#re my last post i was about 17 when that all went down and it felt like everything was falling apart because i had

[attila-werther]

every time it's so easy to think that this is the most you'll ever feel, that you'll never get it back again, but ngl life is full of different feelings, and all of them are going to be different because life marches on and so do you

[brotherwtf]

re mota rewatch

"Egan wouldn't let us ship it to your folks, kept saying I expect him back, my buddy's just MIA" CRAZY WORK BY THE FUCKING WAY

it's also fucking crazy how Gale looks even more melancholy and in love looking at that damn lucky deuce than when he looks at the straight up picture of Marge, something happened to you while you were overseas major? AND HE PUTS IT IN HIS DAMN POCKET? A REMINDER/HOPE THAT HES STILL ALIVE? THAT HES GOING TO COME BACK? SICK ACTUALLY

also the scene where Bucky puts up the flag never fails to make me fucking sob, the emotion is so fucking palpable, the terror, the fear is almost fucking over, all of the shit they went through, it could be done, everything they fought for was actually for something as opposed to nothing, it's such a good fucking scene

IVE ALREADY FUCKING WROTE A DRABBLE ABOUT THIS BUT THE FUCKING "YOU HEARD ME THE FIRST GODDAMN TIME GALE" SCENE IS SO FUCKING CRAZY TO ME you can see the relief on Gale's face, the bite of his lip to hide anything more than a relieved smile, and it's the first time (I think someone fact check me on this) that John actually calls Gale by his name, and it's all just to show that he made it back, he survived, and he's back, he's back with Gale

and the end of the war scene is also so beautifully melancholy, life of the party John Egan decided to spend the evening with Gale, somewhere quiet, that damn control tower, sharing a drink with the person he cares about the most, it's so sweet and heartbreaking at the same time how much the war changed them, how much they truly have changed

there's a little exchange that I'm probably reading too much into but when John asks Gale if he's ready to see Marge, Gale kind of laughs, shakes his head, like Johns asking something sarcastic, and I just think that's fucking crazy

and the fucking fact that John was right, he and Gale were the last B-17s in the air, it was Gale flying it, right alongside him, God it's enough to make me curl up and weep

the end credits of this will never fail to make me cry, it made my dad break down and sob when we first watched it together and it still makes me cry, the violin version of the opening theme, something melancholic and reflective, oh my God and that final picture of the real John Egan and Gale Cleven? head in my hands I'm gonna be sick

and that has been my mota rewatch!! be on the lookout for a full post mortem later where I fully debrief 🥰🥰

[blondeaxolotl]

Finally found the time to draw my re-vamp of Pluto... I had this planned for a while but I didn't do anything until now!!! so here he is! The guy!!!

Since I probably won't talk about Pluto that often, I'm deciding to just drop his re-vamp here and his lore that I made for him in this post!!

Personality wise: Pluto is a human who was formed into a "Hell-hound", unlike "Canon Pluto", Pluto here has more of the personality of a human instead of a dog in a mans body. He resembles a dog yes, but he talks, walks, behaves like a person, and prefers to be treated as one, otherwise it makes him feel de-humanised if he's being shoo'd away like some house-pet (which is what Sebastian often does, they don't like eachother that much). Pluto seems to have a close bond with Finny and Snake, considering them truly family first before he starts viewing the others as such as well (Not Sebastian). He does not recall his human life, he doesn't even remember his own name. The reason why he's referred to as "Pluto" is because it's what Angela called him when she was in charge of him, and the name stuck within the phantomfam, but he did eventually gain the nickname "Plu-Plu" by Finny, which Pluto seems to not mind, but he prefers if it's only used by either Finny or Snake (or his snakes). Besides his obvious close bond with Finny and Snake, he's slowly starting to show more trust with the others, Like Ciel, Mey-Rin and Tanaka. He doesn't like Baldroy that much but he doesn't hate him (they'll eventually bond when Baldroy starts to cook better food). Though he seems to hate Sebastian and refuses to be near him or listen to him (unless Ciel tells him to), poor fella is uncomfortable around him.

BACKSTORY/LORE (Warning for Human experiment, demon sacrifice, implied animal abuse, physical abuse and torture) Please read with caution if any of this things might discomfort or trigger you

I'm going to keep things short and simple I won't go into deep detail or such, it's just a summary of what "Pluto" went through from beginning to end and how he got to where he is now, also sorry if the writing is shit this is my first time writing anything like this so my bad.

On a bright sunny day, a 17 year old boy, Maxwell, and his pet dog were both kidnapped and taken away while alone working on their family farm while his parents were away for the week. Max and his dog were taken away by a group of men and taken to a mad doctor who wanted to create the first ever "half-beast half-man" and sell it off to a freakshow for alot of money, pretending to have "found" the beast instead of "creating" it. Unfortunately, the boy and his dog were not the first. While being dragged away to their new long-time home, Max noticed cages upon cages of "people" with animal parts attached to them (from the looks of it, it seemed like a few of them were already lifeless and decaying). With now knowing what's going to become of him, Max and his dog were thrown in an empty cage together, a cage which will be known as his long-time home and thus 2 long years of torture began. The torture of him and his dog becoming one.

After many forced injections, body parts being taken apart and stitched together, Max slowly grew weaker and weaker as more as he went through, not only did his body grow weaker, but so did his mind. Who was he? Who were his parents? Where did he come from? Why was he wearing a dog collar? Answers who he did not know for, at least not anymore. The doctor, who was getting more and more irritated realizing the only thing keeping his creation alive right now was his weak breathing, has grown sick and tired of all these failed experiments. The doctor had one last option to make his half-beast man become fully alive and functional, one last chance of becoming the rich man he wished to be.

Max being yanked by his collar and forced to walk on his hind legs (which was already painful enough to stand) was dragged down to a lower, darker part of the building(?) he was in, his vision was blurry and his ears were muffled but upon entering a room, he could see the figure of who believed to be the doctor standing above something and surrounded- what Max believed to be a weird circle.

After being thrown into the circle, he struggled to stand up and fell down to the ground, rubbing his eyes trying to handle this brain-spliting headache while the doctor rambles off non-sense, for a second he felt like he heard something being impaled but wasn't sure. Barely a second past and suddenly the whole room felt like it was spinning, weird black goop and furniture started circling around him and the doctor as if there was a hurricane accruing right this moment.

Max finally looked up and saw a strange tall lanky figure leaning over the doctor (at least what he thought was a figure), his vision was still blurry but he knew he felt unsafe the moment that thing appeared in the room. Not even trying to comprehend what the two of them were talking or even trying to figure out what that thing was or where it came from, he tried his best to regain his strength and attempt to crawl away to safety- Which didn't last long as he felt a sharp pain within his chest suddenly, as if a hand went through him and started crushing his soul. Whatever that thing was, he knew the doctor told it to do it (since he heard loud cheer coming from that freak)- He felt like he was being killed and reincarnated at the same time.

Moments later, Max found himself running out of the building he was once kept in for what felt like an eternity. Blood was dripping down from his mouth but he no longer felt pain every stepped he took, his vision and earing have improved as well, as if all that pain he went through never happened.

He did not know what that thing was, (he did not recall what he did or what happened after the experience with the figure and the doctor, but he knew he did something- did he hurt someone?) but it seemed to have helped him more than it helped the doctor, whatever it was, he did NOT want to encounter it again nor something similar to it. Despite feeling physically better, his mental state still remained fragile, he still couldn't remember anything nor how he even got here. Who was he again?

Months after finally fleeing his personal hell, walking for days and hours as far away as he could. He eventually found himself in a forest, and finally decided this was a good place to rest for a bit, he was far away from his abusers, but also isolated enough to where no one could find him and take him away again. At least, that's what he thought.

A minute has past with his eyes closed, only to quickly open them up again after feeling something hover over him, a strange woman in white was standing over him. “Oh dear, what are you” she muttered.

He didn’t know if she meant it with disgust, but she seemed surprised nonetheless. They both stared at each other for a short period of time, before the lady look away for a moment and then looked back, as if an idea clicked in her head.

“You’re a strange looking demon hound” A demon hound? Is that who he is? What's a demon hound? “But you seem to be lost and scared, come now, as an Angel, it’s my duty to help those in need, even if one is a demon”

He had no idea who this woman was, but the moment she spilled out that she was an angel he immediately jumped back onto his feet, an angel? Did she come to help him? Did she come to fix him? If only she would’ve come sooner but he would rather not complain “What’s your name?” she asked but all he could do is stare, what was his name again? Did he even have one? After receiving moments of silence, he felt a tug on his collar “Pluto” The angel said

“Nice to meet you Pluto, we’re going to be friends for a while now” Pluto? That felt familiar, but he didn’t know why.. But it was his name now, and it’s what he will be referred to from now on according to the angel. With his tail wagging and his spirit high now, Pluto finally found someone he can trust, I mean, it’s an angel after all, and angels are always there to help, so of course he's going to trust her, she did say she is going to help him.

Without hesitation, Pluto began following the angel after she gestured to him, leading him to a village. Believing that this village might be his journey to fixing himself, though unfortunately, he does not realise that the angel tricked him into becoming the monster of this villager, leading to long months of now being treated like monster that deserves to be hunted down by the towns people, and only bringing hatred towards the villages own dogs because of him being a "hound dog". That is, until help finally arrives.

______________________________________________

Okay yeah I yapped a little too much my bad I got carried away, but basically long story short, Ciel and Sebastian get there, they found out it’s not some evil spirit and it’s pluto instead (Sebastian beats the fuck out of him) and later on Angela hands Pluto over to them to “train him better” or whatever. Which Ciel agrees to and next thing you know Pluto ends up becoming a trio with Finny and Snake because he feels the closest to them and believes they’re the only ones who relate to him the most with the experience he went though and yeah. This took longer than I expected and it's now 3am lmaooo, as a bonus for reading my edgy story have a doodle:

[manicrouge]

Episode Two: The Barmaid

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 17/01/23

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Graves settles well into his position in the cities police force while you attempt to fit into the crowd at the Hindsight.

[𝙲𝚠]: public sex, mentions of PTSD, gender norms of the time period, discussion involving religion

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 7.2k

[𝙰/𝙽]: Part two is here !! I hope you enjoy and if you haven't read Part One of the series, I highly advise you do so before proceeding with this part !!

ENJOY!!

Comments are always appreciated !!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

You walk down the street from the home you have been provided with a weariness about you as you head through an unfamiliar area. It's hardly due to the fact that you're afraid of anything; you can handle yourself, and frankly, you have been in much tougher situations than the one you find yourself in at this very moment. It's nothing more than a relaxed walk down the street as you make your way towards the pub you have been told Mr. Price frequents. It's located two streets away from your home and while usually, you enjoy walking, you find your feet dragging as you're greeted by the people of the city.

When you arrived last night, you went straight to bed; a day of travel left you weary, besides, the pub was still open and you could hardly have gotten a word in if you had went then. So, you walk down the street, eyeing the building with a squinted gaze going over your plan in your head. It's nothing tough; you simply have to charm the man enough for you to get a job there.

You've checked the paper- did so during breakfast this morning, sipping on your cup of tea at the small dining table as your eyes scanned the page, relieved to find that the request is still in the paper.

Despite being already secure in a job, you find yourself shaking at the thought of doing an interview again. Perhaps it's the very fact that the entirety of your side of this mission relies on you getting the job here; you're hardly sure Mr. Price is going to willingly accept you as his secretary or a worker in his business. So, this is all you’ve got.

Flames breathe against your flesh as you pass by the iron works besides you and you wince at the sudden warmth kissing your skin. It reaches through the maroon cardigan you're wearing as you keep you look at the working men in the street who are shovelling coal from off of the pathway. Your heels are uneven on the road, the scattered stones causing you to walk with a slight stagger as you're cautious not to fall.

The roads in London are much better than this place. The roads are smoother, the air is somewhat cleaner, and the people on the street have much more of a decency about themselves than the people surrounding you do. Part of you wishes to be back home, to be free from what you have been tasked. Not through fear, however, rather through utter inconvenience.

Graves gets to do the fun shit, meanwhile, you're supposed to rot in a musty old pub. That hardly seems fair to you.

Finally, you make it to the doors of the pub, not hesitating to push them open. It's early, and part of you is shocked that they open with such ease, though, you don't detest such as you proceed forward, pushing open another set of doors.

Upon walking in, you're greeted with the sight of the Hindsight, the innards being but the standard pub. Light merely manages to get through the windows to the left of you, the majority of the chairs and boots located there. To your right, just before the bar, you note that there are two doors which are shut. It's a peculiar addition, though, you suppose you'll learn eventually when you get your position as the trusted barmaid what exactly is contained in there.

There's a creak from behind the bar as a door is pushed open and you're greeted by the sight of a man standing behind the bar. There's a dirty rag resting on his shoulder, an apron wrapped around his waist as his brow wrinkles at the sight of you.

'We're closed,' he answers, 'come back at noon, yeah?'

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you stalk up to the bar with him in your sights.

'I'm here for the barmaid position,' you respond.

The man standing behind the bar looks you up and down before he begins to laugh. You're confused as to what exactly he finds so funny about your request, and while you're used to looks similar to his, his laughter is working well to boil your blood. Standing dumbly, you clench your teeth as he quells from his sudden outburst of mockery.

'Yeah, no, sorry, the position has been filled already,' he bluntly states, a little breathless, 'you'll 'ave to go somewhere else.'

Pressing your hands against the countertop of the bar, you narrow your eyes. 'That's not what this mornings paper said,' you respond sharply, 'the position hasn't been filled, you need a barmaid.'

An exasperated sigh escapes the latter's mouth as he pulls the rag off of his shoulder, grabbing a random glass from behind him, wiping it around the rim. 'And I told you the position has been filled.'

You scoff, 'and I'm telling you that that isn't what this mornings paper said. Is this why the position is still available? Do you turn away every single woman who walks through these doors?'

'Someone like you shouldn't work in a place like this,' he retorts, 'trust me, love, I'm doing you a favour; you're too pretty to work in a place like this. They’d eat you right up.’

Frustration is evident on your face, you're sure of it. The man stares at you as though you're an idiot, some sort of dumb broad who isn't able to handle herself. It's demeaning and disheartening to be a part of such judgement, yet, you find yourself more desperate to get this job. Besides, if you don't get this job, you're fucked.

'Let me do a trial shift,' you bargain, reaching into the pocket of your cardigan, retrieving a list of references from supposed old employers.

Setting the glass down, he pulls the piece of paper from your hand, his eyes scanning over it. 

'I worked in a pub in London,' you explain, 'it got blown up during the war and both of the owners died- that place was my life; I used to sing there to keep spirits high when things were looking drab during the war and it really helped them,' you ramble, 'all I'm asking for is a trial shift. One shift and I'll prove to you that I'm more than capable of working for you and working in a place like this.’

