hair tubes connect into his back, with a few pieces left down cuz he’s a stylish ho. Now you can see very clearly some of the locs are actually CLEAR TUBES that only appeared light grey against his dark grey (skin?) and now they are pulsing with Horde Juice. However, we can ALSO very clearly see that not every tendril of his hair is alight with The Juices, indicating that some part of his hair are just that - hair, like his clones. It also has lit up a technical looking pattern along some creases in his body. His arms, his neck. His boobs.

There isn’t really a good point I can end this on, other than to say I thought it was a really creative and interesting design that was incredibly effective. It’s not easy to make a universe make sense with advanced futuristic weaponry and also medieval fantasy magic. The amazing design of the characters, weapons, architecture, and fighting styles made it look seamless, and Hordak’s design in particular really lead well up to introducing an insanely high-tech spaceship full of mind-controlled clones, dropped into a world filled with and dependent on magic. This was a spotlight specifically on Hordak/Horde Prime’s...race? Race.

I’m really curious for more information about the universe, even though from what I’ve heard the new She-Ra has changed a lot and the old She-Ra didn’t much prioritize world-building specifics. If I learn some more looking some stuff up on this series as well as the old one, and anyone is interested, I’ll add a part two and link it below!

[neonjackielynn]

" she stole his dog and dyed it key lime green ” (Wendy)

“what?!” jackie asked, laughter bright at the mental image. “that’s so wild. i mean like cool color choice, but why would she steal his dog?” she continued, lifting the joint to her lips as she sat next to wendy on top of the mystery shack. it was always so chill and wendy obviously always had the best stories. @flippincorduroy

[internetexplorersclub]

please return stolen skeletons

It’s the long weekend—somehow!—so here are some links to get you through the weekend! 

I once, as an incredible moment of procrastination in college, created a spreadsheet of saints’ relics, so any article about the Shroud of Turin that’s titled “Latest Study Deepens Mystery” is guaranteed a click from me. Apparently the Shroud might not be a medieval forgery after all? The data from the 1988 test that said as much is, as it turns out, flawed, but there’s no new conclusions (bummer). What’s interesting about this is the nomenclature around such objects and the deft threading of the needle this requires:

“the shroud is often referred to as a ‘symbol of Christ’s suffering, worthy of veneration.’” …the word “symbol” does not make a statement regarding the authenticity of the artifact. To call the shroud a “relic” would imply it is authentic, whereas to call it an “icon” is to suggest that it is manmade.”

I had no idea that the head of Oliver Cromwell—speaking of other relics—was on a 20 foot wooden pole at Westminster for more than 30 years, and apparently it just bounced around places for years afterwards until it was authenticated.

I love pieces that talks about fusion cuisine not just as western chefs “elevating” cuisine, but about the myriad ways that cuisine is shaped by different cultures and times. Dan Nosowitz takes a look at crab rangoon, and on the way, discusses the “Americanization” of Chinese food (different ingredients were more / less expensive and available here, among other things) as well as how—of all things—tiki culture had a hand in it as well. They touch briefly on the codifying of Chinese restaurants, which Jaya Saxena discusses in her piece on those ubiquitous Chinese zodiac placemats and where they come from.

The first English-language recipe for guacamole, c. 1691:

“They are seldom fit to eat till they have been gathered two or three days; then they become soft and the skin or rind will peel off. The substance in the inside is green, or a little yellowish, and as soft as butter.…This fruit has no taste of itself, and therefore it is usually mixed with sugar and lime-juice and beaten together in a plate; and this is an excellent dish.”

I’m honestly still recovering from this piece about fishing for carp in the LA River that ends with a recipe that I am nowhere bold enough to try. I do appreciate that the recipe ends with “Serve with a wedge of green cabbage, sliced cucumber and sticky rice. Have about five bites, then leave the bowl curbside for the coyotes.”

This reminds me of one of my favorite experiences whilst studying abroad in England, which was at The Aquarium of the Lakes (as in the eponymous District) that had an underwater tunnel, but instead of tropical fish or sharks, it was fish from the lake: carp, pike, etc. Truly a gift:

(while finding this photo, I found the website of the aquarium, which has a boldly photoshopped version of the tunnel, where I’m fairly confident it’s two fish that they’ve repeated across the photo)

A chaser: Nina, the ghost that haunts a Portland pizza joint.

Playbill took a look back at how its design has evolved over the years, and I was surprised at how many iterations it went through before settling on the most recent designs.

There was a thread on Twitter recently about music riffs that we associate with specific times and places (it’s in prep for a podcast that I’m very excited about)—and while the thread is fantastic, someone in it also linked to a piece about the history of that “quintessential villain music” that we associate with Snidley Whiplash and the like.

As a Dinotopia fan, I stand by this:

Finally: I’m furious that I’m only now learning that they named the new black hole! It’s Powehi, which means the adorned fathomless dark creation OR embellished dark source of unending creation, either of which are obviously perfect in every way.

[maryamlikesyoutu]

Here, make some PHỞ GÀ and feel better.

PHỞ GÀ Recipe by your friend Maryam Tu

What you’ll need for your stock

-Whole Chicken, free-range. The best kind of chicken is a what we call a “walking chicken” it’s obviously free-range hence the name, but it’s a little leaner than the sort of chicken you’d get in a western supermarket. I’s not injected with water or sodium. Try one of the Asian supermarkets, if you can, ask them to cut the feet off for you. Otherwise, you just cut them off at the joint yourself when you get home. If you can’t get your hands on a “walking chicken” any whole chicken will do the trick.

-Two large onions, preferably yellow

-Large nub of ginger, about 4”

-3-5 star anise 

-1 large stick of Saigon cinnamon (if you only have domestic cinnamon sticks, that’s fine but the taste will be slightly different.)

-Black Cardamom pod

-Coriander Seeds, about 1 teaspoon

-Daikon Radish, halved and peeled

-Fish Sauce (Red Boat is my favorite) you’ll need about 1 tablespoon for stock, but if I’m keeping it real, you’ll add more because you’ll make this soup to taste. Honestly, anytime I write that you put more than one tablespoon of anything into anything, esp. fish sauce, people bust aneurysms. 

-Rock Sugar (if you can’t find rock sugar, white or brown is fine) about a tablespoon. More to taste.

-Salt

-Banh Pho (fresh or dry FLAT white rice noodles) If you get them dry, please soak them in cold water for at least 4 hours before you cook them according to package. If you get them fresh, soak them in cold water as you’re setting out to make your soup.

-a tea ball or a spice ball to keep your toasted aromatics in. 

*PLEASE NOTE 

If you decide to skip my seasoning spices and use a pre-packaged spice mix for Pho, it’s all good. Do what’s right for you, if you can though, try this technique as it’s going to make a big taste difference*

What you’ll need for garnish

-Green Onions (the technique I use is to slice them at the green leafy bit off and then slice that into thin strips, I soak those in cold water until they curl up. I then take the whites of the scallion and chop thin rounds)

-Bean Sprouts (I like mine blanched for about 1 minute in boiling water and then strained)

-Dry-fried shallots (don’t make these, or you could… but you could buy them and save yourself the time and grease)

-1 red onion or 2-3 shallots sliced thinly (use a mandolin) 

-Culantro (no, not a typo) it’s also referred to as ngò gai or sawtooth cilantro (looks like a sawtooth dandelion green) You don’t need this, but you’ll be glad you got some 

-Cilantro

-Coriander Leaves

-Chili peppers (Chef’s preference; Bird’s eye, Serrano, Jalapeño, Fresno) whatever just slice thin and diagonal.

LIMES

Hoisin Sauce

Sriracha 

On to the method…

Toast your cinnamon, black cardamom, star anise, and your coriander seeds in a pan. Swirl them around for an even toast, you want them to start releases their aromatics without burning. This will take about 2 minutes on high heat. Set aside.

Take your onions and ginger (peels on) and roast them over an open flame. I use our bbq in the yard to do this, but if you have an electric range, you can make a foil “plate” and set it directly over your coils and char them that way or under your broiler. Yes, CHAR. You want them to blacken and to start releasing some sugars and juices. Once Charred, remove them to a butcher block and remove the skins on the onion and peel the charred skin off the ginger. Give them a little rinse and return to a bowl, set aside.