You're red in the face by the time you finish and the piece of paper is placed back into your hand. His expression is hard as he looks at you. 'One shift,' he says with a nod, 'if I like y' enough you can stay on, but any mistakes and you're gone. Got it?'

A smirk appears on your face as you eagerly nod your head.

─

Paradise is void in the land of the unholy, and as he walks down the road in the direction of the police station, he is greeted with such unlawfulness that it has his poor holy heart in shambles.

The lack of human decency, the greediness of his own kind is terrible in the land he's found himself in, and despite the errors in their ways, he can't seem to keep himself from looking at the crimes unfolding before him.

There are children playing in the street, darting past him with excitable little squeals. Their faces are covered in muck- they look as though a good bath would kill them, however, they don't seem to care as the entertain each other in their own little worlds. He supposes joy in such an area must be difficult to come by, the only source of laughter most likely being from their games.

Pleasure is plentiful, however. 

He knows that as he progresses further down the street, and tucked away in a corner beside the iron works, there's a small entry where his ears catch obvious moans and the crude sound of skin slapping against each other. He pauses for a moment, craning his neck to look around the corner.

In broad daylight, he's shocked to find a woman with her hands pressed up against the mouldy wall in an attempt to steady herself. Her cheek is pressed against the wall, turning to face the passers by and her mouth is held open as her entire body rocks forward and backwards in a fluid motion. The grey fabric of her skirt is hiked up, exposing her legs and her ass, her white cotton panties sitting half-way down her thighs.

It's quite the sight to behold, truly.

Then there's her customer (from what he assumes). Dirty nails dig into her hips, keeping her skirt up as he fucks her against the wall. His teeth dig into his thin bottom lip, and the longer Graves' eyes linger the more he makes the connection between the man's attire and the clinking metal shovel of the factory sitting beside him.

He maintains a grimace as he passes the couple by, their indecency being so careless that he even finds himself wide eyed at what he has just encountered.

As he passes by the pub, he takes note of one of the officers patrolling the area. He's tubby, thick legs carrying him across the road. Allowing his eyes to follow him, he notes the way he lifts his hand to the brim of his tall black hat, tilting it in the direction of someone behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he follows the officers gaze to spot a man with a flat cap walking towards the pub.

'Afternoon MacTavish!' chimes the officer with a grin which Graves does not miss.

Tugging the cap off of his head, the man brushes his fingers through his mohawk. 'Afternoon sir!' he calls, placing the hat back on his head, walking merrily to the pub, leaving the officer to continue on his patrol.

Inwardly, he feels heat clawing at his insides from such an exchange. For the officer to be so friendly to someone who he knows for a fact is one of Price's lapdogs makes him sick to his very stomach. Both of them are making a mockery of a system which is supposed to be honoured.

Fortunately, he knows he is more than capable of dealing with him, therefore, there's no need to threat in the sight of such a friendly interaction; it will be one of his last.

Allowing his anger to stew, he proceeds with his adjective of arriving to the station knowing well that his men are waiting for him there and his arrival is expected of him. They will rid the streets of the mess, he's more than sure of it as he lifts his head, barely stepping over a filthy puddle as he continues with his pursuit of justice and fulfilment.

─

Walking through the doors, he pauses for a moment, lifting his head up to observe the sight he's been greeted with behind the bar. He's nearly winded as he sees you behind the bar, cleaning rag in your hand as you wipes down the bar with ease.

Unfamiliar with the sight of you, he approaches with ease, soaking in your dainty red cardigan. A grin meets his face as he approaches the bar, taking a seat, pulling the hat off of his head and placing it down on top of the bar.

You approach the man sitting opposite to you with a smile on your face, placing the cloth down as you bring your hands together. You recognise him; he's familiar and you find yourself trying to piece together which one he is from the reports you had been provided.

'What can I get for you, sir?' you chime politely.

He grins at your words, digging his hands into his pocket, 'whiskey please, lassie,' he answers, pushing the coin towards you.

Nodding promptly, you turn away from him and his eyes remain on you as you grab the glass bottle of whiskey from behind the counter. 'I've never seen you around 'ere, you new?'

Looking over your shoulder, you offer the man a smile, nodding your head as you turn to grab a glass, placing it on the counter as you unscrew the lid and pour the liquor into it.

'Trial shift,' you answer, 'moved from London to here.'

'Why would you ever wanna leave there?' he scoffs, 'exchanged the biggest city in the country to come to this shithole you have, bonnie,’ he says, picking up the glass and bringing it to his mouth.

'I could say the same thing to you; I imagine Scotland to be a lot nicer than the cities around here,' you respond, watching as the mans brow furrows. A small grin appears on your face and you fight off the urge to roll your eyes at his confusion. 'Your accent gives it away,' you explain, though you knew such even without hearing him open his mouth.

A bright grin forms on his face as he nods his head, almost seeming honoured at your acknowledgement of his home. If anything, you spy a sombre glint in his eyes as he nods his head, letting out a long exhale.

'Aye, you're right on that,' he says with a nod, 'a shame that bein' here is better for me than bein' home.'

'Do you not have family back home?' you ask.

'I do,' he says, watching as you slide the coin off of the bar, 'business n' work is 'ere though- makes it easier on me mam if I stay here; make a decent penny for myself and my family back at home.'

I'm sure you do.

'How long have you been living here?'

Part of you expects him to turn his nose up at the question you've asked him, for him to tell you that you're digging for too much. Besides, that's what people like him are usually like, right? Cold, untrusting, harsh. Yet, despite your assumption, you note the fact that his lips curl upwards.

'Not long,' he says, 'I served in the army during the war, got close to the boys in my regiment,' he explains, 'we fought tooth and nail together on the daily- had to learn how to trust each other and after everythin' we went through there, I don't think I could have left them,' he explains, 'bonded by experience, but not by blood.'

'Thank you for your service,' you respond genuinely.

'Nowt to thank me for, lassie; I did th’ easy part, kept me head down 'n followed orders,' he speaks with a smile, setting his empty glass down, grabbing another coin from his pocket. 

Carefully, you look around, spying the very fact that James is nowhere to be seen. So, you hold your hand up and shake your head, grabbing the bottle of whiskey, pouring some more into his cup.

'Hardly seems easy,' you answer, 'although, if you want me to, I'll take your word for it.'

'How about you, lass?' he asks, 'what made you wanna move from the city to a place like this? You're far too pretty to be working as a barmaid.'

His voice is sweet, his sentiment on the edge of being overbearing, though, you'd be a liar if you say his words were charming.

'I needed a break from there,' you answer, 'I worked as a barmaid in a pub in London, but during the last part of the war it was bombed and the owners didn't survive.'

He frowns at you.

'I'm sorry to hear that, bonnie,’ he says, grabbing his glass off of the bar.

'Not your fault,' you shrug, 'there was nothin' left for me in London after that so I moved, thought a change of scenery would be better... that's how I ended up here.'

'Well, I welcome ye to the city, even though y'u'd be better off elsewhere,' he breathes, pushing himself up from off of the bar stool, finishing the drink you have just poured him. 'Hope t' see you around more,' he says earnestly, looking to the right of you as the door behind the bar creeks open while placing the now empty glass down. 'Y' got yourself a good lass 'ere, Jay,' he calls to James, 'keep 'er for us, alright?'

Your cheeks flush red as he winks at you before leaving out of the door. James looks at you with a raised eyebrow, seemingly for some for of answer. The best you can offer him is the shrug of your shoulders as you grab the man's abandoned glass and busy yourself with cleaning it until the next customer walks through the door.

─

It's silent as he enters the room, something he's been accustomed too since his time in the police force back home. A grin meets his face, gleaming white teeth greeting all the men who stand behind their desks in their large office.

Really, they have been hard done by, their office is grand though, the interior and scent of tobacco really bring down the interior down in the grand scheme of things. Much more of a pub than an establishment of law and order.

His pointed leather shoes click against the wooden ground as he walks down one of the aisles between the desks, his eyes narrow as he looks over the faces of the police officers who look at him with raised brows. There's a fear etched on their faces; they know real justice has just burst through the door, and by the time that he leaves, he knows for a fact there will be a hole no one else will be able to fill.

Bringing his hands together, he tugs at the cuffs of his navy blue blazer, stepping upon the stage stationed at the front of the room. Pulling his hat from off of the top of his head, his expression remains stoic as he clears his throat, resting his hat on the oak podium before him.

'Now, I've been called here to right your wrongs, gentlemen!' he exclaims, looking out on the sea of black hats and coats. 'Get paid to do a job you can't even fuckin' do... that right, is it?' he asks, tilting his head to the side. Pursing his lips, he laughs to himself while shaking his head. 'No, of course not, y' get paid for this job and another, don't you? On the payroll of John Price, and all for what? Is his pay worth more than the cause you've committed your lives to, huh?'

No one speaks, not daring to interrupt him. 

If they did have their objections, he's more than sure they will air them out some other way- not to his face. Besides, it's insulting to have someone to come into your line of work and do it better than you ever could (not that he would know, of course).

'The streets of this city are flooded with the unholy, hell, even I'm convinced God has turned his back on this city 'cause no fuckin' Lord would wanna look down on here,' he laughs, placing his hands either side of the platform, leaning in. 'lucky for the Lord, I'm here to right the wrongs of all of you; you keep going like this: the corruption, the blind eye, the lies, why, you men might very well have assisted in the creation of hell on Earth.'

At the front of the crowd, he notes a man shifting, his thin lips moving as his wrinkle brow creases. It's unflattering; he's much too chubby to convey the sharpness he believes he's intending to show to warn the man off of continuing on his verbal tirade. Their eyes meet and Graves mends his posture, holding his hand out to the man.

'You got an issue?' he asks.

The man looks at him with wide eyes, opening his mouth to allow a breath to escape. There's nothing left for him to do aside from stammer over his words or keep his mouth shut. He picks the latter, bowing his head as Graves eyes him, though the man is not going to allow such an opportunity to get away from him. 

If he wants to speak, then he can speak.

'No goin' quiet on me now, officer!' he announces brightly, holding his arms out either side of him with a shit-eating grin on his face. The officer startles, quickly lifting his head up when he realises that the man on the podium is looking to him for an answer. ‘Go on, junior, talk to me. What's wrong?'

Much to his surprise, the man's eyes harden as he looks at him, speaking, 'I think we've all been doing a good job here,' he states.

Graves bursts out laughing.

Tilting his head back, he brings his hands together in an obnoxious manner, the clap resonating off of the walls of the room. He could cry with laughter, go red in the face with teary eyes after hearing such, though, he reels it in just enough to remain professional.

Professionality and mockery hardly go together nicely. Besides, he's supposed to be playing the role of good cop.

'Good one, officer,' he says with a smile, 'on my journey here, I saw two people fucking in an alleyway- and you mean to tell me that you're doing a good job at keeping everything in order?' he asks, 'bull-fucking-shit, sir! Couldn't be further from it, especially, when you're all still takin' hush money off of John Price.'

Despite the very fact that he believes all of them knew he's well educated when it comes to the ways of the lore, he's rendered breathless as he catches the paling faces of the officers in the room.

'You really thought I didn't know that?' he scoffs, 'well, gentlemen, no longer are you going to be obeying the word of Price; I have some men on hand to assist me,' he explains, looking in front of him to the door he walked through to get into the room. 'Come on in, Shadows!'

One by one, men dressed in informal attire walk through the door.

They file in strictly in a line, approaching the podium he's standing upon, walking to cover the space behind him. His expression softens at the sight of the individuals flooding through the doors all to stand by his side. As they continue through the doors he opens his mouth again to continue onwards with his speech.

'Today is a new dawn gentlemen, no longer are you going to allow yourselves to fall into the hands of the devil, oh no,' he smirks, 'today is the day you see the light! Where you are taken into the arms of myself and the Shadows and shown what you can be without John Price.'

It’s eccentric, he knows it as he speaks; he's hardly ever been one to bat an eye to the sky for longer than necessary. Though, admittedly, it's performative, it's somewhat of a calling for him. So, he takes his strides in colour as he looks over his shoulders at the men surrounding him.

'These men will be in uniform and on the look out for any signs of the missing guns as instructed by Mr. Churchill,' he explains, trailing his tongue over his bottom lip. Then, he turns to the men stationed behind him with a bright grin, his heart beaming with pride. 'Shadows, these officers are your brothers now, I expect you to treat them as you would a family member- there is solidarity to be established, and I hope I can trust you men to walk into the light and stray away from the darkness.'

There's nothing more to be said, he knows that and he's never really been one to outstay his welcome. So, with a short breath, he motions back towards the door they all appeared through, nodding his head.

'Any questions?' he asks as his men begin to file through the door.

Eyes meet his though no hands raise. Fortunately, he's covered everything they need to know and he got to insult them during such which is always a bonus.

'Good,' he smiles, 'I look forward to workin' with you men, make sure you make it worth both my time and your own, yeah?'

The only sound he can hear is the footsteps of the Shadows.

Trailing his tongue over the inside of his mouth, he exhales deeply in a similar manner to that of a disappointed father. 'I said,' he begins, 'make sure you make it worth both my time and your own, yeah?'

Heads turn as they look at each other before their eyes fall back onto his. In a collective tone, the entirety of the room of officers muster up a (pathetic) 'yes sir.'

It's enough to appease his appetite as he gives them another short nod.

'Tomorrow is a new day, gentlemen,' he says with a short nod, 'don't let the worries or commitments of today get in the way of our task; we're in this together,' he firmly states.

As though he's a victor walking out from battle, he leaves the room with his head raised high. His heart very well could have burst through his chest from the sheer adrenaline of such a situation. 

Change is imminent, however, and he knows that in life there's only three things people can't out run: death, taxes, and him.

─

As the day dies down and the sun begins to set, you find the night life in the city solely exists in the little pub you're working at. It's not necessarily a gruelling task, though, admittedly, you feel your chest tighten every time you think about Phillip getting to do the fun job. Meanwhile, you're sitting in a pub in smoke ridden air, and the only source of entertainment is the slurred conversations of the bumbling drunks.

Your back is hurting from how long you've been standing up and you can't quite place where and when Mr. Price is going to make his appearance. 

Of course, you met the Scot of their group earlier on in the day, though, he isn't the one you're after, nor the one who intrigues you so much. It's a simple ask, you think, to meet the man who has had the entirety of the government up in arms.

What's so bad about John Price?

Perhaps he is not as bad as people say he is, maybe, just maybe, for once, people have been incorrect about their assessment of someone. After all, you've been over his file time and time again searching for something terrible he has done. There are assumptions of his guilt- that he has done some truly despicable things and you suppose you're flawed in the sense that you're actively seeking some form of justification for the man whose eyes have stared back at you from the paper.

But how could someone who fought for order in the trenches fall so far from grace?