Peel your daikon, halve it and quarter if it’s a longer piece.

You’re going to need a large stock pot. Not a 4 quart or 6 quart cast iron, a large stockpot. Bring 6 liters of water to boil.

Take your chicken and give it a good scrub with some corse salt, inside and outside. I don’t use the innards of the bird for my soup, but I do leave the neck for more flavor in my stock. Feel free to omit. Once your bird is scrubbed, rinse thoroughly and trim excess fat around the cavity. I cut into the breast plate of the bird to partially split the breast plate, but not all the way. This allows for neater removal of the carcass when it’s poached through.

Now that your water is boiling, lower your chicken into the stock pot, keep it on boil for 5 minutes. Add your charred onion/ginger. Add your daikon. Add your spice ball or seasoning packet and lower your heat to simmer. 

Start skimming. You want a clean broth. Skim the scuzzy foam from the top with a fine mesh skimmer ( also sold at your friendly Asian grocery store) and skim the schmaltz off the top. Here’s a little pro-tip, if you can get the schmaltzy goodness aka dat yummy af chicken fat into a bowl on it’s own; take some scallion bulbs with about an inch of the green leafy part and let them live in that bowl of fat. It’ll infuse and elevate that rendered fat to a finishing condiment for your beautiful bowl of pho later. Anyway, SKIM. Make it clean, almost like a consommé. 

Your soup is going to simmer for at least an hour before you pull out your chicken and your veggies. Take this time to cut up your garnishes between SKIMMING YOUR SOUP. I made a few notes on how I like to garnish above.

Remove your veggies and discard. Remove your tea or herb ball. Take your chicken out and let it rest in a bowl, covered with saran or plate, for 30 minutes at least. Once cooled, either shred or chop meat and set aside.

While you’re resting your chicken. Season the soup. Add your fish sauce, rock sugar, and salt. TASTE YOUR SOUP. Honestly, I’m giving you a very rough measurement guideline in this recipe. You need to taste your food while you’re cooking it, otherwise it might not be that good y’all. Here’s the other part of this sentiment, ADJUST TO TASTE. You know what this means, do not play. 

When your chicken’s cut or shredded, when your stock is ready and adjusted to your taste (sorry, I’m petty) when your herbs are all cleaned, chopped, plated and ready to go; Make your noodles. Noodles should be the last thing that you make, because if you’ve been soaking them like I noted at the beginning of all this, it’ll only take you 2-3 minutes to boil them. 

GET YOUR BOWLS OUT.  Start with noodles in your bowl first, layer chicken, then broth, then add green onion, leafy veggies/ bean sprout, and sliced red onion or shallot. Add your dry fried shallots, and sliced chili pepper. 

Additional dressings are lime juice, quick pickled red onion, hoisin, and sambal or sriracha, and the scallion-infused schmaltz for all you overachievers.

Enjoy and just think, you can unlock another bonus level and hmu for the ginger fish sauce recipe that a lot of Viet folx use to dip their chicken in when eating this pho.

I’m fairly certain I left something out, or you’re going to have some questions. Just let me know. xo

[oddsnendsfanfics]

But That Makes You Family Pt. 3

Genre: Fan Fiction (Animal Kingdom) Pairing: Craig Cody/OFC Warnings: Drinking, Death, Sexual Content, Language, Drugs Rating: R Length: Chaptered Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Once again thank you for those who have given feedback. 

Catch Up Here

“Olivia has been avoiding me.” Craig made his declaration, hands on his hips.

“Can you blame her?” Pope looked over his shoulder at him, little to no interest in his tone.

“Dude, she's been busy. Lay off.” Deran defended, as Craig knew he would.

“Busy? Ah yeah?” Craig pressed, leaning against the counter top, he singled out Deran. “And how many times have you saw her, since she was here? Huh?”

Deran had met Olivia the last three mornings, the surf was good, and they'd had a standing appointment with the cove. Craig knew it, everybody knew it. They had been meeting there since they were kids, setting out before the sun was up.

“Once or twice.” Deran shrugged.

“Once or twice.” Craig repeated, his annoyance growing. She'd told him that they would discuss him meeting Corbin, how were they to discuss shit if she didn't return his calls. “And how many times have you saw Corbin?”

“Once or twice.” Deran kept his answer.

Cornering Deran had been the only way Craig knew how to deal with the news Olivia had delivered, since then Craig had been doing everything he could to try and intentionally piss off his little brother. Whatever, Deran had better things to do than watch Craig throw a tantrum. If he wanted to see his kid, the rules were simple. Grow a pair. Get somewhat sober. Go see him.

“Once or twice. That's real fucking nice.” Craig slapped his hands together.

“If you're that upset go talk to her.” Pope chimed in with the obvious. Craig obviously knew where she was. “Stop being a big baby and go talk to her. But be nice, otherwise you're going to ruin it.”

Pope's advice to talk with Olivia had been straightforward and didn't leave much room for interpretation, unless you were Craig. Parked on the side of the street, he had a clear view of the house. Parked next to the garage on a spare patch of land was a small air stream trailer, a jetset blue Jeep Renegade – with Connecticut plates. A well manicured lawn with the perfectly maintained walk way made the two story house look homey and inviting.

Through the windows Craig couldn't see too much, only a few shapes and shadows through the sheer curtains that were expertly covering the windows. If he sat here long enough he may gather the courage to text Olivia, asking her to come out and meet him.

He'd invite her out, driving down to the strand, or maybe they'd drive and drive until they reached he hills. He'd vent about Smurf and J, tell her about life in general, and how much he had missed her. In return she'd tell him about life on the east coast, how she missed him, and what she hated the most about winters. They'd be free and able to talk and talk. Eventually, he'd ask about Corbin and Olivia would tell him everything he needed or wanted to know. Craig would turn around, driving her back, before he left she'd lean over the side of the scout and kiss his cheek. Waving him off in the rising sun.

Holding his phone, Craig sat watching the house. What if he asked her to come out and she didn't want to see him?

Lime green wasn't the best colour to try and hide, especially sitting on the side of the cul-de-sac. Craig Cody had never been the brightest man, despite that, he was a career criminal surely he had enough sense to know they could spot him from space in that thing. Had his mother taught him nothing?

It was getting late, the sun had set and the sky was that rich blue that crept into black, the first few stars of the night were beginning to show. He had been sitting there for the better part of two hours, Craig wasn't known to be a patient man.

“Olivia.” her mother sauntered into the den where her daughter and grandson were on the sofa, watching whatever sitcom was currently running. “Mind taking out the trash?” She nodded toward the door. “Now?”

“I can do it.” Corbin sat up.

“No, you're going to get ready for bed. I'll do it.” Olivia kissed the top of his head, messing up his shaggy brown locks. She had been at him for months to cut his hair, but he liked it long. The apple didn't fall far.

Glancing out the window, Olivia sighed. She could have gone out by now, she should have gone out by now. Craig was stupid enough to sit on the side of the street, no doubt having put a pound of coke up his nose by now, waiting would do him some good.

Across the street the door opened, a quick flood of light emerging from the house, in the middle was a distorted shadow, and then the porch light illuminated the front of the house. Motion censored. Craig should have known, Carolyn Bridges was always a bit of a hippie. One of the keep the planet clean and energy efficient types.

Through the shadows of the street lights, Craig shifted uneasily in the driver's seat, he had a clear view of Olivia. Marching toward him, her eyes locked on his the closer she got. Wrapped in a soft shawl, her flip flops smacked against the pavement on the way to the car.

"When did you take up stalking?" She asked tapping the hood of the scout.

Sitting up, Craig leaned over the door, his hair partially blocking his view. "I was in the neighbourhood."

"Sure. Right." Olivia nodded halfhearted. "Get out of the car, Craig."

Olivia stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for Craig. He was moving at a snail's pace, for somebody with legs that long he sure took a while. Standing beside the scout, Craig shoved his hands in his pockets waiting for the scolding.

"Come on." she nodded toward the air stream parked in the corner of the yard.

“Huh?”