'Excuse me, love,' a voice calls.

You startle awake, a breath escaping you as you catch the very same eyes you have been so acquainted with for weeks on end. He's there, right in front of you, and he's looking at you. Nothing feels particularly real to you until he blinks; then you know he's more than a bit of ink on a page. Now, he's a living and breathing human being.

Your cheeks flush red as he continues to look at you and you find it a struggle to keep your mind trained on only one thing. Professionalism is chucked out of the window as you assess how he has changed from the photo in your file. He's much more mature, a full beard and the eyes branded with grey ink dark blue as he looks at you.

Taking a moment, you inhale deeply, smiling at him. 'Sorry, what can I get for you?' you ask, shrugging off the blatant internal panic. You settle quickly as he shifts, placing his hand on the inside of his blazer, grabbing a carton of cigars.

'Bottle of scotch,' he says simply.

Without another word, you nod your head and turn your back to him. The initial shock is dealt with; you knew you were going to meet him eventually and you suppose the first encounter is always going to be the scariest.

Still, as you turn around to address the man again, you find it difficult to see him committing some of the crimes he has been accused of committing.

'That will be....'

Price raises his eyebrow, the sudden change on his face leaving your mouth dry.

James appears beside you, quickly holding his arm out in front of you. His forearm presses against your stomach and you're moved back as he looks to John with a glint in his eyes.

'On the house as always, John,' he says firmly, not even bothering to give you a look. There's a caution in his tone, warning off the form of threat. Your brows furrow as you look to the man sitting in front of you. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey on the counter, you don't miss the smirk on his face as he looks at you before looking at James.

'We'll be in the side room. Do me a favour, love, get me four glasses and bring them to me,' he breathes before leaving. You watch idly as he walks away, jumping as a firm hand grabs your shoulder.

James looks down at you with weary eyes, his nostrils flared. 'Whenever he comes in- any of the men in the flat caps, you give them whatever they want on the house,' he says.

'Why?' you ask with furrowed brows, recalling how the Scot paid for his drink earlier on in the day.

'Because you just do,' he responds, 'when I say something is on the house, you do as I say and you listen to me. They don't pay for their drinks... now go and fetch him the glasses- don't keep him waiting.'

Letting go of your shoulder, he turns to grab four clean glasses, handing them to you. His brow is still wrinkled and you feel as though you have sinned in the eyes of Mr. Price. Such a reaction for such a simple blunder starts to have your mind switching. Perhaps he isn't as bad as your file on him describes him to be.

Perhaps he's worse than what they say.

The glasses in your hand feel heavy as you leave the safety of the bar, walking around to the small door located to the side. Fortunately, he's left the door open for you, and as you step into the room, you're surprised to see that there is only him.

Placing the glasses down onto the table, you quickly turn on your heel with the intent of leaving him. 

'In a rush?' he asks, humour dripping off of his tone as he chuckles.

'You have company,' you say, 'I don't want to get in the way of that, sir.’

There's a glint in his eyes as you look at him with a tight brow. You're expecting to be told off as he opens his mouth; you sense the disappointment in his eyes as he stares at you. Disgruntled, maybe, you're unsure; he's difficult to read aS you can't see his eyes under his hat.

As you move backwards to head back towards the bar, the door to your left is thrown open and you wince, staggering back in preparation for the hit. Only, you're pulled backwards, the warmth of the man standing behind you pressing against your back as a startled gasp escapes your mouth. His hold on you is firm and as you peer outwards, you catch sight of a man.

He's tall, of huge stature, similar to how you imagine minotaurs are built. Holding his hands against his head, he's rambling out silent curses, red rings around his eyes as he stumbles through the pub as though he is lost. His hands tremble as he pulls them off of his head, dragging them down his face with an exasperated sigh.

He looks haunted. Plagued.

Never in your life have you seen someone with such weight on their shoulders. He continues to ramble, sniffing as his eyes well with tears.

'T- They're gonna get me, they're gonna kill me, they're gonna kill everyone,' he blurts out.

Your heart aches at the very sight of him.

'Go home, Blake!' a voice barks from behind the bar.

You fight off the urge to snarl at the very sound of James’ voice. Of course, you're here for one thing and one thing only- to get the guns back, but, as you look at the man who is larger than life reduced to that of a trembling infant, you struggle to fight off your sympathies for the people in the city.

Corruption and war has destroyed this place.

Mr. Price pulls you to the side before letting go of your waist. Much to your surprise, he approaches the man who even towers over him, despite his large build. Blake doesn't flinch when Price grabs his face, nor does he stop trembling as the man looks him in the eyes.

'You're home, mate,' he utters, his tone guttural as he looks the man dead in the eyes.

'T- They're here, I can hear them- I can hear them Cap'n,' croaks the man, 'hiding in the walls, waitin' to pounce on me... they're waitin' to kill me. I can hear them scratchin’. Cap'n- why aren't you doin' anything to stop them?'

You watch as Mr. Price barely manages to heave out a breath as he keeps a tight hold on the man's face. There's something between the pair of them, a bond you note from the way he's gone out of the way to look out for the petrified man.

'I did do somethin' to make 'em stop, Blake,' he says softly, 'remember? Got you out of the war, didn't I?' he asks. 'We're home mate, we're not in the trenches- nowhere near the enemy now, yeah?' he coaxes with such gentleness that the fear in James' expression moments prior seems pointless.

There's a shift as his body hardens and he blinks a few times- it seems the wires in his brain have been switched. Seemingly having been cured by the man whom so many fear.

'Oh shit,' he breathes as Price releases his hold on him. 'Did I do it again?' he asks, looking around the rest of the pub. You're sure they're all looking at him despite being sheltered rom most of the guests in the small room you're standing in.

'Yeah,' Price confirms briefly, patting the taller man on the shoulder.

'I- I'm sorry Cap'n I didn't realise, b- but I swear I heard them, I heard the gun shots—'

'At ease, private,' Price states sharply, keeping him from blabbering onwards about his troubles. It seems to clear his foggy mind in an instance as he nods his head.

'Sorry,' mumbles the man as a child would when being scolded by their father.

'Go home,’ instructs the latter, 'go back home to your missus and little girl, they're waiting for you, Blake; you're home and you're safe- but if you keep doin' this, you're gonna get yourself in more trouble than it is worth, right?'

The door behind you squeals again and you're greeted with the sight of Johnny and two other men standing behind him. John looks to the trio, 'Johnny, take him home for me,' he instructs.

'C'mon Blake,' Johnny says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, pulling him along with him. If the man didn't want to go with him, he truly had no choice as the Scot practically pulled him out of the door. Still, you don't move from the little room, simply standing and watching as the entire scene unfolds before you.

John slowly turns to address the room, and it's when he does this that you finally take a moment to step out and see that everyone in the pub is staring at him. Despite the eyes, he doesn't seem bothered- in fact, a sneer appears on his face.

'He's gone, stop looking,' he harshly states with a shake of his head.

It's as though he's cast some sort of spell on everyone as they all snap their heads away from the scene of the crime, opting to go back to whatever conversations they were having prior.

'You need to get him under control John; he was one step away from wrecking the fuckin' place again,' James barks from behind the bar, the fear he had moments before dissipating as he yells at the man. 'I'm not payin' you to keep this place safe for nothin'.'

Instead of answering the man, Price turns his attention back to you as you're standing in the doorway. You feel his eyes trail over your body, though, from the look on his face, you're quite sure pervertedness is not his motive. Such is confirmed as he reaches his hand out to grasp your forearm, ignoring the two men standing behind him.

'If you had listened to me,' he begins lowly, 'you wouldn't have almost been knocked out by the door.'

His grasp on your arm is light, although, you're more than aware that the hand holding you has blood on it. Even if it has been washed thoroughly with soap and water, you're sure in the night whenever he dreams, the red stain will always be a recurring character; no one can escape such, you know that and you know that well.

Despite his manner being that of a stern father, there's something in his tone that states that he knows better than you. You're not beyond acknowledging that, yes, if he didn't pull you out of the way, you very well would have been on the floor with a broken nose gushing with blood.

Even then, with the way he addresses you, you can't help the twist in your gut, the demeaning eyes of a man on you causing your skin to crawl.

'I would have been fine,' you retort sharply, 'I've been hit harder than that,' you add.

With that, you pull your arm out of his grasp, moving past him and back into the main part of the pub. You feel his eyes remaining on you as you leave, though, you don't flinch nor do you offer any form of reaction.

You’re here for the guns, not the enemy. 

─

'You've got t' stop doin' this, mate,' Johnny states, walking beside the man as they grow further and further away from the pub. The taller man walks beside him, hanging his head as though he's a toddler who has been scolded by his parents. His arms hang against his side, feet kicking stones on the road as he listens to the Scot. 'If y' don't stop, you're only gonna get y'urself in more trouble- I don't want that for ye, none of us do.'

It's difficult to stomach the sight of his brother beside him, ho he's rotting from the inside out all because that dastardly mind of his incapable of forgetting. Sure, he can't be blamed; Johnny knows well the effects of war. But, there comes a time where he's going to have to man up, and such a time is required right now rather than later.

'I- I'm trying, Johnny, I swear to you that I'm trying my best,' he reassures him. Speaking with his heart only worsens the feeling in the Scots; he knows he sincere, in fact, that's the worst part. 'It's jus'... I'll be fine, but I'll be playing with Esme with her toys an' the littlest thing sets me off.' His voice is strained as he speaks and he lifts his arms up to rub his face. 'A- And then I'm back there, 'm in the trenches with you, John- everyone. I can't breathe, I'm trapped there and I'm convinced they're going to kill me.'

He's on the verge of tears as he speaks, Johnny even feels his own throat tighten at his ramblings.

'I- If I could be okay, I would be, I want nothin' more than to be like you... to be like Cap'n, but I can't and I don't know what's wrong with me.'

Digging his hand into his blazer, he pulls out a carton of cigarettes, looking upwards towards the night sky. The street is empty, the only things he can hear being the crunching of stones and Blake's hoarse breaths.

'I thought when I got out everything would be better... but the guilt of everythin'—'

'Blake,' Johnny sharply says, striking a match and lighting the cigarette between his lips. 'John told you it's fine, y’ gotta stop feelin' bad about what happened.'

'B- But if I was able to cope better then—'

'What happened wasn't y'ur fault and you know that,' he states, taking a drag from his cigarette, 'an' I'm not gonna let you think that you're the only one who has trouble with coping; what we saw out there was sent up from hell.'

'I don't think Luci could even be that horrible,' Blake responds, rubbing his hands together. 'I jus' wanna forget.'

'An' ye will, mate,' Johnny answers, taking a drag from the cigarette, 'y' will do, it's just gonna take time to get there.'

He wonders if there is any timeline where the memories of war would not follow him around. 

Perhaps there is, perhaps Blake will forget in due time, although, the longer he looks at him the more he considers the very fact that there is something in the man that is broken. There's no cure to solve a bad memory, no medicine to make it feel better and he dreads to think that one day, they might have to resort to the only solution that can fixed his knotted brain.

It's a pity it's permanent.

As they continue down the road, he passes the cigarette in his hand to the man standing beside him. He takes it with a trembling hand as they continue to progress further down the road. Neither of them say anything as they walk, simply relishing in the silence between them; Johnny supposes he just need some fresh air and alone time with his thoughts to make everything.

Though, such doesn’t last too long as in the distance there's a sound. 

It's almost too faint to catch their ears, though, the pair of them are no fools. 

For a single moment, it's as though the pair of them are back in the trenches, where the silence of the nighttime dissipating in the matter of seconds after the first gunshot rang out at dawn.

The cigarette in Blake's hand drops to the ground as he snaps his head to Johnny. They stand in the middle of the street for a moment, awaiting the second ring of a gun. Johnny keeps his eyes narrowed on his surroundings.

'You heard that too, right?' Blake asks quickly, 'that one wasn't in me head, it wasn't, right? That was an actual gunshot.’

Johnny offers him a nod.

'C'mon, lets get you home before anythin' else happens.'

��𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

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[ohblackdiamond]

little rock 'n' roll (sexswap paul, nc-17)

Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

Prequel to "little t&a," detailing what Paul was up to during the first days of the sexswap curse, prior to Gene showing up at his house. Weird, psychosexual.

Sexswap fic. Complete.

Notes: This was in the works for awhile after “little t&a,” mostly as something to play around with for my own amusement when I was struggling with other fics. I didn’t really intend to post it initially but received some kind feedback, so I eventually spliced what I had together. This is, basically, the prequel to “little t&a,” and chronicles what Paul was doing the days prior to Gene showing up to his house.

“little rock ’n’ roll”

A bit over a month left before the new tour kicked off. Paul was more than ready for it. He hadn’t had a really good lay since the little chick from CBGB a week or two before. It was hard to summon up the will to chase girls down when he knew that on the road, they’d give in without him having to lift a finger or even say a word. At home, it was just too much effort for too little payoff.

At home, he’d get too self-involved, too, a great recipe for depression and disaster. Hilsen had given him various antidepressants and benzos off and on, but the side effects were all just impossible, so he wasn’t consistent with them. This one caused nausea. That one caused dry mouth and sometimes hives. And every single one was inadvisable with alcohol. 

He knew Gene would think less of him if he knew that half the reason Paul rarely partook in the drug scene was his myriad prescriptions, instead of just his ear. He didn’t really care.

He finished off half his dinner (take out from a restaurant a couple miles away), then drew a bath. It was important, allegedly, to stay engaged, to stave off gloomy feelings, so he started on a mental to-do list as he soaked in the tub. He needed to re-dye his hair a little closer to the tour. He’d get Bobby for that, if Bobby wasn’t too coked out for the job. There’d probably be a few promotional photoshoots beforehand that they’d need Bobby for, too. He needed to send Hilsen a finalized (to a point) tour schedule, just so he’d have an idea on when to be on call for him. Not that he called Hilsen constantly or anything, just… just every few days. And he didn’t really have to, but he wanted to call up Bill about KISS’ rider, too, to prevent any bitching from Peter once the tour got underway.

There. All that might keep him occupied for awhile, though it wouldn’t fill out weeks. Once the tour rehearsals were underway, that would kill the rest of his free time. He sunk his head down into the water, trying to zone out, only to raise it back up at a slight, odd feeling of pain. 

Huh. His nipples were weirdly sore. Even obscured by the water, they looked vaguely puffy. Paul poked at one, getting another twinge of soreness, and sat up in the tub to get a better look. They were definitely slightly swollen. Weird. Not one of his normal complaints at all-- not a gut issue or a mental one. But it was so minor that he felt like calling up a doctor would be overkill. He got out of the tub, dried off and headed to bed, trying to think no more of it.