“Come on, I want to talk. But not out here.” Olivia gestured to the wide open street. In code it meant she didn't want nosy little boys gawking out bedroom windows. Olivia was buying her time on Craig and Corbin. Craig could be staved off until the right time. Corbin on the other hand was best left in the dark, until the time was right.

“He's home?”

“Yeah, but you're not going inside. Not right now.” Olivia pulled a key from her pocket, unlocking the trailer.

“Nice set of wheels ya got.” Craig commented looking over the small Jeep.

Olivia hummed. She liked it. “It got us here, it'll get us home. Gas is great in this thing.”

“I can't believe you drove from fucking Connecticut? Are you insane? What if you'd broke down?" Craig turned, looking down at her.

Olivia sighed, rolling her shoulders to relieve the tension that was mounting. "But we didn't. Besides, if we had I would have called triple A."

"You couldn't be normal for once in your fucking life? Who takes a kid, an old trailer, and drives them across the country?"

"You'd be surprised how many people drive across the country. It's a great way to spend a summer vacation, besides this isn't old. It's vintage. And who are you to talk? Huh? You do shittier things every day, need I remind you that is why I have custody and you have never been allowed to meet my son?"

"Our." Craig mumbled, wisely shutting his mouth when Olivia glared at him.

Not another word, Craig ambled into the trailer behind Olivia. Stooping to clear the ceiling, they did not make these tin cans for tall people. Inside was cozy, if Craig were the type to use that word. A large bed lined the back wall, with a bunk in the front. Cupboards, a sink and stove lined one side. A small table with bench seats and a fridge along the other. The bright yellow and white paint scheme were set off by rich reds and warm browns. Craig was impressed.

“Welcome aboard.” Olivia moved some magazines off one of the benches making room for Craig.

“It's...nice.” Craig commented flopping onto the bench, the cushions were thick and comfortable. He thumbed through the stack of magazines on the table, gathering that they had been brought to entertain Corbin. There was a lack of electronic entertainment in here.

“Thanks, my dad helped me restore it. We took it all back to the original interior, only took six months.” Olivia boasted. “This is the first time we've had her out, really had her out.”

Craig lazily nodded, flipping through the latest issue of Motocross Action. Olivia had always bitched and whined about his bikes, she hated them. Craig had heard every excuse.

“Ugh, Corbin is obsessed with that magazine.” She groaned shaking her head.

“Does he have one?”

“Fuck no.” Olivia scoffed leaving her post holding up the counter. What kind of mother did Craig think she was? Smurf? Hell no. She had sense. "So," Olivia stood on her tip toes, reaching into a small space over the cupboard. Craig leaned back on the bench seat, enjoying the view. It was a rookie move, watching her shorts ride up. "May I ask why you're casing my parent's house?"

Grunting she gave a small jump and snatched the baggie she had been feeling for. Clutched in her hand, Olivia smiled triumphantly, showing Craig the bag of loose green. Sliding a pack of papers from her back pocket, she made herself comfortable on the other side of the folding table.

"I wasn't casing the place." Craig placed a shiny zippo on the table, his offering to the cause. Olivia's tongue darted across the edge of the paper, expertly rolling the joint. Her silence was stronger than words.

“My mom said she saw Pope, not long after Baz,” Olivia didn't bother to finish the sentence. What Carolyn hadn't told her daughter was that she saw the eldest Cody often. Andrew would come by the coffee shop that Carolyn owned. Once a week he would come in, sit in the same corner, and have his coffee.

“He told her that you were in Mexico. Doing a job?” She wasted no time getting to the good stuff.

Deran would tell her what Craig was up to, when she needed to know. Or if it was something that would suddenly leave her son fatherless, in another sense of the word. Most of the time, Olivia didn't want to know what they Codys were up to. If anything went sideways, she was better off never knowing. Mexico had never come up during her calls with Deran.

If Craig missing for a few weeks didn't filter into conversation then it meant one of two things. He was doing a job or there was a woman. Craig and Olivia were long over, never to begin again; Deran had decided that keeping those details from Olivia were for her own good. In some twisted way.

“Nah.” Craig answered shifting around out of awkwardness. “I was down there trying to get a business going, tequila.”

“A tequila business? Really? Wow.” Olivia laid one joint on the table, rolling another.

“Yeah, a friend and I went down. Didn't really get anything off the ground, but that's business.” Craig scratched his nose. He hadn't told Olivia about Renn and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell her about Nicky, although he was sure Deran had told her plenty.

“A friend.” Olivia wiggled her eyebrows. “Female friend?” Craig blushed whether he was aware or not. “Ah! You got a girlfriend, you're not telling me about, Craig Cody?” She teased.

“You uh, you seeing anybody?”

“I've had a boyfriend here and there.” Olivia answered sliding the first joint across the table. “You know how it is, every now and the you need to scratch that itch.” she winked.

“They all okay with Corbin?”

“Of course, I wouldn't bother to have someone around if they weren't good with him. Or if he didn't like them.”

“Good.” Craig's brow was furrowed and his eyes on his hands. “I'm never sure what to tell people, guess I don't tell them anything.”

“So you've never told your girlfriend? What's she going to think?” Olivia wasn't entirely surprised that Craig would keep this detail to himself.

“Naw, she isn't the mommy type. She wouldn't be a bitch about it or to him, but she isn't into the whole happy family, let's have kids thing. You know?” Craig tapped his knuckles on the table top. “Besides, we're not serious and she's out of town.”

“Hmm.” Olivia hummed picking up the joint and lighter.

She had never wanted to be that type either, funny how things change your plans. Lighting the joint, she waited for the right moment to take a puff.

“You been at Smurf's much? I thought about dropping by the other day, but wasn't sure you'd be there.”

Craig barked a laugh. He had been avoiding Smurf's as much as he could, all while watching the place like a hawk. Coming home to find Deran's father there had thrown a wrench into everybody's plans.

“Fuck no. I know that Deran talked to you and..."

"I know about Billy showing up." Olivia exhaled, the pungent smell of weed filling the trailer, in a white cloud. "Deran told me."

"Yeah, well, it's not a good idea for you to come around, Livvy. Not while that asshole is there."

"Then I won't come by the house." Oivia shrugged passing the joint to Craig.

Craig never thought he'd see this scene again, sprawled out with Olivia, huddled up in some space hiding from the outside world. A joint being passed back and forth between them, while all of their troubles left.

"Smurf if going to shit a brick, having Billy in her house." the idea of Smurf having no control over her household was tickling - perhaps it was the high.

"The good news is, she won't be worried about you showing up, now."

"Smurf doesn't have to worry about me. I don't want trouble, I'm simply here on vacation with my son." a coy smirk crossed Olivia's face. “You know that I'm harmless.”

Craig rolled his eyes. Olivia was harmless in the way a spider web was to a mosquito. She was there, taunting and waiting, one slip and you were caught up. She knew too much and Smurf didn't have the balls to do a damn thing about it. Not even Smurf was willing to cross the step-daughter of a District Attorney. Olivia had solidified her spot in Smurf's good graces, when she had her step-father go to bat for Pope. Andrew got off light with the jail time that he'd done, all thanks to Doug Bridges.

“Corbin and I are here for a nice vacation. I don't care about Smurf and her shit. If it weren't for Corbin, I doubt I'd even have the time for you.”

"Were you serious about me meeting him?" Blue eyes hooded and sincere, despite the glassy high. Craig wrinkled his nose, taking another puff from the joint, holding it out to Olivia. “I want to meet him, Livvy. Let me fucking meet him.”

Tilting her head to take a closer, more in depth look, Olivia took a puff, holding the smoke in her lungs. Blowing out a breath of smoke, she could see it now. The resemblance between Craig and her son. Corbin had the same hooded eyes, bright blue and sparkling. His nose and smile, all Craig. Even his wild mess of long hair, was Craig.

"Yes, but first there are some rules." Olivia leaned forward, hovering over the table and Craig. "It's late, we'll talk about this later. Go home."

Standing Olivia walked to the door, pushing it open with a grunt she stood holding the metal door. Taking the hint Craig slowly gathered himself and rose to his feet, stooping until he was out the door and could return to full height.

"Can I..."