-- 

The first slight alterations had already begun by the time the demon entered his bedroom. Marbas was there only to speed things along to their inevitable conclusion, catalyzing the curse with a touch of one bloodstained finger to the sleeping man’s mouth. His lips closed around the finger in his sleep, tongue latching on and suckling away the blood, taking it into himself and sealing his fate.

The changes went from negligible to obvious from there, before Marbas even pulled away. In fact, the man’s body was conforming almost too easily to the magic being wrought on him. Usually, for a curse this drastic, there’d be more resistance, despite all of Marbas’ usual precautions. Marbas didn’t expect him to awaken during the transformation, but a struggle wouldn’t have been out of place as his body warped and reshaped itself. The man was just letting it happen, letting himself gradually be erased.

Marbas wasn’t interfering too much, allowing the curse itself to do most of the work for him. The girl’s offering, that smear of her blood– freely given, and freely taken– imbued with Marbas’ own power, was softening up the man’s facial features, his chest. It was like watching someone underwater. His five o’clock shadow disappeared entirely and the skin beneath reworked itself; almost blurred for vague moments before reshaping into a smaller chin and a less distinct jawline. He lost a few inches of height, shoulders and torso almost caving in on themselves, body diminishing substantially. He hadn’t been naturally lanky to begin with, and the woman he was becoming was too well-built to be scrawny. Not overweight at all, but not curvaceous, and certainly not delicate. A healthy, if somewhat ordinary frame so far, though his breasts were continuing to swell well after his hips and ass had stopped. Most of his copious body hair had vanished, except for a thin trail pointing down from around his navel. That trail was starting to spill down into a patch of dark curls at his groin. He decided to leave that alone.

The man shifted, made a sharp little cry. Smaller, still long-fingered hands scrambled blindly, then curled around his bent knees. Trembling all the way down to his toes. He was coiling into himself, tossing and turning helplessly as the transformation neared its completion. Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

His head lolled, curly, dark hair slipping down. For a moment, Marbas thought there’d been a mistake after all-- the man was missing most of his ear-- but then, looking at it, he judged the deformity to be much like the scars and moles, something that had been there awhile. Interesting, and not worth resolving. Marbas could have reshaped and refined him endlessly, but given no direction from the girl on how she wanted him to look, he was content to leave the man as he was, more or less as he would have been if born female.

He’d sleep for a long time yet. Transformations were too exhausting for mortals to endure otherwise. Marbas left the room, not curious enough to wait on the man to discover what had happened to him.

–

(mama, stan hit me!)

(she wouldn’t let me play with it!)

(she’s a doll! you can’t play with her!)

He shoved both chubby hands into the pockets of his overalls. Julia’s still-red cheek proved her claim. He had hit her for snatching back the doll. But he hadn’t thought she would care. Julia was a big girl. Six years old. She went to school now and she didn’t want to play with him at all anymore. And the doll was just lying in the middle of the living room untouched,with its big green eyes and long blonde hair and fancy blue ruffled dress. It had shoes and stockings-- he had taken the shoes off, but not the stockings, before Julia had grabbed the doll back from him. 

(i wanna play with it! you weren’t playing with it!)

(boys don’t play with dolls!)

He reached for the doll again anyway, gripping the hem of its dress. He heard the faint sound of ripping fabric. But the dress hadn’t ripped. He felt something very odd, very funny, tingling and hot, pulling and twisting. He was yanking at the straps of his overalls, trying to tug them down-- it was just so hot-- only the overalls weren’t overalls at all anymore. Just a dress. The doll’s dress, the cuffed sleeves like manacles on his arms, the ruffles itching against his neck, it was all so strange, so stifling, the heat in his body almost unbearable-- 

He jerked awake only briefly before falling asleep again.

-- 

Paul didn’t usually oversleep much, thanks to all the years of being on the road. They’d leave the hotels way before the ten a.m. checkout, each of them slogging out of their shared rooms, suitcases in hand, clambering to the lobby and then to what passed for their tour bus. Up until recently, that was how it had been-- now, at least, he didn’t have to carry his own suitcase. But it was midmorning before he managed to shake off the last vestiges of sleep and sort of open his eyes, turning his head to check the time. 

10:40. Pretty bad. He made a mumbling sound. Really, he was starting to feel pretty sick. Or, rather, he felt like he was getting over an illness. His whole body felt weirdly drained. He reached for the phone on the nightstand-- eyes shooting wide open at the sight of his arm.

It wasn’t right. It was too small, too thin. There was a bit of muscle, but the shape and size was completely wrong. It wasn’t his arm, even as he flexed the too-small fingers and bent the elbow back and forth. His wrist looked tiny. His skin felt funny. His breaths were catching in his throat, both hands suddenly shaking as he threw off the covers entirely, and stared, horrified, at the rest of himself.

It wasn’t just his arm that was wrong. It was his whole body. Every inch of it.

His chest-- he had actual breasts like a chick would have. They were large and heavy. Absolutely no hair on them at all. Stomach mostly bare, even. His torso didn’t have nearly its usual blockiness. His hips looked strange, jutting distinctly-- even his legs looked far more than subtly wrong, and between his legs… 

No. No way. It wasn’t that there was nothing there. Just nothing he was remotely familiar with. Not from this perspective. A shift, spreading his legs, made it obvious. He didn’t have a cock anymore. He was a girl now. Every single bit of his body veered straight towards that single, inexorable fact.

He hadn’t taken anything, so he must’ve still been asleep. That weird dream about the doll had just morphed into another dream, that was all. A dream where he was suddenly a chick. That was all. Wasn’t it? Paul remembered the bit about pinching yourself to wake up from a dream, and tried it, pinching the skin on his wrist. All it did was confirm that it was very much attached. He tried again, this time biting several of his fingers in turn, right between the knuckles, a bad habit from childhood. Nothing. And all that moving around only meant he caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror over on the other side of his bedroom. He flinched at the sight, at first, only stealing occasional, horrified glances before forcing himself to sit up properly on the bed and look at his own reflection.

He didn’t want to get any closer to the mirror, to really inspect himself. But even peering over from those few feet away, he could tell he was a little bit pretty. But only a little. He had gotten picky enough that he would have no more than glanced at a girl that looked like… like he did now. He had the same mop of dark brown curls as always. He had the same big eyes and full lips. He could still sort of recognize aspects of his face, even with most of his features (particularly, irksomely, his chin) smaller or softer. It was the coldest of comforts.

He ran his fingers down his face, the unfamiliar feel of an utterly smooth chin and jaw making his stomach churn. Down his neck, down those slimmer arms, catching sight of the rose tattoo on his shoulder. Still there. Down finally to his breasts, drawing back at his own brief touch. He didn’t want to feel past that; just looking at himself, hell, just pressing his thighs together, the dull, strangely empty pressure there, was frightening enough.

He cried for what felt like an hour. Just sobbed himself back to sleep like a little kid.

When he woke back up, body no different at all, he stayed in bed until he got hungry. Then he grabbed a bathrobe, half-stumbling to the kitchen. His center of gravity was badly off. His chest was throwing him off the worst. Each movement felt like his whole body was encased in a glove that didn’t quite fit properly. That drained feeling he’d had since he first woke up wasn’t going away at all. Nothing felt right. He felt-- he was kind of clumsy. Nothing was comfortable. Hell, even his bathrobe didn’t fit correctly anymore on him, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too broad. The ends of the belt drooped nearly to his knees.

He made himself two cheese sandwiches, followed up with a glass of water. Eating helped more than he’d expected. He was perversely glad that his appetite didn’t seem enormously different.

He’d have to do something. He’d have to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Well, he knew what the hell had happened to him, but--

Think. He needed to think. Where had he gone over the last couple of days? Had he gone anywhere? He’d gotten take-out lately, a bad habit from the road. He’d slept with… oh, four or five girls since the end of the tour, in scattered hotels rather than in his house. He didn’t really like bringing girls home; it felt invasive, and it made the girls think they actually had an in with him. He hadn’t spent the night with any of those chicks, either. Then he’d… where else had he gone? God, he couldn’t remember.

He let out what would’ve been a much lower grunt under normal circumstances, then stopped himself, caught a little off-guard from the pitch. He swallowed, morbidly curious despite himself. What did he really sound like right now? It took another breath before he was willing to test a word out.

“Fuck.” God, it was obnoxiously high. He’d always thought his real voice was too high as it was, and had tried sometimes to lower it for interviews, but this was ten times worse. At least to his own ear, it seemed like he was on the verge of squeaking. “Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it…”

Could he recognize it? Was it still his voice, the way it was still, at least to some degree, his face? The way his tattoo was still on his shoulder? Two words weren’t really enough to tell.

“She sells seashells by the seashore. Seashore. Sea-shore.” No good. The sentence was a bit too obvious for his tongue to trip over as readily, even as shaken-up as he was. He’d be better off picking words. “This. Distinct. Whistle.”

The lisp was still there. Faint while he was concentrating on the words, trying to move his tongue the right way, but present all the same. Paul took a breath, then shoved a hand through the matted curls on the right side of his face, only drawing back when he felt the familiar, awful remnant of his right ear. That settled it for certain. On some level, he had his own body, with all its failings and imperfections. Just rearranged. Tugged into a new shape. One he didn’t want to stay in. Paul closed his eyes. His throat felt tight as he tried to decide what to do next. There had to be something. What had happened to him couldn’t possibly be permanent.

He thought about it for awhile, but it was several hours before he managed to eke out the nerve to do anything at all about it. His palms were sweating when he finally reached for the phone, calling up Aucoin Management. Not Bill’s personal number-- he couldn’t face Bill now, any better than he could face any of the guys. Fuck, Bill might in some ways be worse to deal with right now than even Gene. He’d always felt like he was Bill’s favorite, the way Peter was clearly Sean’s. To picture Bill even getting an inkling of what had happened to him, or worse, thinking he was crazy-- he’d never be able to handle it.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Stanley’s secretary.”

Bill’s secretary, Linda West, sounded like she was smiling, even over the phone.

“He has a secretary now?”

Paul choked out something like a giggle. 

“He, uh, wanted me to get some books on the occult sent over.”

“What kind?”

“Oh, ones on magic and summoning spirits.” Paul’s knowledge of the occult only went about as far as Dark Shadows, a couple Night Gallery episodes and seeing an interview with Anton LeVay on T.V. as a teenager. He knew some kids in high school that dabbled in magic and Ouija boards, that kind of thing--back then, it was really in. He’d had his palm read a couple times, and even now, he checked his horoscope pretty regularly, especially on tour. He’d always figured there was something to it, probably, but it wasn’t something he’d wanted to get involved in. Now he was involved in it. “Could you get a spellbook, maybe?”

“A spellbook?”

“He’s trying to do some research. Look, just--get it, okay? Have it expedited over to his house. A couple books. It’s really important.”

“I think this is a little unusual for Mr. Stanley.”

“I do, too.” A nervous laugh. “Would… would you like me to, uh, have him authorize--”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll have some books sent tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up the phone, exhaling hard. Amazing that it had actually worked. There. He’d do his research, find out what could be done about it, and, well, go from there. They still had a little over a month before the new tour started. Whatever happened to him might even wear off before the books even got to his door. Yeah. Yeah. 

-- 

The next morning, he was still no different physically. The only thing that had started to fade a bit was that sickly, sapped feeling. He was moving around a little better, too; he didn’t feel like he was quite as off-balance, though his strides still weren’t completely smooth. Somehow, he was adjusting to whatever new female baseline he occupied now. That was terrifying in itself. 

He put on the bathrobe again. Then he dug in his drawers for underwear, deciding it probably wasn’t that hygienic to be up and about without it. The thought of trying to wear briefs in his current state was depressing, so he put on one of the few pairs of boxers he owned instead, trying not to think too much of what they used to contain. It was hard not to when he had to tighten the drawstrings so much just to keep them from falling off.

The books were at his doorstep by noon, and he spent the next four hours reading them, stopping only to eat his leftovers from two days before.. He’d ended up with an assortment of what he realized was the real stuff. Translated grimoires. Paul was fairly indifferent even to Judaism, and a little antagonistic towards the fading remnants of the Jesus freaks, but on the same token, he didn’t feel great looking at all those weird sigils and pentagrams. Knowing, or figuring, anyway, that something in these books had to have been responsible for his current form made him queasy. It didn’t help that most of the demons in the book seemed relegated to alchemy, discovering secrets, and, weirdly, battlefields. 

The Secret Lore of Magic had an index. He turned it to “transformations” and started flipping through the references.

“Like  the  previous  spirit,  Ose  is  able  to  transform  people  into  whatever  form  they  will.  He  causes  delusions  and  insanity  if  required.  Those  who  have  been  changed by him may not know it, and continue to behave as they normally do, in spite of their altered appearance.”

Huh. Well, it probably wasn’t Ose, then. He definitely knew what had happened to him. 

“Zepar… a strong Duke, he can change people into any shape they desire. He can make a woman love any man, at the magician’s command.”

Terrifying. Hopefully Gene never got hold of this book. He reached for the next one, The Lesser Key of Solomon, which, when he opened it up, had a subtitle: Goetia: The Book of Evil Spirits. Paul swallowed thickly. This one was even worse, with its explicit instructions on exactly how to invoke and cast away dozens of demons.

His mother would kill him for owning a book like that, much less reading it. Then again, his mother probably wouldn’t recognize him right now. The thought made his heart drop suddenly to his stomach, and he shoved the book off the table to the floor.

Only for it to open by itself a second later, right to one short entry.

“The fifth Spirit is Marbas. He is a Great President, and appeareth at first in the form of a Great Lion, but afterwards, at the request of the Master, he putteth on Human Shape. He answereth truly of things Hidden or Secret. He causeth Diseases and cureth them. Again, he giveth great Wisdom and Knowledge in Mechanical Arts; and can change men into other shapes.”

Just a paragraph. Just a paragraph, but it was enough that his palms started to sweat.

-- 

He read up in the other books about Marbas, but didn’t get much more information. He reread the summoning ritual, but it still made him too nervous to even think about attempting. What would he even do, if he summoned him? He didn’t need to contend with the demon, who probably hadn’t done this to him just for kicks. He needed to figure out who had made the demon transform him, but that had its own problems. Nobody would benefit from Paul being a woman, nobody. He had enemies, sure– every band they’d opened for probably had a bone to pick with him and the rest of KISS– but he couldn’t think of a single person willing, and crazy enough, to inflict this on him. 

He kept mulling it over anyway. The guys in Blue Oyster Cult were pretty weird and geeky (Gene had sort of liked them), but they weren’t malicious and as far as Paul knew, they didn’t actually practice black magic. He didn’t even know the guys in Black Sabbath. Alice Cooper? He didn’t know Alice, either, but he’d always been pretty sure his schtick was just a schtick. Paul pursed his lips. Had to be somebody. Maybe one of Neil Bogart’s rivals was jealous– no, that made no sense at all– Paul jerked a bit in his chair when he heard the phone ring. He had already gotten up and reached for it by the time he remembered not to answer it. Three rings. Four. Five.

His answering machine was in his bedroom. He padded off to check, hearing his own recorded voice just before the caller started up.

“Hey, this is Paul Stanley. If you’ll leave me your name and number, I’ll be reaching out as soon as possible. Thanks.”

“Hey, Paul. This is Peter.” There was a short pause. “I just wanted to say hello. I haven’t seen you much since the tour. Call me back when you can.”

Peter. Paul groaned. It seemed as if that one phone call started an avalanche. Six calls, from everyone from Bill to Hilsen to Bill’s secretary again, among others, in three hours. Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, either hearing the messages or hearing the rings. He had to get out of there, had to escape the reminders that he wasn’t himself right now, that people were already reaching out to him, wondering about him. 

He didn’t get far. Just downstairs, where he didn’t have a phone installed. But there were still plenty of reminders there. KISS’ gold albums. More tour junk, albeit mostly in boxes. He tried to push that out of his mind, focus on his album collection instead, mostly bought in bulk after KISS had hit it big. Every record he’d ever wanted, and more than he had time to play. 

He had time now. He had, officially, been stuck like this for over twenty-four hours. He swallowed and started looking through his collection. His latest on-again off-again girlfriend (now off, with no hope of reconciliation if this continued) had given him an old Four Tops record he didn’t feel like playing. He also had one of Cher’s albums, and, for whatever reason, Olivia Newton-John’s latest effort, although girl singers, on the whole, never had appealed to him much. No, right now he wanted something rough, something with an edge to it. He settled for the Stones’ “Exile on Main Street,” plunking down on the couch to the in-out weaving of Richards and Taylor and Jagger’s craggy, agitated vocals. 

(i only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping)

(only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping) 

Paul shifted on the couch. More lyrics. Mick’s girls, at least in songs, were always giving him problems. He never seemed willing to bare whatever was left of his heart for them, with the possible exception of “Angie.” Mostly he and Keith wrote about one-night-stands. The old fuck-me suck-mes that Paul was so prone to himself. Only theirs were better. Grittier. Paul always felt like there was something that, as a writer, he could only imitate, and never really reach. 

Maybe this forced perspective might give him some ideas. His nose wrinkled at the thought. Mick couldn’t even be appealing talking about one of the things he’d always been curious about with girls. 

(i can’t seem to stay in step, ’cause she come every time that she pirouettes on me)

He knew they could do it. Come more than once in a row. It wasn’t a girlie magazine myth-- he’d seen it happen. He’d done it to about a dozen groupies that he knew of, and at least one girlfriend. He ought to be able to do it to himself. He pursed his lips, shifting from his side to his back, stretched across the length of the couch as the next track played, untying his bathrobe. He hadn’t really even looked down there any more than he’d had to earlier, but he reached down, beneath the boxers, cupping his pussy with his hand for a few seconds before letting a finger delve inside. Almost instantly, he could feel himself tighten up, way too much, strange and sore, like he’d gone in too far, even though he’d barely gone in at all. Curiously, he wasn’t even wet. He tried again, meeting the same conclusion, and finally just stopped, shifting and readjusting his position on the couch, spreading his legs wide, knees bent, one resting against the couch, the other dangling towards the floor.

He pushed the boxers down further, too, and, nervously, leaned forward for a better look as he prodded around with his fingers. He at least found his clit, nestled, tiny and useless, between his folds. Touching it wasn’t helping; it was too sensitive. Nothing about this whole experience was anything like masturbating with a dick, or anything like his experiences fingering actual women. 

Maybe he needed to use his imagination a bit to ease himself in, although that wasn’t typical for him.  He didn’t usually have to start off with a fantasy. He could let his mind wander as long as the mechanics were there. But already, he could tell that wasn’t going to work now. He was just too dry. 

Maybe something was wrong with him. Stuck in a body that couldn’t even orgasm. Another part of the curse. He flinched, trying to concentrate. A fantasy, okay. Paul would usually pull out a mental composite of a Playboy playmate, wavy blonde hair, green or blue eyes, with heavy, heaving breasts and a tiny waist. It was hard to get as excited over that picture now that too much of it mirrored himself. He couldn’t even imagine properly fucking her while he was shoving a finger inside his pussy.

Okay. Okay. Maybe something a little off his usual preferences. Paul had fooled around with guys a bit, primarily Ace and Peter and the occasional gay bar denizen. He felt weird fantasizing about either of them, though. Ace would probably laugh at him right now, and Peter, well, he just didn't fit the bill. Maybe… maybe someone he made up. He shut his eyes, going at himself a little easier, sketching out the features in his head. Tall, masculine. Not like the pretty boys Bill was so fond of, nothing effete or weak. Swarthy complexion, dark eyes. Hell, he didn’t even have to be handsome, just have that reassuring presence, that feeling of security–

His breath hitched as he realized who he’d started to conjure up, his hand stilling to a stop. He shoved his boxers back up, retied his robe, and headed for the bathroom, washing his hands, trying to avoid looking at his own face in the mirror, the flush in his cheeks. He had to get hold of himself a little better. Had to.

--

By the third day the phone had started ringing almost constantly. He was starting to get nervous, really nervous, about everything. If this was permanent. How he’d explain himself if it was. What would happen to the band. Just thinking about all that crap was enough to make him want to cry or vomit. 

He’d taken to napping during the day, half-hoping he’d wake up as his normal self, and half-hoping for solace, only to find he couldn’t escape there, either. He’d started having weird dreams. His sister and the doll again, only now the dream would just keep going. He’d be in the doll’s dress. He was nearly Julia’s size, despite the two years between them. Julia was sitting beside him, there in her neat blouse and skirt. She had a school satchel, too, and brown patent leather school shoes. They made a little clacking sound on the linoleum when she’d come home. 

(you want to play?)

(you’re gonna play with me?)

(you don’t play with me anymore)

Julia looked offended, but she nodded.

(you’re my sister)

(no i’m not)

(yes you are)

(i’m not)

(then why’re you wearing that?)

(i don’t know)

(don’t you want to play?)

He did. Enough that he scooted up closer. 

(what are we going to play?)

He never found out. Time swirled forward strangely. Julia yelling at him. He’d goaded her into it. He picked at her sometimes. It was easy. Julia was doing worse in school than he was when she even bothered to show up to class. Julia was embarrassing the whole family with all her crap. Running around with not just hippies, but freaks, smoking dope-- he’d only tried it once himself-- sleeping around. It made him feel better to push her buttons. Like less of a failure. Nothing had turned out right for him, either. He was just as much an outcast at his fancy art school as he’d been in his regular public school. He’d thought he could escape himself, be new, and instead he was still some half-deaf, fat kid that couldn’t get anyone’s attention, good or bad, that was poorer than anyone else going to that damn school, that had a sister who was nuts, that– 

(shut up!)

(shut up!)

(you’re just like me anyway! you bitch, you’re fucked up the same way!)

(i know why you see that shrink! i know all about that!)

(no you don’t! you don’t, you don’t!)

But she did. Paul was certain she did. Forward just slightly. He was in the backseat of a ’63 Chevy with a girl. He had three of his classes with her. They’d never talked too much, but he felt warm around her, wanted to take her out, if she’d go out with him. She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t really matter. Sometimes they just fooled around anyway. He got a bit of a thrill out of that, even if she wouldn’t ever go close to all the way, a thrill and a stab of guilt. She was on his lap, nearly-bare thighs pressed soft against his jeans, her skirt’s hem just a crumpled whisper of fabric. 

(we need to stop this, it’s not right) 

God, he was dying. His jeans were so damn constraining; she was on his lap and here she was worried about cheating when he was the one taking her scraps. He groaned, trying to think of a line, like those old movies that’d come on during the weekends. 

(of course it’s not right, baby)

(i don’t mean him.)

(it’s sick)

(this is really sick)

Forward, forward. Julia in her second trimester. Hadn’t even seen the guy in months, of course. More shame. She was rarely around, but his parents were praying that would change once the baby came. They were hoping Julia would just sign her parental rights over. That was how bad things had gotten. Paul fumed whenever he thought about it. He was probably going to have to forfeit his room for the baby. Money was going to be tight. He might not even get anything from his parents to help foot college next September. His father pulled him aside before dinner one evening.

(don’t you dare put our family through this)

(don’t you ever get pregnant)

Paul stared at him stupidly. He was already taller than his father. Had a mustache and the start of mutton chops at seventeen.

(what are you talking about?)

(i’m not, i can’t--)

He woke with a start, the afternoon sun peeking through the blinds, shivering, and the same. Mechanically, he got up, washed his face, made a sandwich. His new routine was nearly his old routine, off-tour, only now he didn’t have the stage and the grandeur to look forward to. No mass of screaming fans. No pretty girls in his bed. His whole world yanked out from under him, all the hopes he’d obsessed over since he first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Every ring of the phone and every unplayed message made it clear. He was out. As long as he had this body, he was out entirely. 

He heard a car pull up. He had no intentions of answering it, not at first, but he peered out through the kitchen blinds. It looked like Peter’s car, and then, suddenly, he realized it was Peter’s car. His pulse started to speed, just a little, and despite himself, he crossed over to the living room, aiming to get a better look from the open windows there. Peter got out of the car and headed up the walkway, towards the front porch.

He’d come alone. What had he come for? What did he want? He had called, sure, but he hadn’t sounded urgent. Was he pissed off at him? Had something happened with Bill or Ace or, hell, even one of the roadies? 

Would he tell a random girl? 

In the end, his own curiosity and loneliness got the better of him. When Peter rang the bell, Paul opened the door. 

“Hey.” 

“Hello.” Peter looked mild enough, for Peter. Only a little perturbed. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and three or four cross necklaces. Typical Peter. His lip curled a little as he surveyed Paul, there in just his bathrobe. Peter had no idea he’d seen Paul in far less at least a hundred times on tour. “Is Paul here?” 

“No.”

“He let you stay here without him?” Peter frowned. “That ain’t like him.”

“He’s not here, Pete.” Oh, shit. Peter raised an eyebrow. Paul’s heart felt like it caught somewhere in his throat as Peter’s eyes searched his face, sizing him up yet again. He could feel his face flush, and he had to shove his hands in his bathrobe pockets to keep their trembling from being noticeable.

“Have I seen you before?”

“No! No. He’s not here. Go away!” Louder than he’d meant it. More scared. Paul bit his lip, watching as Peter stiffened up but didn’t turn to leave. Totally undeterred.

“Hey, c’mon, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I-I don’t know. I’ll tell him to call. Okay?”

“Okay. Have him call. Jesus, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Peter looked like he was considering something. “Tell him it’s not urgent, okay, kid?”

“Okay.”

“Tell him to get you your own bathrobe, too. He could do better than that shit these days.”

--

It was awhile before he could calm down from seeing Peter. In the end he managed by writing up a grocery list, deciding he’d have a neighborhood kid pick up the stuff for him later.

The next day, driven by boredom as much as anything else, he opted to take a drive. He had to steel himself up for it, digging through his wardrobe. The colorful ladies’ blouses he wore felt too jaunty and flippant. In his real body, they were glam, a little subversive. Now they just wouldn’t do at all.

He pushed aside pair after pair of jeans– he could tell without even trying them on that they were now too wide at the waist, and definitely too long– until, at the back of his closet, he found the dress from his birthday, just a couple months back. Black with red flowers. It was long-sleeved, sure, and would still be baggy, but that didn’t matter. It would work. He pulled it on grimly, then dug around until he found the matching black pumps, stuffing the toes with tissue paper. Thank God he’d done the drag party. It kept him from being stuck wearing something he actually liked. From there he grabbed his wallet and keys, heading out the door, not really caring where he went, as long as he could escape for just a little while.

He ended up driving to Peaches. The record store wasn’t the distraction he’d hoped it would be. He’d tried not to look at the Casablanca promo display posters, feeling sick at the sight of himself and the other guys in the new costumes, painted there against a backdrop of half-naked girls. “KISS - LOVE GUN” in bright red letters above them, and then, below, “THE ONLY ALBUM TO PUT ON YOUR REVOLVER.”

The album was due to release at the end of June, one week before the start of the tour. “Christine Sixteen,” Gene’s song, was supposed to be the lead single. Another suck-me-fuck-me song– Gene had wrote it to make fun of him– only he didn’t have anything to suck right now. His throat felt like it was full of acid as he mindlessly thumbed his way through the new releases. The Eagles had put out a new album, but he’d never liked them. 10cc, too. Gregg Allman, per Gene, purportedly had a solo album coming out this month, but it wasn’t in stock yet. He couldn’t focus anyway. Eventually, he found himself wandering to the cut-out bin, knocking into a pimple-faced boy on accident. 

“Sorry.”

The kid was staring at him. For the barest moment, Paul forgot that he wasn’t in the right body; he thought the kid recognized him, and was about to try and brush him off. 

“Something wrong?”

The kid was staring at him, all right. The kid was staring at his tits. Paul inhaled, rolled his eyes, and turned away, deciding not to bother with a response. They’d done all those bra-burnings, what,  ten years ago, hadn’t they? What did his lack of a brassiere matter anymore, as long as he was covered up? He glanced down for about the first time since he’d put on the dress, belatedly realizing how obvious the outline of his nipples was through the thin fabric. Damn. Well, whatever. It wasn’t like he planned to go out at night or pull anything stupid. 

Not long after, he drove home from Peaches without a single record, still thinking. If what had happened to him wouldn’t wear off on his own, and he wasn’t willing to use black magic himself, was there a way he could pay someone else to fix him? Get his body back? But where would he even begin there? All that seemed apt to greet him were the same round of suspects who might have screwed him up in the first place.

But then there was Gene.

It was a long shot. A serious, serious long shot. It felt pretty desperate, but Paul was pretty desperate. Gene had studied religion in college, and had once planned to become a rabbi. He had been vaguely fascinating to Paul, as one of only a handful of Jewish guys he’d ever known that was actually devout. 

Was being the operative word. Gene still kept kosher, but Paul was pretty sure everything else about his upbringing had been surrendered. But maybe he knew something. Some Jewish mysticism… it wasn’t that far-fetched, was it? A purifying ritual, maybe?

He kicked off the tissue-stuffed shoes just inside the front door and yanked off the dress, leaving it there on the floor, putting the bathrobe back on like a security blanket. Purifying rituals. Yeah. Maybe. It was better than doing nothing. Gene knew a lot, and even if he didn’t know anything that could solve his plight, he’d do his dead-level best to find someone who did. He had to. Both as a friend and as a fellow quarter-sharer in the behemoth of KISS.