"Night, Craig." Olivia waved and pulled the door shut.

Left in the yard, Craig cursed and kicked at the paved drive way. So that's how she was going to do this? Invite him in and then toss him out? Who did she think she was, anyway?

@noobchic, @ivarlothbroks, @sparklemichele, @klinger-verseau  , @hows-my-hair  , @grungyblonde , @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly - if anybody else wants a tag, feel free to ask :)

[johnnymundano]

Class of 1999 (1990)

Directed by Mark L. Lester

Written by C. Courtney Joyner

Story by Mark L. Lester

Music by Michael Hoenig

Country: United States

Language: English

Running Time: 99 minutes

CAST

Bradley Gregg as Cody Culp

Traci Lind as Christie Langford

John P. Ryan as Mr. Hardin

Pam Grier as Miss Connors

Patrick Kilpatrick as Mr. Bryles

Stacy Keach as Dr. Robert "Bob" Forest

Malcolm McDowell as Dr. Miles Langford

Darren E. Burrows as Sonny

Joshua John Miller as Angel

Sharon Wyatt as Janice Culp

James Medina as Hector

Jason Oliver as Curt

Brent David Fraser as Flavio

Jill Gatsby as Dawn

Sean Hagerty as Reedy

And Rose McGowan as girl briefly glimpsed sat in a chair

Class of 1999 is one of those movies which were once set in the future but are now set in the past, which is always funny. It must certainly have tickled director Mark L. Lester since this is his second such movie, the first being Class of 1984 (1982). The intellectuals out there will have noticed both movies are also set in schools. Judging by the content of them I think we can infer Mark L. Lester has strong emotions about his schooldays. Negative emotions. Back in 1982 in the UK Class of 1984 upset a lot of people who decided what we could watch, and so it was not passed as uncut until 2005. Unfortunately by then I was busy self-destructing and by the time I surfaced as a functional human being DVD was passé, alas. I’m waiting for the Blu-Ray now so I still haven’t seen it, basically; but I will, I will. That cinematic bad boy sure sounds a lot harder and nastier than Class of 1999, which is the kind of goofy pulp schlock that video store chains were built on. “The year is 1999 and school’s out – FOREVER!” the tag line doesn’t run (but totally should, in howling electric lime green if possible).

Teens! Little shits! Always a problem, but particularly so in the ‘80s when feral gangs ran wild and committed heinous crimes, in fact just like they had since the teenager was invented (the 1920s) but sometimes it’s politically expedient for reactionary assholes to pretend it’s a new problem, and the ‘80s was particularly rich in reactionary assholes. So we were constantly being told that the kids weren’t alright. Movies like Class of 1984 probably helped feed the fires of hysteria and Class of 1999 seems like a kind of belated atonement for this. This time Lester seems to be mocking the ridiculous reactionary horseshit which turns troubled youth into a patsy for political and financial gain, and all the ridiculous reactionary bullshit solutions proposed which never actually address the root causes (because that would require thought, money and time) and hence do nothing to ameliorate the problem, but always end up making someone rich (usually , spookily enough, the someone sponsoring the reactionary assholes involved). You know, the kind of Twinkie® head who thinks the solution to school shootings is arming teachers. Shit, just cut straight to arming the kids as well and whoever walks out at home time wins. Televise it, monetise it, get some revenue streams going. Don’t piss about, people!

Class of 1999 certainly doesn’t piss about. By 1999, every reactionary asshole’s wet dream has come true;  all across America youth gangs with bandannas and guns have established free fire zones, where the police fear to tread and schools have begun shutting down. Obviously the problem must be the bandannas as it can’t be the guns, because what your latte drinking, book reading, cat grooming “Leftee” never gets is that no problem in America is ever down to guns; not even when it involve guns; especially not when removing guns would remove the problem. Because of the easy access to bandannas things are in such a state that the Department of Education is now the Department of Education and Defence (DED; geddit?). This rebranding allows for some real blue-skying and results in a joint project with MegaTech to take back the schools by piloting the introduction of android teachers. Mega-Tech, like any responsible corporation that probably doesn’t pay its taxes, decides to cut corners and use three military androids gathering dust due to the early end of a recent war. Things escalate quickly, and lessons are learned about simple solutions to complex problems and the evil fruits of a society which treats its kids as monsters and where bandannas are legal.

Miles Langford (Malcolm McDowell), the new principal at Seattle’s’ Kennedy High School, agrees to the use of his school for the initial introduction of the android educators. Langford is clearly a “progressive” (spit!) who wants the best for the kids (or “scum” to real, decent, working people) but is undone by his ambition; it’s a strangely nuanced performance in a remarkably (and deliberately) nuance free movie, but that’s the magic of Malcolm McDowell. Stacy Keach as MegaTech’s Dr Bob Forrest (Stacy Keach) doesn’t need nuance as he has decided to play his role in a white wig and white contacts, as an albino corporate asshole who remains perpetually unruffled no matter how bad things get. “The teachers are making hats out of the pupil’s internal organs.” a tech-head (probably a liberal who owns a book) might exclaim, only to have Dr Bob say “Wait, let’s see how things develop.” as he eats a banana. I’m not convinced Keach can actually see out of his white contact lenses but who gives a shit, it’s Stacy Keach! (The last time I saw Stacy Keach onscreen he was singing Elvis at a karaoke bar in Alexander Payne’s delightful Nebraska (2013). Stacy Keach, people!)

Dr Bob’s three androids are Mr. Hardin (John P. Ryan) for History, Ms Connors (Pam Grier) for Science and Mr. Bryles (Patrick Kilpatrick) for P.E. (and probably Geography; P.E. teachers always have to do Geography as well, in my experience; P.E. not actually being a real subject). Anyone who has wasted their eyes on the quirkier side of movies will already be excited by that list. John P. Ryan, whose jaw-popping performance in Runaway Train (1985) earned him a place in Movie Valhalla, is full-on here as a history teacher who prefers strategy to strangling but will strangle if pushed. Pam Grier should need no introduction and, despite returning to the screen here after illness, she is as lively a screen presence as ever, memorably taking an axe to the chest like it’s a gnat bouncing off her. And Patrick Kilpatrick’s name might not be known to you but he has probably died at the hands of your favourite ‘80s/’90s action star, probably as revenge for being a better actor than any of them. Basically, these three ‘droids rock. As does Bradley Gregg as Cody Culp, the youthful ex-gangbanger recently released from pokey who is caught between the gangs and the teachers like a pretzel in a car crusher. Gregg acts like he’s in a serious movie and his earnest solidity helps stop the comic book ridiculousness swamping everything. Which is no mean feat in a movie where an albino Stacy Keach eats a banana.

Obviously I was taken by the banana bit, but a lot more stuff happens in Class of 1999 than albino potassium ingestion. Unfortunately quite a lot of it involves the rival gangs who are not the most interesting part of the movie. But they do fight a lot so there is that. In fact they fight more than usual as the robo-teachers niftily set them against each other, before the kids “wise up” and take on the real enemy in a night time school siege, which swiftly descends into a slaughtertastic game of cat and mouse, or android and pupil, if you will. Despite its limitations, in 2018 Class of 1999 remains a fun film for teens, fans of films that mock reactionary assholes, people who wish The Terminator (1984) was set in a school, and, crucially, P.E. teachers who wish they could use a flamethrower on that kid who took the piss out of them for teaching Geography.

[ravenvsfox]

hey girl r u still working on part 3 of the trc/tfc crossover? please don't feel pressured by this ask omg im just popping in after reading part 1 & 2 again and telling u how much i luv it! have a nice day x

(love you, love your patience, you deserve 100 gold doubloons, but I hope this part 3 will do in the meantime)

The maserati peels through the deep-water evening, the cabin of the car black and still as the restless back of a movie theatre. The radio’s switched off and Nicky and Aaron were clipped quiet after the third time Nicky tried to wrestle Andrew into a conversation about superheroes. Neil watches Andrew’s profile in the domino light from passing headlights, the complex green glow from the dashboard. They’re caught in that ear-ringing kind of silence that feels like it’s submerged underwater.