He sat down at the rolltop desk at what could’ve been his office, if he stayed in his house for more than a few weeks out of any given year, tugged open a drawer full of cards, invitations, and paperwork. Dug around some more, until he found a book of stamps and a fat stack of postcards. Some he’d written and never bothered to send, but most he’d just bought as souvenirs, silly mementos from when he couldn’t really afford much past a keychain when they’d traveled, but burned through Bill’s credit cards anyway. A blank Buckingham Palace postcard from their first European tour. He pulled out a pen and began to write.

“Gene, do you know anything about curses? 

“Write me back soon. Paul.”

He stuck the postcard in the mailbox. Just sending it off-- just reaching out, no matter how understated-- felt really good. Gene might even get it today. Tomorrow, definitely. He felt confident that Gene would notice it, even. Gene would have been counting on some of those dirty letters from fans to tide him over during the dry spell. He’d be sifting through his own mail right now.

Gene would help him. He’d write him back, hopefully (Paul was terrified he’d call instead, or worse, show up), figure out exactly what he needed to fix things, and then, well, then he’d be back to normal. No more hiding out and living in bathrobes. No more dealing with a body he didn’t recognize. Back to himself, just in time for the tour. With any luck, no one else would even know what had happened. With any luck at all.

[annabtg]

hi!!

1, 2, 7, 12, 17, 24, 27, 30 from here!

Hey!! You went all out 😁❤️

the last sentence you wrote

“Lily, my love.”

2. a character whose POV you're currently exploring

I've written some James and now I'm trying to get into Lily's head!

7. your preferred writing fonts

These days I write in Arial. Before that, I used to write in Verdana.

12. a trope you're really into right now

One-sided pining that turns into mutual pining ;D

17. talk about your writing and editing process

Ooooh boy. xD

Well! My writing process is largely and overwhelmingly linear. Even right now that I have a clear image of future scenes in my head, I keep trying to skip to them in hopes that it will help me make progress (see: question #1) but I find myself unable to get words down before knowing what comes before.

There's also the fact that I don't really do drafts. I always write with attention to detail from the get-go and try to get everything right on the first try.

I also don't exactly plot. I usually have a vague idea and maybe I know how I want it to end. Or maybe not. I usually have to start writing and see where it leads me.

(Really, seeing all the above, it's a miracle I even finish any stories at all.)

My editing process, now - basically, a lot of it is ingrained in my writing process, as I said. But I also re-read a lot over the course of writing, with my editing hat on - grammar, vocabulary, syntax, repetition, flow, everything. Sometimes I read it out loud to see how it flows. After it's finished, I let it stew, as I say - give it some time and not post immediately, so I can work any kinks in my head. Usually I ask a friend to beta or edit, depending on how unsure or otherwise I'm feeling about it. And right before posting, I read one last time with my reader's hat on - to see how I'm enjoying it.

24. how do you recharge when you're not feeling creative?

It's usually a good opportunity to read - either fanfic or books. It also helps to make myself feel useful instead - devote some more time on housework or do stuff I've been neglecting at work (sorting out paperwork, rearranging shelves etc). Last time I was going through a writing slump I did a ton of beta'ing for people xD go through the writing process without going through the writing process!

27. your favorite part of the writing process

When the words are flowing right, I suppose! And before I know it I've written three pages I'm happy with and the story is taking shape 🥰

30. share a fic you're especially proud of

That would be Nom De Plume.

More fic writer asks here!

[qnewsau]

Fortescue boss Mark Hutchinson issues apology to gay staff

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/fortescue-boss-mark-hutchinson-issues-apology-to-gay-staff/

Fortescue boss Mark Hutchinson issues apology to gay staff

Mark Hutchinson, the CEO of Australian mining giant Fortescue’s energy business, has apologised to the company’s gay staff over his ties to an anti-LGBTQIA religious group.

The Australian Financial Review recently asked Hutchinson about how Fortescue’s diversity and inclusion policy aligns with the views of the evangelical church he leads, Alpha International.

Alpha International calls for a “re-evangelisation of the nations” and strongly opposes same-sex marriage, the AFR reported.

In sermon videos aimed at teenagers, Alpha International claims Jesus wants to “guide” them in their sexuality.

The sermons preach the Bible makes “clear” that sex should exclusively occur between men and women within marriage and can “cause a lot of damage when it is misused”.

Fortescue chairman Andrew Forrest responds

Mark Hutchinson declined to comment but when the AFR published a story, he sent an all-staff email on Thursday.

“Our entire global workforce come from different faiths, religions and backgrounds – and what I love is our diversity in all of its forms,” he wrote at the time.

“Fortescue has an industry-leading commitment to diversity and human rights, and of course, our values underpin all that we do. I love our values and our diversity. These values guide me as CEO in everything I do.”

But that email lacked any mention of LGBTQIA+ people, something Fortescue staff raised with the company’s Board.

On Sunday, Fortescue’s billionaire chairman Andrew Forrest responded to the disquiet on behalf of the Board.

“I would like to reassure you all on behalf of our Board, that we are resolutely committed to the cause of equal rights. We expect and require the same of our leadership,” Forrest wrote in his email.

“We uplift, empower, and celebrate every employee and protect each of them from all kinds of discrimination; this categorically includes on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity, including the freedom, to choose your partner.

Forrest wrote that Fortescue “deeply values Fortescue’s LGBTQIA+ community. At a personal level, I stand with you.”

‘I apologise unreservedly’

On Sunday, Mark Hutchinson also sent a separate all-staff email to “clarify” his previous comments.

“After speaking with some of you over the past few days, I am aware that by failing to clarify my views on same-sex relationships in my comments last week that I’ve let you down,” his email reads.

“This was certainly not my intention, and I apologise unreservedly. I wish to state clearly that I am supportive of everyone in a same-sex marriage and same-sex relationships and value the LGBTQIA+ community.

He went on, “I believe that all of us are equal and I accept and support every member of our team. I want everyone to have the freedom to be who they are.”

Meanwhile, a Fortescue spokesperson said, “All our staff live by the Fortescue values in every aspect of their employment, fostering an inclusive, safe working environment for all employees.”

Mark Hutchinson joined Fortescue in July 2022 and is currently the boss of Fortescue’s green energy arm, Fortescue Energy.

He and his partner became directors of Alpha International last year. The AFR reports they are two of the organisation’s 17 directors.

Andrew Forrest’s child Sophia is non-binary and married their partner Zara Zoe (both pictured below) in August at the family’s Minderoo station.

  View this post on Instagram

  A post shared by Sof Forrest (@sophia.forrest)

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[moonxlightsx]

10 Years

It has been 10 years- a whole decade of when i was completely obsessed with Tumblr and i lived a different life. Nobody is probably going to read this but just as my old self; I would come on here after a long day at school to relax and de-compress, i am here to do the same and self reflect.

Today, I just randomly thought to go ahead and hop onto this old account of mines. Sure i last logged on about 2 or 3 years ago but it was most to sit in my sadness. I reposted a few sad posts and connected to those posts and would eventually log off and not sign back on. It felt "good" as it did back in 2014.

The thing is, life not only is different but i myself am a different person. I'm no longer that 16 or 17 year old depressed girl that came to Tumblr to release my anger, sadness and sorrow. I even had a "back-up" account that was simply all Depression and Self Harm related. I just finished going through that entire account and went back on some venting post I did. It was honestly very triggering to see those photos of me from back then when i would self-harm and pop pills to escape. Reliving those moments made me very sad.

I wish i could go back and hug that girl. I read on how i "loved" and was so "heartbroken" on some 3 year relationship that honestly was so freaking toxic. That BOY did not love me. He didn't care for me and i would cry in agony in pain. I was so sad and depressed. i felt like he was my everything. I'm shedding tears in this moment because I am just so sad and want to hug my old self. Younger me didn't deserve any of that - and i know back then my friends would tell me he wasn't good, or a good influence for me. When you're young and "in love" y7ou don't see any of that Even if you do, you wont admit it or try and turn away from it because you see the "good". Just because you see some good, doesn't mean they are good for you.

I wish i could go back and hug my younger self. I wish i could keep those razors away from me. I wish i could sit and listen to my younger self. I wish i could let her know of all the greatness that is so come to her life 5-10 years ahead. I wish I could stop her from popping pills to get high and escape and knock out. I wish i could stop her for trying to overdose and attempt suicide on July 12th 2013. I felt like my world was crashing around me. I had no care or motivation for my high school education, i was having so many family problems, i got re-triggered from sexual abuser and the only thing that i felt like i had control over was cheating on me and leaving me. I'm sure i wasnt perfect either- i mean i was probably ALOT of baggage for someone too. But i was only just a girl. A troubled teen. I didn't want to live like that, but my mind was so twisted i began to believe it. I started to believe that i "deserved" to be treated this way and felt the things i had felt. I was broken.

There is a lot of things i wish i could have done but there is nothing i could do on that now. Although things eventually got better.. in a way they had to get worse. I was proud of myself because i stopped self harming myself with cutting- but i went on a very dark and sad road of other forms of self harm. Pills were a big part of that and other self harms that i wont say because to this day- 10 years later im ashamed i stooped down to that level. But i didn't love myself.

It sucks to say but my "love" back then really fucked me up. For months and for years- i had yearned for this hope of us working things out and getting back together. I laugh at it now because he is NOTHING to me anymore. I'm so happy that i overcame that part of my life. That's where my now husband comes in- he was a light for my dark life. Man, i gotta give it to him, he dealt with a lot of my trauma and helped me. I had to learn to actually talk through my feelings vs running to tumblr and just drowning in my pain and thoughts and subminally posting about it and hoping for the best. I had to learn to grow up, be a big girl. Tackle what's bothering me. It wasn't easy, but i got through it. Eventually forgetting all tumblr and my old bad habits.

In the past 10 years, i have gotten over what i would consider a Pill Problem, getting high, working hard on my mental health, getting rid of my Panic Attacks, processing my sexual & broken relationship trauma. I moved out of my shitty home town, i got a new job, new apartment and 2 amazing doggies and a great husband.

10 years later, i am the happiest i have ever been. I just wish i could go back and let my younger self know that the pain won't last forever. I would overcome any and all obstacles that would come along my way. Most of all, i just wished to have just held her- because what she needed was to feel love.

[hislittleraincloud]

i know ur not ok, i wont ask if ur ok, but i hope ur ok :)

You're right though. Haven't been okay in a while.

Dunno what it could be, maybe it's that I've been dragging my feet with 8 because God, I hate this part of the story (not that my own chapter isn't already mostly written for its third part), or if it's the whole Junkie Cat Lady thing wearing me down (I had to drag in two pieces of her most characteristic furniture back into my cramped space: a mirror box end table and a leopard print Ottoman that the cats used to sleep on whenever I catsat them). Or, the fact that I've got nothing left besides my dogs and two are hella old and can just keel over at any given moment, given their age (17+). Yeah, my parents are still around but I think my mother's getting some sort of dementia (I can tell by talking to her), but that's what you get for neglecting the intellectual part of your brain in favor of being a nasty, narcissistic, manipulative cunt your whole life. Figures that would be her goddamn fate...to start to actually forget the shitty things she did to me when I was growing up.

Creatively, I've been writing other stupid crap aside from 8 and Jairo, things that could turn into mini-fic, but I dunno. Re: 8, it's like the more I watch this show, the more the glaring issues with the storyline (and this is barring ALL romantic shipping) POP out at me, nag the fuck out of me and just...ugh. I know, I've already fixed a couple of those throughout my published chapters (like Rowan's disappearing glasses), but looking at it from an objective standpoint, it's just...garbage storytelling with a lot of inconsistencies held together by the cute star of the show. Re: Jairo, I'm once again closer to publishing another Jairo than I am 8, but I just haven't had the energy.

I mentioned the other day that I had gotten new comments/praise for Under Virgin Circumstances over at AO3. And then last night, I had placed my phone into yanno, I had a story about something weird happening but I felt like I was rambling, so the short of that next thing was: Somehow, the Drive app that holds all of my Jairo documents was up and running on this phone even though I hadn't opened it in a couple of weeks.

I'm taking both of those as signs to go back to Benson for a little while. I'm not going to rush through something I care about just because of impatiences (not just the couple of fans it has, but my own...I get very impatient and frustrated with myself, it's disabling), but I really would like to publish something.

That's where I am, I guess. There, and also wanting to create more physical art. I could hardly afford it (finances have been strained ever since Cat Lady fiasco) but I got some cheap art supplies/paint and pencils for my birthday and have some ideas of what I'd like to be doing.

But I also got other needs and a brown furball that never leaves my side these days. I'm still really irritated when I think of that nurse's shitty joke...this little thing is my baby/kiddo. She acts like one. She chatters with me like a toddler when we're out on walks. (One time, she actually said what sounded like "Hello!" to some lady who said "Hi there, cutie!" on the lake and it creeped me out... I've never taught her to speak or anything. She has a weird voice...sounds like a monkey at times.) So, she's getting more of my time too, since I'm now lamenting that I didn't have enough time with her when she was tiny (the time went by SO FAST, she started growing out her limbs in barely two months 😭).

I guess I oughta keep on...keepin' on. I feel like Cairo keeps calling out to me, since all I've been seeing on my fyp has been HOD stuff, then all of a sudden there was that post I just reblogged on there. I should call her. 🫠

Anyway. Thanks for wonderin'. 💕✨

[anonymous-harpy]

Another random inquiry, because I just can’t help myself.

So obviously stated some of your favorite DB characters are Cooler, your OC Geliaden, and Yoji (Baby Vegeta).

But regarding Yoji, I’m curious - how come you like his Baby Vegeta form the best?

(Also how did you come up with the crack idea of Cooler/Yoji?)

Long post ahead!

Honestly I'm not entirely sure why I love him especially his Super Baby 2 form

Something about it is just satisfying. Though honestly it's how his character presents himself. I went into GT fairly blind, only having a sort of idea of what happened and when Baby was introduced he just kind stuck out.

I know some fans want to complain about him, how he undercuts his underling's presence like Doctor Mu and Captain Rildo, making very fair comparisons to Doctor Gero and Cell.

However I like what he represents. He's the sins of Vegeta's father come crashing down on the prince's head as one last "Fuvk you" sorta punishment for everything Vegeta did. I like Vegeta A LOT in GT. In super I do enjoy him quite a bit (All of the first 2 season I've only watched) but he feels a little too goofy at times.

Uhhh getting back to Baby, he's a tuffle parasite and is good foil, so to speak, to Vegeta. Theu botg want revenge for the destruction of their people and it's accomplished through two different methods (technically) Baby's being through the superior technological advancements. They call him a machine mutant- he's a biomechanics. I go with Cell being exclusively biological, 17 & 18 have are more in-between- and This little parasite is literally the perfect combination of biological and mechanical.

Also his methods of dealing with people onces he's properly involved are VERY interesting. I love that he actually helpless until he gains enough strength and requires a body to be safe.

His "re-introduction" is also kind spooky. The little bastard straight up destroyed a ship Alien 1 style and hitched a ride with a kid to try and get everyone's guard down. Which works until he attempts to take over Pan.

Alsoalso I fuckin' love that he employs the best technique to ever exist in all of dragon ball- Solar flare. And that it's used in slight panic makes it even funnier that he caught everyone off guard again.

After that, it's just plain fun to see the group forget about him again and he just rocks up on earth and clean sweaps the fuckin planet. He depends a lot on people lowering their guards and getting over confident and it's perfect. Absolutely perfect because the second that doesn't happen he gets pinched very easily. (He takes after his name sake- he's childish and loves catching people off guard)

He also happily scares the shit out of Trunks and it's both hilarious to me and I feel bad for my boy Trunks. Only good thing about that is it's not future Trunks dealing with more bullshit.

NOW THEN- His baby-vegeta appearance. The base form looks awesome with the crosshair eyes, Super baby is goofy looking and him glad it lasted all of five minutes and Super bby 2 IT'S JUST SO COOL LOOKING

I'm a sucker for the Aesthetic of it. Also I full blown LOVED this form because his Revenge Death Ball is literally just an Evil Spirit Bomb. It's so metal. His speech before it is 1-to-1 an evil spirit bomb. I FUVKIN LOVE IT XD

After that he just casually keeps Bulma at his side and respects her- until his ass is in danger. The beautiful coward.

There's also his Great Ape form. Golden monkey with a Mohawk and jacket. He is perfect.

He's just a loveable dork if he wasn't so hell bent on revenge.

I could gush for hours about Babe, he's literally my favorite since I have so much information to work with.

NOW THE CRACK SHIP- I can't say for sure why I started shipping it, however I know for a fact that because Andrew Chandler (Cooler's VA) happened to voice Captain Rildo, and then he had a coat of silver paint added and afterwards Rildo literally because Meta Cooler, I think I made a subconscious connection and I ran with it.

[mood2you]

Blog 6 Writing, Reading, Listening and Learning

Felt alright this week, and it went by quick. Went to the pool, it was really nice, and I hope it stays open longer. Been working on Fallen Angel and Ozymanzous. The hard part about writing sometimes it getting everything to fit, plot and motivations wise. Also having a draft where you just put every snippet you think of in the order you think of it, while it's important to write stuff down when you have an idea, disorganization can be so distracting.

Playing video games less. One of my mods on Stardew broke. Listening to Pokemon Mystery Dungeon music now, frustrated there's so many games and OSTs it's hard to find the one I want.

Happy September.

I've been reading again, I'm reading "Listen to the Marriage" by John Jay Osborn and trying to take notes as if it wasn't a fictional novel. But, a novel could be just as well since it's for Fallen Angel, it can show pacing and stuff for an audience. A lot of books like this are about the person being counseled, and so will mine, but it makes the therapist look really simple, the way a middleschooler views their history teacher and can't imagine having multiple periods of classes. A lot of middleschool teachers are careful to have their classes synched exactly, I'm sure, but in small schools you will be teaching 6, 7, and 8 which means 3 completely different courses. This is what therapists do, right down to the glorified baby-sitter part, except probably 6 courses. Osborn's story only exists for an hour each week in her office, all she thinks about is the couple she's working with (whoa re unreliable narrators) and her grief for her mother. Which is probably enough to have on your plate. Locked-door stories are interesting. I also started watching this series about a seriously Freudian guy (what's the point of harping on mommy-issues, can I fix it now, can I change the past?) reacting, sorry, he's not some guy he's a therapist, reacting to Showtime's Couple Therapy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUItaloRvoQ Also a note to content creators, hyperlink your links, you will see more clicks. The problem with all my studying, of course, is, it's fake dating and fantasy, it doesn't really matter what the wizard asks, they're not going to get a straight answer, only poke holes in a silly lie. I wonder if real therapists ever get rich people just taking the piss. I think there was a fake dating couple counseling movie, but the closest to a book I've seen is The Rosie Effect, where he gets his friend to pretend to be his spouse for counseling-in-leui-of-jail because telling her about all of it would "stress her out too much" and it's a captivating train-wreck. I would tell them to renew their vows if I thought they'd just met at a bar. The problem is, if they're not taking the piss but rather lying to each other, or not listening, making up a double-life, covering up a double-life, or just are that un-intimate that they don't seem to know each other well, they will think you are an un-serious therapist who cannot help real people.

I'm having a problem with my plan to stop unhauling books that I haven't read: I'm about full-up on books, I still shop a little, and if I move soon I cannot move ALL of these things. Reblogging a post about "you don't have to be "productive" just read to enjoy your spare time" but but but. I read physical. I have a little room for this floating stack, but I don't know how to organize it. I started rereading my favorite book from last year, Woman no. 17, one of the few books I've read but kept.

I also started "Intro to Stoicastic Modeling 3rd edition" which boasts that this edition is more in-depth and less intro-y than the others, which is annoying to me because I don't know how to read textbooks and now you're telling me I should track down edition 1? Anyways, I was sort of thinking about sociology (you hear stochastic in the news when it's discussing motives for man-made violence) then I was afraid it would be that chemistry thing stoiciometry, but it's really the study of all random relationships that influence each other, it boasts it's about math, sociology, psychology, and business leadership. The first example is about cheating at flip-a-coin. If anyone has tips for reading a textbook as an adult, let me know. Probably "just pretend it's a 200 page science/technology book."

[theindependentfox]

Poppin' cherries and relivin' memories

Tomorrow, Freddy and I leave for my parents' beach house. The detox will begin. The pain. The struggle. The re-opening of wounds, the psychological games, the withdrawal symptoms. I'm trying to prepare myself as best I can but somehow, I don't think anything I do, say, or think, will be enough preparation for what I'm about to put myself through.

No caffeine, nicotine, alcohol or dope. Sober.

It's a bit of a scary thought. The last time I was sober was at 16 years old. It was New Years Eve, I was at friend-of-a-friends' house party. I had a ten pack of Woodstock pre-mixes and I drank too many in my first hour there. For those of you playing along at home, that's 1.5 standard drinks to a can. A lot of alcohol for a tiny little 16 year old. I don't remember the person's house (whoever it was). I remember drinking in their front yard. I remember my best mate shaking me awake in the bushes. I remember hearing voices. I remember vomiting out my parents' car window. Dad had to pull over into a rotary club car park. I don't know who got me out of the car, who had their hand on my back. Next thing I know, I'm waking up on a mattress with my two best mates. I was not only violently ill, I was embarrassed. I had let down my parents. I had ruined my mates' NYE. I was heartbroken and very strict on myself from then. I went sober for a year.

The first time I tried weed, I had way too much, had a panic attack and had to be soothed to sleep by my girlfriend. I vowed never to smoke again.

The second time I tried it, was NYE at 17 years old. And the only reason why I wanted to was because I was away with my girlfriend's family, they had all been drinking, and I had one day left on my sober year. I was determined to make it past that night without alcohol, even though nobody would've known any better if I'd had some. So I smoked instead. It was a wonderful night.

The first time I tried cigarettes, I was at another house party (why do all these stories sound the same? Stupid peer pressure). It was in my sober year. I was driving, and dropping friend's home etc. A boy in my grade didn't drink, but he smoked. He offered me a cigarette. I took a drag of his instead was instantly nauseated. I disgusted myself. I went to the bathroom and threw up into the sink. I left the party pretty quick after that. But it already had it's hold on me. I found a place in the city that sold to underagers, and went and bought a pack. I remember smoking before choir practice, and then choking on my own voice during rehearsals.

This post has a strong message.

This time in my life, ages 16-17, was very hard for me. Looking back, I was acting out because all the attention was directed onto my younger brother. He was mentally ill. Abusive. My home life was a mess. Adrenaline constantly poured through my veins as I wondered every day if I had to stand up to him. I tried my hardest to protect my parents, but I wasn't always around. Sometimes I would come home to see my Mum crying. Other times, I realised only a few years ago, she was crying for me. Not that I knew it at the time.

I broke up with my girlfriend just before I was 18. She was also extremely mentally ill and I couldn't handle it alongside my home-life trauma. It was like everywhere I looked, people were sad. I didn't want any part of it anymore. She threatened to commit suicide if we broke up. I still left, knowing I needed to prioritise myself. Of course, I still worried excessively. One night, her friend called me and asked me to come talk her down from a depression spiral. They had been drinking in the grounds of a primary school and things were getting out of control. Not wanting her to hurt herself, I drove there in a hurry.

Even writing this, I've frozen. This is my deepest trauma. And it's blurry. My brain has tried to block it out. I will write about this next week, when I'm safe in my parents' beach house. I don't think I'm quite there yet.

A few things grew exponentially during this time of my teenage hood. Anger. Frustration. Anxiety. Depression.

I developed an eating disorder to try to have some sort of control over my life. I looked great. I felt awful. I didn't like making myself vomit because I hated the taste of stomach bile, it made me feel sick. Even to this day, brushing my back teeth is difficult. It makes me gag. It reminds me of a time I'd like to forget.

But this week is about remembering. Acknowledging. Facing it all head-on. Understanding. Raising blame up and away from me. Because it wasn't my fault. It wasn't anyone's. It was a ugly situation and I, unfortunately, took the brunt of it. This wasn't just a few weeks of horrific events. This was years. I woke up every morning wondering if I was strong enough to deal with whatever was going to happen that day. With little or no support from my parents. I don't blame them. They were so preoccupied with my brother, I hid my feelings. They didn't need to deal with my crap as well. They needed me to be strong. At such an impressionable age, it would've been a miracle for me to come out the other side unscathed.

Over the years, I had to deal with four more attempted suicides. Two of those times were a romantic interest who then became my husband. Read into that what you will.

These are stories for another time.

[measuringbliss]

Comics Read-Through: Romeo (1)

So I immediately fell in love with Romeo's appearance in Astonishing Ice-Man #1 (2023) and decided I'd better check out his entire list of appearances, which thankfully is very small.

Spoiler alert: This post ends on a depressing note.

We're going to be jumping around a lot.

The first issue is a X-Men run, and coincidentally, I've been listening to Jay & Miles X-Plain the X-Men for the past few days. I've only listened to the first 9 episodes, but I think I won't be lost too much. I definitely recommend giving it a listen if you're curious about the X-Men comics!

All-New X-Men (2016) #13

I was actually surprised to see Bobby's sexuality at the forefront of this issue. He's gay and out now. He came out in April 2015's issue, so as you can guess from the title, not long before this one.

The art is very pretty, quite colorful and easy on the eyes. Very interestingly, Bobby says his idea of a gay culture is very outdated (and actually offensive according to the Internet). After all, he IS a younger version of him from the first issues, and not older current-day Iceman. Which is sad when you think about it, because any meaningful connexion Bobby might make in this time will be rendered useless when he comes back to his time, in the past.

Does that come from Top Gun? Hahaha, I should really finish that movie. I think I still have an hour left or something...

So Bobby finally lets himself go, and their hands touch... and Bobby cries and becomes Iceman right in the middle of the bar. He's ashamed and leaves and barges on... Romeo, naturally. They proceed to flirt, and are interrupted by a beautiful creature.

Really great art!

This is actually a friend of Romeo's, who calms him down, and then Romeo's fellow Inhumans arrive. Later, Romeo explains that he's an empath and can manipulate emotions. So this is basically Mantis. Okay! I'm into that, as a concept, because it can lead to great stories (see: Buffy S6). Bobby feels awkward about that, but...

I squeed. They're adorable!

That's how the issue ends, with the last sentence promising "Next: More Horror for Cyclops" which sounds like a sadistic fanfic writer. Hell yeah. But we won't be reading that, because...

2. Spider-Woman (2016) #10

Spider-Woman! We're reading other Spider-people comics before even meeting our first alternate one. Well, I guess technically we met Peter's clone? Maybe? I don't know much about Ben Reilly, but given we just finished (re)reading the first Clone Saga...

Oh, and did I say this issue is in the middle of Civil War II? Which is ridiculous because I've only read Civil War I.

No matter! The art style is pretty different, but I oddly like it.

Jess is on a mission to basically confirm Ulysses's visions, because she doesn't trust them. Romeo appears to take care of a new, old lady Inhuman who doesn't control her newfound powers very well. I have to mention that he's pretty ugly in this issue.

It ends with national news that Clint Barton (Hawkeye) just killed Bruce Banner (Hulk), and Jess is pretty pissed at her girlfriend, Captain Marvel (they're very lesbiany in this issue and Jess acknowledges it, I wonder if it went farther than this).

Let's shift back to...

3. All-New X-Men (2016) #17

Sooo... Bobby and Romeo are boyfriends, and the Inhumans and X-Men are at war with each other. Oops.

The issue begins with their 4th date, and Bobby slaps himself, thinking he should have kissed Romeo. And I'm like. What. exactly. have you been doing those past dates. if you haven't even kissed?!

But the concept of dates is very alien to me, we were actually talking about that with my boyfriend this week-end. I considered us boyfriend our very first date, where he had the option to go back home and chose to actually follow me home. I was like, "okay, we're boyfriends then" and we definitely kissed, I'll tell ya. But in *his* head, we only became boyfriends weeks later when I realized he was missing me while I was away. What a goof. I love him.

So 4 dates without even kissing? Gay kids? This is completely absurd but okay. Gotta milk that teenage angst.

The whole team meanwhile has been waiting in Bobby's room to tell him that, uh, things were going to get complicated for him and his boyfriend.

Then we get a flashback to their first date! They held hands, how wonderful.

And in the present, Bobby takes part in the attack on New Attilan (Romeo's home). Date #2 recollection! They play Laser Tag and Romeo argues those things are a relic of the past, but at least in my country, they're still very popular so what gives?

Date #3! They splashed in a Water Park!

Bobby finds Romeo in a safe room with non-combattants, which I find sad because I'm sure Romeo's skills have battle applications... but reassuring other people is probably important as well.

Well. I guess that's a way to make it important!

Together, they leave the place because love is more important than a silly battle with dubious motivations.

It's only reading the comments on a certain website that I understand that Romeo's called like that because... it's a Romeo and Juliet story. Duh.

4. All-New X-Men (2016) #19

I assume the issue in-between shows what happens aside from them. This is all definitely slower pacing than what I'm used to, not that I'm complaining.

I thought it would be a grand war final issue, but the blurb says the war has ended. Oh. Uh. Okay. You know what? Let's skim through #18.

It... doesn't help much, though. There's parallel series where the crux happens. Oh well. I sure wouldn't be satisfied if I was only reading one magazine. At least, if you're wondering, Bobby went back to help his team.

So, #19!

Who are you and what did you do to Romeo?!