A cat-eyed BMW changes lanes without signalling, and Neil watches it pull close into their side on the divided highway. He knows that the maserati is powerful, a sleek black tank, but the BMW would rob them and leave them on the side of the road if the driver wanted a race.

And he can tell that Ronan very much does want one; the way he’s sawing the car up from the speed limit to Andrew’s version of the speed limit to something that doesn’t look like a limit at all.

Neil recognizes the feeling of a car chase rubbing up against the side of the car and leering until you speed just to get away from it.

They stay in uncomfortable stasis, two sides of a jammed zipper, ripping down the road as one shiny dark monster. Five minutes pass and the BMW takes a slick lead, revving tauntingly as it shifts gears and pops into their lane. Andrew takes one lazy hand off the wheel and hands Neil his phone from the cupholder.

“Call Adam,” he asks. He puts his hand back on the underside of the wheel, driving with a thumb. “Remind him what following is.”

Neil stares dumbly at the phone in his hand, and abruptly it rings at him, the shrill bleat of the default tone.

“Unavailable name and number,” Neil reports. Andrew nods once, and Neil flips the phone open and presses it to his ear.

“Sorry that Ronan doesn’t know how to drive,” a woman’s voice says. There’s a muffled scratch of fabric and a laugh and then, “And sorry I invited myself along. I heard that Ronan and Adam were being tested gladiator style, is that right?”

Neil raises an eyebrow, and Andrew looks at him, away from the road and the Virginia license plate eating its way out of view.

“Who is this?”

“Christ. Blue. Obviously. So are you hazing them or what?”

“She wants to know if we’re hazing her teammates,” Neil murmurs, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece.

“She?” Nicky asks, leaning forward heavily, to the limits of his seatbelt.

“Blue,” Neil responds.

“Yes?” Blue says.

Neil frowns, uncomfortable with the whole misshapen misunderstanding. “We don’t haze people.” It’s so juvenile and absurd that he almost doesn’t recognize the words in his own mouth.

“Yeah! We’re not the lacrosse team, thank god,” Nicky chimes in, craning further over Neil’s shoulder.

“She’s with them?” Andrew asks. A nod. An almost imperceptible tightening of knuckles. “Ask for Adam.”

Blue continues, “Well I’d like to know why the rest of us were left out of whatever you’re doing, then. Doesn’t seem like great team-building to start segregating early.”

“Can you put Adam on the phone?” Neil asks, and Blue makes a small, affronted noise.

“I asked you a question,” she says evenly.

“You stated two facts,” he corrects. “I asked you a question.” He knows there’s no emotional headroom in anything he’s saying. He’s only half invested in the direction that this evening is going, but he knows that Andrew should be navigating this conversation, moving his own chess pieces.

The line shifts, but it’s still Blue ten seconds later, and she says, “It seems to me that luring two out of five of us out of the city in our first week doesn’t play like a friendly gesture. I don’t know if you’re picking favourites or least favourites, but I can guess. I know you want to speak to Adam, and I’ll put him on the phone, but I want you to know that we’re all worth speaking to. We’re all foxes, now.”

A jostle over the receiver, a look between Neil and Nicky, and then a longer, heavier look between Neil and Andrew. Something about this gaze is hard to carry.

“I didn’t realize that invites were only distributable by Andrew,” Adam says coolly.

“Adam,” Neil says, for Andrew’s benefit.

“Neil,” Adam returns. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Your inability to listen? Probably.”

Adam doesn’t say anything, and Neil can hear Ronan asking questions, agitated, just beyond the sound of Adam’s breath.

“You invited me and Ronan. You didn’t ban Blue.”

“Tell them,” Andrew says, eyes forward, “to get behind us.”

Neil repeats this message down the line, and Adam snorts. The gait of the BMW in front of them skips even faster.

“Ronan doesn’t follow very well.”

“Then he shouldn’t be on our team,” Neil says tightly. There’s a pause that kicks and punches, and then Adam says,

“I have to say that you don’t lead very well, either. Maybe we’d do better under a more competent guide.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to do better than whatever it is you’re trying to do on court.”

Behind him, Nicky hisses like he’s been pinched. “Geez. Making friends, Neil?”

“Maybe not,” Adam says. “Better is attainable for us, but I’m not so sure about your vice-captaincy. I really don’t think you know how to command attention without hurting people.”

Neil goes hot. He’d forgotten how slippery humiliation feels, like a live thing on his skin.

“We’ll see you at Eden’s Twilight. Don’t worry about trying to catch up,” Adam adds, and hangs up. Neil leaves the phone at his ear, momentarily treading in his own surprise. He sees a slip of movement, and then Andrew’s hand is palm up between them.

He snaps the phone closed and drops it in Andrew’s waiting hand, mechanical.

“They’re meeting us there.”

“After that conversation?” Aaron asks. “They’re masochists.”

“That’s not what I asked for,” Andrew says, ignoring his brother, and Neil shrugs. He knows Andrew wants the whole production of a night in Columbia. He wants the string of teammates trailing out of his pocket, he wants the free entry and the parking pass, the psychological knife to the secretive neck, he wants control between his teeth.

“Well this is going to be a fun night out,” Nicky says sarcastically. “We’re not actually planning on drugging all three of them, are we?”

“No,” Neil says immediately, and Andrew says, mild,

“They’ll drink whatever we give them until we know why they need a dead language to keep their secrets.”

“Andrew—” Neil says, but Andrew turns needle eyes on him.

“I will do worse,” he says, his words chopped and peeled open. “If he tries you again.”

He doesn’t respond. Andrew’s been sitting in the middle of hot, repressed feeling since Ronan punched Neil. His regret has been blistering enough that it’s making Neil wilt next to him.

He’s just worried that these new ravens will try to pry open their closed ranks. He’s worried that the next piece of violence will graze Andrew. The rubbed-raw tension over the phone is syncing with the old feeling of anxiety from his first trip to Columbia.

He swallows around nausea and watches the bend in the road thread their car into the city limits.

_____

They don’t really stand out, but their faces give them away when they turn fretfully in the swaying crowd at the bar, closed and uncomfortable where everyone else is playing happy or sexy.

Neil can see the instability in Ronan’s scowl, the way the joints of it tighten when he scans the room, and loosen when he looks back at his friends. Adam is aloof and unthreatening in a pale crop-sleeved collared shirt, but his eyes are a landslide. Blue’s mouth opens — apparently pleased with the slide of lights and the dancers drenched in glitter — and closes when men look at her.

Andrew prowls into the kernel of the crowd encircling Roland. If they were alone, Neil would put his hands to the soft hair at the base of Andrew’s skull and press into the weak points until his shoulders slumped.

He can see Nicky waving at the ravens from the corner of his eye, and annoyance sinks its teeth into something in Neil’s brain when Blue waves back.

“Do you have to be so welcoming?” he asks bitterly. Nicky sighs, but touches his shoulder briefly, like he’s trying to be comforting.

“They’re called social niceties, and I’m setting an example for you.” He looks pointedly at Neil, then shoulders ahead to reach the trio before the rest of the group. He whispers to them, hurried and earnest, a bleeding heart soldier rushing into enemy territory to warn them of a coming attack.

Neil frowns. Ronan’s sizing them up, something limply threatening about his stance but truly unsettling about his eyes. It’s familiar, the expression that says he only recently found something to lose.

“Ah, friends, cousins, foxes. Good to see you,” Roland says, voice raised over the music. Nicky leans over the bar and air-kisses both of Roland’s cheeks, going for serious and suave and cracking up instead.

“It’s that time of year again,” Nicky tells him. Andrew gestures at the three newcomers and tilts his head at the bar. Roland winks.

“Finally, a challenge.” His eyes slide over the new recruits. “You three good to keep up?” Ronan snorts, and Roland smiles warmly at him. “Oh, this one’s confident. And cute.” His eyes slide over to Adam. “And this one! What exactly are your recruitment requirements again?”

“Get the ball, be angry about it,” Blue supplies, drumming chipped purple nails on the bar. Roland smiles wider. He’s pouring shots now, liquor tripping between glasses, one after another until Neil’s head pounds looking at them.