So Hank sends the OG 5 to their past... but they discover that their originals never left. So the OG5 who were transported to the future will stay in the future (so, the present). Okay, that's a good conclusion!

Gee, I wonder what we're reading n--

5. Iceman (2017) #1

Tuuuuuurns out... This comic series features TWO Icemen: current Iceman, and displaced Iceman. Huh! I didn't see that coming.

We get a nice Romeo cameo, and Current!Bobby is called because his father is in the hospital. He didn't come out to his family, that sucks.

His family sucks, by the way, dear Lord.

Intriguing series, not sure I'll ever read it though.

So... that's it. Romeo pretty much doesn't appear anymore between 2017 and 2021.

So here I was, thinking it was intriguing, that story about the displaced X-Men. I had to find out what happened to Displaced!Bobby!

Turns out he does have a storyline with his companions in X-Men Blue and it's more or less... harrowing.

What's in red brackets is what happens in All-New X-Men (2016) #19. After that, it's X-Men Blue. Dear Lord. That's a nasty retcon.

So I assume that the next part of the Bobby/Romeo storyline is with Current!Bobby then. Oof. We'll see that in the next post!

[oldsalempost-blog]

The Old Salem Post

Our  Local Tamassee-Salem SC Area News each Monday except holidays                                          Contact: theoldsalempost@gmail.com                              Distributed to local businesses, town hall, library.                                               Volume 7 Issue 17                                                                                                  Week of April 24, 2023                https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/oldsalempost-blog                                                         Lynne Martin Publishing

EDITOR: Increasing daylight hours brings about long awaited warmth, lush green grass and beautiful blooms.  It also brings about the return of the dreaded lawnmower.  As I was mowing down the high blades, I found myself remembering that my mother would often hint not to cut down all the wild flowers on the lawn, realizing the effort it might take to avoid the little patches. But, last week I dragged out the mover and started out like a race car zooming  about the yard. I came upon a patch of low-lying lavender blooms and beautiful tall daisies.  Good sense says to just buzz them down because they will die off and come back. But I could not.   I left  beautiful, colorful patches for the bees, and for sweet memories of my mama. She still brings warmth and light into my life.  LRMartin  

Town of SALEM: Two Cruise-ins this summer:  May 13th at 5pm. September 9th at 5pm.                                      

SALEM LIBRARY:  Open Monday 10am-6pm– Tuesday-Friday 9am-5pm.                      

Jottings from Jeannie  A Good Sermon:    I need sermons to take home and mentally  ponder all week. Pastor Turner at SUMC declared that we should think back to our mistakes and be thankful for them. Be thankful for messing up? How could that be?  Then Pastor went on to show us that mistakes are opportunities to learn and grow.  Children learn the meaning of "HOT--  don't touch" by interacting with the hot stove.    Some Corporations look for this quality in new hires: "Are they making enough MISTAKES?"  Amazing discoveries evolve from messing up.  Think of the man who invented POSTED NOTES.  He was trying to invent a strong glue, but his "mistake" is a blessing to us all! Oh! You darlings of Dynamite Road!  You Sultans of Salem! Miz Jeannie loves you: No Mistake About That!

JOCASSEE VALLEY BREWING COMPANY,(JVBC) & COFFEE SHOP 13412 N Hwy 11 Open Wed–Sat-Sat 8am-9pm.  Sun 2pm-7pm. Events this week:  Thurs: Old Time Jam at 6:30pm Fri– FOOD: Inked Chef  Music: Sly Sparrow at 6:30pm.  Sat–Music: Andy Ferrel at 6:30pm Food: Wing Wagon South.          Featuring Pisgah Coffee Roasters and Dough-Dough pastries.        

CONSERVATION CORNER:    Earth Day:   April  22, 1970 was the first Earth Day around the world to recognize the need for environmental awareness and protection.  Earth Day should be a part of our everyday lives.  We should continually teach children and uncaring adults proper disposal of recyclables and trash.  We should teach to re-use items when possible.  We should start by refusing or at least limiting purchases of drink products in plastic containers that we just toss away daily and carelessly.  What happened to putting a drink or water in a bottle that can be washed and reused when you get home?  You will save money daily and start reducing waste on our planet forever.                                                                                                                                                                        

Honoring the life of Tony Melton on Earth Day.  Tony Melton  was  64years old when he died a year ago after being forced into retirement by disease.  He worked in the PeeDee area and as a Clemson Extension agent who touched the lives of farmers and all people involved with agriculture.  He made a difference in people’s lives because he worked “for the people” not Clemson University.  When there was a problem he helped find a solution.  Tony believed in Organic mulch.  Mulch is your broken down leaves, wood chips and vegetable scrapes that help create rich nourished soil.    LRM

Scenic Highway 11:  I now notice houses on top of a mountain, where trees once stood.  That is not my definition of scenic.  Possibly “obscenic.”  Oconee County does not have any protection in place on (what is supposed to be) Scenic Highway 11.  Pickens County is raising awareness and has begun land protection.  I have heard the reason is because they do not want to be like Oconee County.  To know more about land protection or how you can help please email this paper.  

Thanks to all who participated in the Earth Day litter pick up.  If you were unable to attend, you can still do your part by picking up litter everywhere you go and teach others to do the same.  It can stop with each of us making a difference.

Ashton Recalls by Ashton Hester:  Here's the next installment of Pauline Kelly Cannon's story: DAR SCHOOL STUDENT FROM 1942-46 RECALLS EXPERIENCES (Sixth Installment of Pauline Kelley Cannon's memoir) - In the school building, the grammar school classes for the first through the seventh grades were on the top floor, and the high school classes for the eighth through the eleventh grades were on the bottom floor. The twelfth grade was not added until 1947. . .Before classes began, we had chapel services in the auditorium. . .The auditorium was also used for multiple other purposes. Rummage sales would be held there, and some of the girls would help sort the clothes and then help conduct the sale. Sometimes Mr. Cain would rent a movie and we would all go to the auditorium to watch it. We would also have live performances on the stage including square dances and folk dances. There was a folk dance that I really liked called "Paul and His Chickens". . .The Cains had three girls, Lyrlene (who was called "Eenie"), Silvia (who was called "Sweet") and Helen. Lyrlene was in New York most of the time studying opera. Silvia was studying dance, and she taught us girls to tap dance and do the polka, jitterbug, and several ballroom dances. We had loads of fun learning these dances. We also had a boy named Morris Carter who could buck dance real well. Mr. Cain loved to watch him. We also had glee club in the auditorium. . .Church services were also held in the auditorium each Sunday morning. Speakers from four different denominations would conduct the services on an alternating basis--Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist and Catholic. In months that had five Sundays, there would be a speaker from another denomination. Everyone had to go to church unless they were sick.--TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK

 EAGLES NEST ART CENTER , 501c3, 4 Eagle Lane, Salem  

GET YOUR TICKETS:  Trial by Fire, a Journey Tribute Band to perform Saturday, April 29, 2023 at 7pm.  Tickets before the event are $25 available at Salem Town Hall and on Ticketleap or call 864-280-1258. Tickets at the door are $30 day of the event.     Get your $25 tickets before Friday!!     Doors open at 6pm.  

OCONEE MOUNTAIN OPRY:  Saturday, May 20, 2023 at 7pm.  Tickets $10.  ENAC presents a unique variety and evening of Local and Regional talent with comedy and old-time, home-town fun.  

Christian Radio 96.7: Fill your day listening to encouraging news and song.  Christians do not have perfect lives.  Our lives are tested every day.  Fill your mind, your heart, and your ears with hope and strength through others who are going through the trials you  might be facing. 2 Corinthians 4 “who encourages us in all our trials, so that we can encourage others in whatever trials they may be undergoing with the encouragement we ourselves have received from God.”   We can “help carry one another’s burdens” to fulfill the scriptures.  Galatians 6:2

Prayer:  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; wisdom to know the difference.  Amen         Author:  Reinhold Niebuhr    ( 1892-1971)                                                          Send your church news or a story you like to share to theoldsalempost@gmail.com

[lyonsdendiary]

Sage leaves and Nitrous Oxide

I think a lot about Sage. I know when they became Sage. And I know they killed themselves at 19.

They were working at McDonalds, post High School. Trying to save up some money for classes at the local community college I never asked about. I know they liked math, and wanted to be an accountant. Or something with numbers that made them feel smart. You see, Sage never felt particularly smart. But they were smarter then me by far. Sage could drive at 16 because the moment they had the option- they wanted to drive away from that shitty Philadelphia farm town. We went down there once and it fucking sucked. I wish I remembered those days more fondly.

We visited on my uncles 50th birthday. It was a big one. But he also was told the cancer was back and more aggressive then ever and that he officially had his death lined up. Sage wasn't Sage yet. Sage was another name. And they were 8 when they lost their father. Emily had lost all hope from then on out. Subsequently neglected by her mother in her own grief. I like to think Sage had to find themselves a lot after all the trauma. They re-entered my family when they were 17. I was then introduced to Sage. And I loved them. On the brink of failing on their classes. That summer my family put all our effort into Sage's grades and thankfully they had passed that last quarter in school.

Sage was hospitalized shortly after having to leave my home.

Sage would go onto graduate- something their mother never thought they could do.

And then, Sage would die.

Sage died from inhaling nitrous- with a plastic bag over their head. And I have this ache that maybe it was an accident. I pray it was suicide. I pray that they did it to themselves to have some control back in their life. I hate lying away at night thinking that they didn't know that their breathes would soon stop. and that the earth would stop spinning. and that I would never be able to see them again. And that discord messages would go unseen. Tiktoks never sent. New Pop Punk music never heard. Movies never seen. Love never had.

I often feel as if I had betrayed them. Lost them in their own mind. I wish they told me how they were actually feeling. I wanted to understand even if it was selfish.

A week before they passed they sent me a text. Which at this point was rare. They asked about our Italian heritage and if it was a good idea to apply for some sort of visa. I simply responded with my mothers number and a reminder that they only lived there, but where not ethnically Italian.

Sage didn't respond ever again.

[samwinchesterism]

this is gonna be so long for no reason i know it already but i’m painfully rewatching parts of season 8 and i really just will never be over how people severely underestimate the impact of trauma on sam’s whole arc in season 8, and that’s obviously because the writers were so fucking asleep at the wheel when it came to that, but it’s the only thing that makes everything slot into place in a way that makes sense (to me, at least). 

the thing with sam in season 7 is that it wasn’t his post-hell arc the way season 4 contained dean’s post-hell arc: sam is still functionally in hell in season 7 in at least some way shape or form - in other words, up until the last 5 episodes of the season, sam is experiencing some form of hell-related trauma, not the after-effects, but the actual thing. it may have been psychosis, but as we saw, it was real to him and frequently debilitating. so that makes season 8 sam’s real post-hell arc, compounded with the sudden and confounding loss of dean (his “stone number one”) at the end of season 7, again, barely 5 episodes after sam’s 17-episode long psychotic break ended. 

sam canonically (per jared, not the writers, of course) has PTSD from his experience in lucifer’s cage and we see that manifest in more understandable ways in later season when he’s faced with lucifer again, but it has to exist before then even if left unacknowledged by the narrative. but the season 7 hallucifer arc is in itself traumatic and not just a response to the older trauma from the cage because his mind is at all times trying to convince himself he’s still in the cage. that barely ends before he loses his brother again. so that’s a double dose of trauma and sam has to deal with both at the same time. that’s what gets us to a sam that is so unable to function in his life alone that he runs away from every responsibility and settles down into a pretense of normalcy with amelia. it’s not just grief or losing dean but effectively the first time his mind is not actively dealing with the trauma of the cage and instead now in post-trauma mode.

PTSD manifests itself differently in different people but it certainly can cause a debilitating fear of change, as after experiencing trauma people seek a sense of security and stability, so losing the “rock” that he had throughout his traumatic experience in season 7 (dean) so soon after he finally “escaped” hell would obviously send him into that kind of spiral, where he can only stabilize once he’s found some solid ground to re-orient himself and someone to effectively replace dean with. the need to feel safe, to feel secure, stable, in control, are all very real post-traumatic things.  and then dean coming back is a similarly disorienting experience for similar reasons, resulting in him wanting things to be the way that he got used to while dean was gone. 

moving on to benny, the thing that bothered sam about benny is, as astutely pointed out by jared and never really acknowledged by the writers, the hypocrisy of dean being able to have this monster friend and expect him to be trusted automatically when he was deeply mistrusted for his relationship with ruby and then berated to hell and back (LITERALLY) for having been stupid enough to trust her. now having difficulty trusting others is also very much a symptom of PTSD in people who were victimized by others which is something that just generally applies here in my view.

but for sam specifically, this is the origin point of his trauma - he went to hell because this, trusting ruby, ended the world and made him feel guilty enough to think that was his sole fault. this is compounded by the fact that for sam, prior to the in-between year between 7 and 8, the events of season five are basically the last time his mind and memory were functioning in a linear and normal way. for half of season 6 his soul is in hell and for the remaining half he has no memories of either thing except brief flashbacks and then suddenly he has all the memories again, centuries of memories, but then trauma is destroying his psyche and messing with his sense of reality etc. and season five is when he was being raked through the coals for this very thing, which led him in an incredibly, fully direct way (“i let him out, i gotta put him back in”) to the source of the horrifying trauma that his mind is forced to process. now PTSD obviously causes memory issues in and of itself so adding that to the absolute mess that sam’s mind/memory is because of the above, it’s hard to say objectively what’s “fresh” in sam’s mind vs. what isn’t, but the causal link between “trust monster” and “almost unsurvivable trauma” is definitely present. 

that obviously adds another dimension to sam wanted to be “pure” and rid himself of the thing inside him (demon blood) that, to him, was the root cause of all of this - if you didn’t have the evil blood, they wouldn’t have been able to get to you, you wouldn’t have deserved to go to hell - but also would apply to wanting to scrub himself of everything done to him and his traumas and become clean again, whole again, instead of the mangled mess he sees himself to be after hell. and it of courses adds another dimension to my beloved sacrifice church scene because this entire time sam would have been coping and struggling with unimaginable trauma compounded by the loss of dean in the only way he can, trying his best not to hurt someone again the way he did the last time he lost dean, and he’s being berated and blamed again somehow for doing it the exact opposite way this time as last time - having lost not only the security he built with amelia but not being able to find any solid ground the whole season with dean either, who was capricious at best with his brotherly affection due to his own issues post-purgatory and his woundedness and blame towards sam for not looking for him - and then the rules of who to trust and not trust are flipped on him but just before the church scene dean again brings up trusting ruby like it was a cardinal sin but only when sam does it - resulting in a desperate breakdown at the end of the season where he doesn’t think that anything he does can ever be the right choice because he’s done diametrically opposite things in the same situations and been berated both ways, but now i’m getting off topic. anyway season 8 sam didn’t do anything wrong in his life ever