“Must be all that brooding athleticism that gives you your glow,” he jokes, pouring mix into a tumbler with one hand and rummaging for limes with the other. “Hey, if you guys are looking for a private interrogation corner, there’s the table farthest from the dance floor.” He nods in its direction, and Andrew turns immediately for it, parting the crowd, leaving an unborn fight behind him.

Neil festers in the way Ronan and Adam look at Andrew leaving and then at each other, like they know anything about him. He turns and follows Andrew after a beat, unable to stomach it. Everything about this fight is uncanny and unpleasant, wrapped up in privilege and misunderstanding and enemies that look too much like reflections. He prefers villains who know that they’re villains.

Andrew looks at him, eyes slitted gold.

“I don’t like this,” Neil admits. Andrew waits for an explanation and Neil struggles to find one. “I don’t like feeling like we’re starting from scratch with five fresh problems.”

“I would’ve thought you’d be comfortable with waves of problems given that you are one.”

Neil purses his lips, hikes himself up onto the tall chair, and indulges him. “But I was the only one.” Andrew’s hand curls on the table top. “And I know this bothers you as well, Andrew, you’re not hiding it very well.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“No, you never try, do you,” Neil says, and feels righteous anger balloon at the same time that shame crawls down through his body. It leaves him off kilter, like one ear popped but the other is still dull. Andrew stares at him.

Truthfully, all Andrew ever does is try to affect indifference and keep all the lids on all his boxes and strategize the safety of others by becoming a more tempting target.

“That was such shit. I’m sorry. It was—“

“I think it’s Ronan,” Andrew interrupts, drawing idle circles on the table with his thumb. “He’s the secret that they’re keeping, the gun in Adam’s hand.” Neil blinks, chewing this information over.

But he doesn’t have time to swallow it, because the rest of the group is oozing into the seats around the table, Aaron with a comically over-full tray held aloft, Nicky laughing at something a crooked-smiled Blue has said, Adam calm, Ronan furious.

They drink, for a while, Andrew distributing the spiral of glasses in an unfathomable order. The conversation is shouted and confused as if spoken from two separate sides of a great wall. Ronan tosses whiskey down like he knows it and hates it, loping beside Nicky and Aaron, who drink in search of the upper limits of drunk.

Blue drinks with her eyebrow crooked and her mouth wet, always. She often looks like she’s remembering something that pricks.

Adam doesn’t drink at all.

Neil can see his hand on Ronan’s back and his eyes on Blue, and his gears change to do the opposite from minute to minute, transparently concerned with whatever the people around him are doing or planning or ignoring.

“You don’t drink?” he asks Adam carefully. Adam takes a sip of water and shakes his head.

“I’m driving.”

“You’ll stay at our house,” Andrew tells him, and Adam pauses before he shakes his head again.

“No, I don’t think we will.”

Andrew shrugs. “I disagree.”

Adam’s eyes bounce from Andrew to Nicky, then Aaron, searching for an explanation.

“We don’t do whatever you say,” Ronan says. “We actually have opinions of our own, you know, strength of will? That thing that doesn’t exist in your company?” He looks at Andrew, then meaningfully to Neil.

“Hey,” Nicky warns. “If you think Neil isn’t opinionated, then I don’t know what sports channel you’ve been watching.”

“Have a drink,” Andrew says, ignoring everyone but Adam, pushing a sweating glass towards him. “It’s tradition.”

“We’re not big on tradition,” Blue says, suspicious and slow.

“Neither are we,” Nicky says quickly. “But we have our moments. We’re not going to hurt you, we just want to do something nice. After all the— uh. Not so nice.”

“One drink,” Adam agrees cautiously. He pushes the proffered glass back towards Andrew with two fingers. “But I’ll pick my own.” He slips off of his chair, hand pulling from Ronan’s as he fades back through the crowd to the bar.

“Why are you pushing this so hard,” Ronan asks, face blank for the first time all evening, looking out into the waves of people like Adam is a single ship on a flat horizon. Neil can see Andrew raising his chin at Roland, and something in his chest fizzles.

“We’re making peace—“ Nicky starts.

“No,” Ronan says. “I think you want something from us, and the only way you know how to get it is to get us fucked up first.”

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive,” Andrew says, “to be drinking, ourselves?”

“He’s only on his first glass,” Ronan nods to Neil, then pins Andrew with chilly eyes.“And I think you can hold your liquor.”

“How generous,” Andrew says. Blue makes a small, irritated noise.

“Can we stop antagonizing one another, please, I’m getting a headache.”

“You wanted to come along, dude,” Ronan tells her.

“Yes, wanted,” Blue agrees. “Before I realized that we were gearing up to the world’s most violent pissing contest.”

“We’ll play nice if you do,” Nicky offers, going to throw an arm around her shoulders that she blocks.

“That’s not how you win,” Neil says.

“There’s no winning in polite conversation, Neil, buddy.”

The whole table shoves suddenly sideways, glasses skittering and liquor spilling in thick rivulets over laps and down to the sticky floor. Adam catches himself heavily on Ronan’s thigh.

“You’re— have— the bartender? You fucking—“

“Adam,” Ronan says, soft and urgent as hummingbird wings. He cups Adam’s face, but Adam’s so off balance that Ronan’s hands end up being the only things holding him up. Adam shakes his head in his grip, touching his own mouth, then Ronan’s, eyes blurry and scared.

“Don’t drink anything.” His eyes crash into Blue next. “Don’t drink,” he repeats.

“Did you—“ Ronan stops, mouth moving, too incredulous to swallow properly. “You drugged him?”

Andrew doesn’t respond, so Ronan kicks the table over directly into him — it hits his abdomen heavily and rolls off to the side. Andrew goes down with it.

“Oh fuck,” Nicky says, standing shakily out of the way. Something moves next to Neil, fast, and he thinks distractedly that it’s his patience rotting and dropping from the tree. He steps into the fray, reeling back to punch Ronan in the face twice in quick succession, hard enough to split the skin at his knuckles. Blue grapples with his elbow as he does it, cursing, biting, until Neil falls back far enough that she can drag her friends out of his reach.

The last thing Neil sees before he drops down to check on Andrew is Ronan holding Adam up by the waist, eyes cracked open, thunderous.

“Drew,” Neil says quietly. He knows his face is tightly pulled, a mask with the strings cutting his circulation. “What’s the plan here?”

Andrew’s obviously winded when he says, “show them—” a stuck breath, “—that we’re the same kind of monsters that they are.”

“What?”

“Um. Neil,” Nicky says.

Neil looks up. He realizes first that Aaron has disappeared, and second, that he was the only other person who sprang forward when Andrew was downed.

“Fuck,” Neil says. He stands, trying to pinpoint the familiar gleam of blond, the fast, blocky movements that he shares with Andrew.

He sees Ronan first, inspecting Adam’s eyes in the real light from the propped men’s room door. Blue seems to be acting as lookout, and the minute Aaron storms into their space, she holds a folded switchblade up at him. It’s like half of a threat, more confusing than frightening.

Neil starts pushing towards them, but he can see Aaron dodging Blue and taking Ronan to the wall, hard.

“Aaron,” he calls, when he sees hands go to Ronan’s throat. “We still need them.”

“For what?” Aaron snarls. “To make an example out of them? To keep stringing them along until they lash out harder, draw blood?”

“To use,” Neil says. “And train.”

Aaron looks back at him, wild-eyed, and Ronan twists out of his grip, holding Aaron’s wrists at odd angles. Neil sighs and yanks him out of reach, putting a warning hand up between them.

“No fucking chance,” Ronan says. He looks at Adam and his jaw clenches. “We’re out. We don’t need to be here, we’re not like you.”

“You are,” Neil argues, looking at Ronan with his issues seeping through the ill-fitting bandage of his bravado, Adam with his brow furrowed against the drugs, Blue with her jaw jutted like Allison and her hair cropped like Dan and her hands steady like Renee. “That’s why you’re here.”

“So now you wanna be friends?” Blue asks, disbelieving. “Did you finally realize we were human beings?”

“I don’t care about being your friend,” Neil says honestly. “You need to realize that friendship and teamwork are different.”

“You can’t threaten us into a corner and then act like you taught us a valuable lesson by putting us there,” Blue says. Neil wonders if she knows that she’s placing herself just a little bit forward, her hands creeping out in front of her friends.

“Threaten implies that it was one sided,” Andrew says, slotting himself in between Aaron and Neil. Nicky falls in behind, sheepish.

“You— you had the bartender make sure I wasn’t a threat at all,” Adam struggles to say.

Andrew looks unimpressed. “And?”

“And there’s a difference between fighting to win, and fighting because it feels good to break your fists,” Ronan says. He juts his jaw like someone who was raised in the gym, not the streets.

“Is there?” Neil asks, moving forward, feeling Andrew’s presence at his back like a lighter catching. “Fighting is always fighting, no matter what you get at the end. I can’t tell if you really think you’re helpless victims or if you want moral high ground so badly that you’re climbing your own shitty ladder to get there, but if you’re this concerned with winning, then we can use you. Can you use us?”

Blue and Adam look at each other, a lopsided glance. Ronan’s gaze is unwavering.

“We can,” Adam urges. “There— I. Know. The sort of people who never fight. For themselves. And I don’t want to be… near them anymore.”

The column of Ronan’s throat moves, and the corners of his eyes go tight. “They took away your self control and acted like it was a fucking favour.”

“It’s not the same,” Adam says quietly, swaying on his feet but otherwise looking remarkably sober. They’re putting hands to an ugly memory that no one else can see.

Neil looks back at Andrew and then squares his shoulders, bolstered by the clear day he finds in his face.

“They’re a nightmare,” Ronan says, with finality.

“Funny. Do you know what’s in our nightmares?” Nicky asks, too plainly to be a joke.

“Ravens,” Neil finishes for him.

Ronan flinches, a pale twitch of a thing. Ravens mean something very different to him, but Neil’s not entirely sure that it’s a good thing. His eyes linger on Adam leaning against the wall, his face grim, damp with sweat, and smiling so slightly. Blue nods cautiously.

“I’m not a big fan of ravens either,” she says conspiratorially.

“Bullshit,” Ronan says, but his tone is lifting like hoisted blinds.

“Let us— let us—” Adam breathes hard. “We prioritize. I know you want us to be a team. But if my family’s a part of that team, then I cover them first. I fight for them first.”

“Now you’re speaking Andrew’s language,” Nicky grins. “We look after our own.”

Andrew doesn’t interject, and Neil knows then that this whole evening was engineered to fail. He stares at the side of Andrew’s face, the indifferent slope of his profile. The more you defend yourselves, the more you expose the things that matter.

“Okay,” Ronan says. “This has been fucked up. We’re going back to the dorm.” He doesn’t say ‘home’, but in a way that makes the absence of it is heavy. Neil bows his head.

“You can actually stay at our place, if you’re not sober,” Nicky suggests. “Kevin’s not around, so you can share his room.” He starts gesturing people towards the exit, pushing them around without pushing them around. It’s a strange, twitchy skill of his, walking and talking with such confidence that people feel compelled to catch up.

“Why do you have a place in Columbia?” Blue asks curiously, falling in awkward step with the gangly group of them, tense and angry in truce, too many of them to stay together in the throng.

“Why does Gansey have a villa in Spain?” Andrew replies. Neil’s mouth curls. He always knows too much, in a bored sort of way.

Adam scoffs, then frowns at his own reaction. Neil can tell that he’s exactly as undone as Andrew wanted, sloppy enough that his suppression is loose and imperfect.

“Are you also obscenely rich?” Blue asks drily. “Because that’s why Gansey has most things.”

Nicky scoffs, Aaron says something mean and true, and the weight of the conversation finally finds its way onto wheels and rolls itself out of the club. Roland waves as they go, and Ronan flips him off viciously.

“You can stop waiting for us to fail,” Ronan tells Neil as they totter out into the parking lot, sweat and adrenaline drying, leaving alcohol to warm and wobble them over uneven pavement. “We’ve survived worse than college Exy.”

“So have I,” Neil says. “And I still feel like I’m failing, constantly. Confidence is dangerous.”

Ronan looks at the ground. Neil can hear his jaw working, see his hand jumping to twist his wristbands. Neil’s hand goes to his own armband, instinctive.

“Thanks for—ditching the lying bullshit, at least,” Ronan says through his teeth. He looks ahead, to Aaron watching Andrew for pain, to Adam strung up between Blue and Nicky. “Lying slows people down.”

Neil almost smiles. “So do secrets.” Ronan’s shoulders tense, and Neil rolls his neck, lazy, the maserati hoving into view up ahead. “Ronan.”

Ronan turns eyes on him, low-intensity, idling.

“I’ll trade you,” Neil offers. “Truth for truth.”

Part One  Part Two

[waywarddaughterwrites]

Chuck

Hey guys! I’m sorry I haven’t posted in a while, I practically work three day jobs, so sometimes writing has to take a backseat to the backseat. I’ve finally had time to write, and I want to share with you the fic for my first ever fic request from the lovely @thecatcharmer! They requested a cute, fluffy fic with Gabriel, The Reader, and a cat. I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Gabriel/Reader, established relationship

Warnings: Some cottony fluff

Summary: You’d been working back-to-back cases and needed a break. While on a day trip to an outdoor mall with your boyfriend, Gabriel, your day takes an interesting turn.

*********************

“Gabe. Seriously. That is not practical. You don’t need it!”

The mighty archangel Gabriel frowned like a scolded child and dramatically hung his head as he walked away to put the DIY Cotton Candy Machine back on the shelf. You chucked as you turned back to the rack of clothing you were browsing through. Your eyes widened at the outdated patchwork and ungodly amounts of denim in front of you. You had been working back-to-back cases for about a month now and had been in dire need of a break. Not only were you physically exhausted, but you practically hadn’t seen your boyfriend, Gabriel (the heavenly toddler himself), in all that time. Apparently Heaven had been busy, too, not to mention the Winchesters were causing trouble that Gabe inevitably got roped into. You’d met them a few times, even worked a couple of cases with them. They’d offered for you to tag along, but solo was more your style. The less you had to worry about, the less there was to distract you on a hunt. Of course, as your boyfriend had lovingly pointed out, also the less there is to back you up when you need it. You’d brushed that off, knowing that with a quick prayer Gabe would always have your back. You’d known him for several years and had been dating him for two. Sometimes it felt like the relationship was still brand-new. Sometimes…

“Hey babe! Look at me!”

…sometimes it had felt like forever. Rolling your eyes in anticipation, you turned and saw Gabriel standing in the aisle in front of you in the most hilariously hideous combination of clothing you’d seen. He had lime green corduroy pants tied with a scarf belt, a 70’s-esque suede tassel vest over top of a neon pink tshirt with the words “Fight The Man” emblazoned on the front. Overtop of all of this was a giant probably-used-to-be-white fur coat that trailed onto the floor. He had a comically large sombrero on his head and thick, orange-rimmed coke bottle glasses on his face. He had a shit-eating grin and spread his arms wide, turning slowly to allow you the full effect of the nightmare. Your mouth had dropped open and you were torn between laughing until your lungs gave out and pretending you didn’t know him. You looked around the small thrift store and noticed that there were only a couple of other people there and luckily, they hadn’t noticed the monstrosity that was your (luck you!) boyfriend.

Gabriel sauntered over toward you, palpably proud of himself. You couldn’t help your giggles as he wrapped his hands around your waist and dipped you. He leaned down to kiss you, but the sombrero bumped your forehead on his way down, effectively blocking him from his goal. He huffed up at the hat and you couldn’t stop the sudden burst of laughter the sight instigated from you. He grinned back down at you, eyes shining in mirth.

“So, about that cotton candy maker…”

You raised your eyebrows at him. “Are you..? Is this..? Is this a *threat* sir?” His only response was to waggle his eyebrows at you. “Gabriel, why do you need a cotton candy maker when you can literally snap it into the room whenever you want?”

He pouted “it’s not the same!” He lifted you back into a standing position and whipped off the hat, bowing to you and offering his hand. “A dance, good madam?”

“There’s not even any…” Gabe quirked an eyebrow and suddenly the dusty speakers overhead were belting a hoe-down type of song, “…music.” You rolled your eyes and took his hand. He immediately started into a mix between a tango and a line-dance. You laughed at the sheer absurdity of it and noticed as he spun you that you’d garnered the attention of your handful of fellow shoppers. They were smiling and when the song ended and Gabriel finished with you in a dip, your onlookers clapped and whooped good-naturedly. You blushed in embarrassment, but when you saw the mirth in Gabe’s face you didn’t care. God, you loved that man.

************

Twenty minutes later the two of you had left the store and were walking along the sidewalk of shops, Gabriel was cooing at his new cotton candy maker like it was a newborn baby and (thank his Father) back in his normal clothes. You were absentmindedly window shopping as the two of you casually strolled past the shops, vaguely thinking about dinner and a long, hot bubble bath in your future, when something caught your eye. Actually, your hip, as Gabriel had stopped dead and you’d walked into the corner of his new “cottony baby.” Letting a small huff of annoyance, you glanced at your boyfriend, who was paying you no mind. You followed his gaze to the shop ahead of you: Buddies “R” Us. The pet shop. In the window was a glass container with small kittens playing with brightly colored balls. Gabriel’s eyes were wide and you had to admit, the sight was cute.

“Can we go in?” Gabriel asked in a voice like a child asking if the present really was for him.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, sure? But what are you going to do with that?” You looked pointedly at the giant box in his arms. He rolled his eyes at you and the box was gone, probably now sitting in your apartment. He took your hand and raced to the door, pulling you along in his excitement.

The shop was impressive. You were struck by the cacophony of animal sounds. There were squawks and chirps and meows and barks and a few snorts coming from every corner of the shop, which was bigger on the inside than you had expected. Gabriel had gone immediately to the tank of kittens you’d seen in the window and was leaning over the side, scratching one on his head as the others scrambled for attention. You smiled fondly at the sight. He looked up and saw you watching him. He winked and beckoned you over. Picking up a golden kitten, he plopped him into your arms. You giggled as it immediately began purring and batting at your hair.

“He’s a sweetie, isn’t he? Good choice.”

You turned and saw a young woman, obviously a shop employee, watching you with the kitten.

“Oh, no. I’m not actually getting an animal today, I just…I’m sorry,” you stammered, putting the cat back into the tank.

“Well why not?” Gabriel asked from behind you. You turned to him and looked at him as though he had grown a second head.

“Because I’m barely home? Because my *job* makes me travel and stay away for days at a time? I don’t have the time to take care of an animal.”

The clerk had been standing beside you, good-naturedly listening and smiling. “Not to worry!” She started, “there are several animals you could get that are low-maintenance. Just refill their food bowls every couple of days, clean their cages, and you’re fine!”

You gave her a halfhearted smile and said a little more firmly, “I appreciate it, but no. It’s not going to happen for me, I’m sorry.”

The clerk seemed to take the hint and walked away to another customer. Gabriel came up behind you with a puppy in his hands. The puppy licked your ear and caused you to startle and turn around toward the pair. “Come on, (y/n), not even a fish?”

You raised your eyebrow at him again. “No, Gabe. I’m not getting an animal. It wouldn’t be fair to the animal.” Your phone began to buzz in your pocket and you turned away to pull it out as Gabriel put the puppy back where he found it.

Looking at your phone, you saw:

“Working a job in town. Vamps. In and out but could use the backup. You in?”

You sent back a quick reply and closed your phone as a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind. You leaned in to the embrace.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Got a text from Jamie. She needs backup for a case tonight.” You felt his shoulders sag a bit and you turned around to face him and wrap your arms around his neck. “She says it’s a quick in-and-out vamp nest, she just wants some backup. I promise I won’t be out too late.” You smiled sweetly up at him and he gave a small sigh and leaned down to kiss your nose.

“Just be safe.”

“I always am.”

****************

“Quick in-and-out my ass,” you thought to yourself as you limped toward your apartment building. The two vamps Jamie had been tracking had had four secret friends. Three-on-one with vamps had been exhausting. You’d been through worse, but you knew Gabe was likely to scold you for not calling him to help. He hated when you showed up bruised and beaten, no matter that this was the life you’d chosen and he could easily patch you up with a snap of his fingers.

You rolled your shoulder, hearing pops and cracks as your muscles and joints protested. You’d been thrown into a wall on that shoulder, you were lucky it hadn’t been dislocated. The gash on your left leg where one of them had gotten you with a knife was much worse. You’d torn off one of your sleeves to wrap around the wound, but the torn sleeve exposed the fresh bruises and cuts down your arm. You were in bad shape, but you’d beaten them, and you both had made it out alive. That was a success in your book, no matter what the angel said.

One more block to go. Your building was in sight but your leg was aching and begging for a quick rest. You leaned onto a stoop and stretched. You groaned at the feeling of your muscles extending.

A sound from the alley beside you startled you into defense-mode and immediately you were standing with your weapon drawn facing the potential threat. There was something rustling near the dumpster. Cautiously, you approached it. Kicking aside a bag of trash you located the potential threat.

“Mew”

You put your blade away as you took in the bedraggled sight in front of you. Staring up at you was a small bundle of matted fur with pointy ears and tiny paws. You crouched down and reached your hand out, letting the kitten sniff your fingers to prove that you weren’t a threat. He sniffed a moment before rubbing his face against your hand, purring.

“The fact that you aren’t bothered by the smell of dead vampire is a sign of how long you’ve probably been out here all alone, huh? What are you doing out here boy?”

The half-starved little kitten boldly moved toward you and rubbed against your leg, letting you pet his back. He squeaked a bit in surprise when you scooped him up, but didn’t protest.

Wait, why were you holding a kitten?

You pulled him back away from you and thought about putting him down. What exactly was the plan here? You’d told Gabriel earlier that very day that a pet wasn’t going to work for your lifestyle. You looked at the pair of large lamp-like eyes staring back at you. The kitten mewed and began licking at a small wound on your hand. Well…there’s nothing wrong with helping a cute little stray find a new home. You’d promised Gabriel you’d take a few days off, this time you’d keep the promise and use the time to help relocate this little guy.

Your mind made up, you tucked him into the crook of your arm, where he snuggled into your dirty shirt and purred again. You limped the rest of the way home, trying to figure out what you were going to tell Gabriel when you showed up and what he might say.

You were right around the corner from your apartment, the biggest hurtle being the damnable stairs you were trying to climb while injured and holding a cat. Why did you live on the third floor? Why?

You finally got to your apartment and, after fumbling with your keys one-handed, opened the door to the sight of your boyfriend sitting on the couch setting up his new cotton candy toy. The moment the door opened he looked up at you, concern evident on every inch of his face. His frown deepened as he took in your current state. He didn’t seem to notice the tiny ball of fur curled in the crook of your left elbow.

“You have a funny definition of ‘won’t be out too late’.”

He walked toward you and cupped your face in his hands. “You were starting to worry me.” He kissed your forehead and with the touch you felt the wonderfully tingling sensation of warmth and lightness wash over you. You sighed in relief, your pain gone.

“Mew?”

You’d forgotten about the suddenly-squirmy bundle in your arms. Gabriel started at the noise, looked down, and raised his eyes slowly back up to meet yours, an eyebrow cocking in question.

“Who’s your friend?”

You blushed and began to stammer out, “I was walking, well, limping back here and…he was in a dumpster-well not in the dumpster-but the point is he looked so sad and I couldn’t leave him there-” you stopped when Gabriel began to chuckle at you.

“What happened to 'I don’t have time for animals?’”

“I still believe that, but you’ve said for weeks now I need a break and this little guy needs a home so I thought: why not spend my break helping him find one? I mean look at him, isn’t he adorable?”

You looked down at the kitten in your arms and noticed vaguely that Gabriel’s healing seemed to have accidentally affected him, too. The matting was gone and in its place was a beautiful brown tabby coat.

Gabriel lifted your chin with his finger and kissed you softly on your lips.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, sugar plum. Did you have any ideas on a name for the little guy?”

You lifted the kitten with both hands to eye-level. He gave you a calculating stare, as if measuring you up, which quickly turned playful as he batted your nose with his tiny paws. You grinned.

“How about Chuck?”