#so often a lot of people seem to forget that wade would still experience the side effects that come with late stage cancer

[icarusredwings]

For the lovely person in the tags <3 You get it. @banneriscarried

It's 8 am. Here recently, it was normal for Logan to be up before either of his room mates, the second the sun shown in on his face from the couch was the moment he was up and he couldn't sleep until Althea was asleep too.

Maybe it was the way he was raised. Maybe it was the fact he's been used as a soldier as far back as he could remember (ironically seeing as he didn't take orders) but if you payed attention, you always noticed him near that old woman. Like a grandson worried about his grannies health. Fetching her medicine, water, refusing to get her coke bag, giving her the newer pillow to sit on, etc. This was all mindlessy done, might I add. He seeked no validation nor reward, because at the end of the day, he did what was right, not out of morals (these were far proven to be broken for him) rather then what was kind. It was as simple as bringing her the plate that Wade prepared for them during dinner to passing her the remote when she reached her hand to feel around for it.

At 10, he had shrugged off the fact he still wasn't up, having made Althea and him cereal for breakfast. Oh, well. It was like Wade to skip the first meal. Something about making him nauseated?

But now, at noon, his eyes lingered more and more on the doorway that led to the single bedroom, staring off as he mentally waved a hand. Bah. Wade would get up when he wanted. Besides. It wasn't THAT late, nor was it a big deal. And he DID just get back from that job only yesterday.

Quickly, noon became 3:30 as he now was standing a little longer by the hallway than he should when getting himself a drink, subconsciously grabbing two. Blinking, he shook his head, bringing a soda to the woman who didn't need to see to hear his heavy steps and corresponding grunts of thought.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

"Huh? Wouldn't what?"

"Don't play coy with me, boy. You know what."

Tilting his head, he thought for a second, not sure what she meant by that.

"He gets grumpy." She says as suddenly he understands.

"Oh.. No I just-"

"You've hesitated by that corridor 4 times already."

"How would you know that?"

"Im blind, Not deaf."

"And?" He scoffed.

"And! You're loud as hell!" She told him, reminding him that the floor always creaked a certain way depending on who was walking around.

"Mmh..." Getting up, he began to take his drink to the room.

"That's what I thought." She mumbled. Al might have been a coke addict but she wasn't stupid.

With each step he took, he could smell weird things, something he wasn't quite sure of. He could smell the sweat, fear and something he couldn't quite pin point. A scent he ussually just marked as 'Wade' in his mental files but now it was much stronger. A lot stronger.

"Wade?" He asked, softly knocking. Waitng a moment, he opened the door when there was no awnser. There, in the bed, was the man curled up in an old T and fluffy jammie pants that he had cut into shorts after the bottoms were "ruined by not-my-blood", Shivering. Shaking. Sweating. Twitching in some bits of his body.

For a moment, he took in the sight, trying to assess the situation, setting the can on the dresser. ".. Wade?" He asked, firstly checking his arms. Or at least tried. The instant they were touched, he flinched and pulled them close to his chest, still shivering. Glancing over, The AC was completely off but it did look like he had kicked off his blanket.

"Wade." He said a third time, trying to turn him over only for the man to practically jump.

"W-what!?" He snapped, though the end trailed off more into a whimper. There was that smell again. The fear. The sweat. He was soaking the sheet. He couldn't get sick.. could he?

"..Are you okay?"

"Does it look like im okay?"

"...Wade...Are you withdrawling?" He was just checking off the boxes of possibilities. Actually, a bit of heroin might do him some good. Or Adderall. Though they were bassically the same thing.

"What?! Go away! Just.. leave me alone."

Without even grabbing for the blanket, he turned over, hugging himself tight, curling into a ball. Cold.

"Do you want your- Ah ew-" he gruted, trying to pick up the blanket, discovering that the reason he pushed it off was because he vomited on it. Now he was really worried.

"Do you want a drink? I brought you a coke.. erm- the drink. N-not the drug."

(Joke stolen from @monkepenguin )

But he was already passed out again.

"Wade??"

He was completely unconscious. Just like that. But how so quickly? Maybe he was sick?? Perhaps some asshole coughed on him on that mission? No- they were borderline immune to all of that. You had to have specially modified diseases for them, and he doubted he'd ever come home knowingly with a disease knowing how high risk Al was.

Sighing, He came to the closet, getting out a spare blanket and some sweat pants. But wait- should he put sweat pants on him if he was already sweating to death?

Seeing how hard he was shaking made him frown. He looked miserable. Whatever was going on, He didn't like it. And whatever that smell was (that wasn't vomit) stunk in this room, particularly the closer he stepped towards him. What was it?

Maybe it was the illness? Ah, well. If it really was an illness, he needed to sweat it out, but he needed to keep the room sterile.

"Alright, bub. Don't get any ideas. This is strictly for medical reasons. Got it?" He muttered. When there were no jokes about rectal exams or sexy nurses, he took this as an 'Uhh do what ever you want, I'm super dead', moving to put the pants on over top of the shorts.

Immediately, he tried to kick him, and hard from the looks of it, watching how quickly he backed up and the look he gave him was sheer confusion and irratation mixed with terror, as if his mind wasn't functioning enough to tell who he was.

Logan of all people knew how it was to be woken when your brain wasn't - or couldn't - process what was going on. A lot of people have gotten stabbed for touching him while sleeping, so he took no offense to this what so ever.

Watching him proceed to curl up agaisnt the corner of the bed and the wall made him swallow, a string tugging his heart. Ohh.... this was bad. Really bad.

"Get the hell off of me!! I already said leave me alone!"

Tossing the blanket on top of him, a small mumble of 'Ill fucking stab you. I will..' came from under it, but was slower and distorted as if he was sleep talking. Was this a bad nightmare? They've never been this bad before. Not that he's seen anyway.

Leaving the drink, he brought the puke blanket to the dirty hamper, making his way to Al.

"You said he gets grumpy. That's not grumpy. That's a cranky toddler who hasn't slept in 3 days, and he's sweating himself to death."

"I told you."

"So whats wrong with him?"

"Same thing that has been wrong with him since I've known him."

"Which is?? These are not mental symptoms. They're physical."

"Oh sweet boy. What do you think chemotherapy and radiation do to you? You can't honestly think he was born this batshit insane do you?"

"...but I thought." If it wasn't for his patches, Logan would forget that he was stage 4. He didn't show it. Barley at all.

"It's still killing him. Just about as slowly as time is killing me, though."

"But he regenerates.."

"And how much of a toll do you think that takes on him, hm? See you don't get it. You're nice, young, and healthy."

"I'm older than you." He muttered quietly but understood her point. Maybe that's why they got along so well. Because Wade had similar issues to an older person. Either that or he thought she was funny. Perhaps that was the only reason he litsened to her.

"So what do I do?" He asked, not sure how this stuff worked.

"Nothing. Just wait. Even if you found a cure for cancer, he'd still die." She mumbled, petting the sleeping dog in her lap.

"There's got to be something I can do. Anything?" The frustration in his voice made her smile.

"You can make him happy until that son of a bitch death finally comes to collect his dues." She whispered, in a serious yet calming tone that made Logan want to hit her for making him feel emotions he didn't understand.

Hearing him huff and walk off, She petted the dog. "I don't know why you make that idiot so happy, but you better wait until after I die because i'm not litsening to that poor boy cry his eyes out when you're gone. Got it?" Al whispered as the dog wagged its tail, waking up just enough to lick her hand.

I wish I could say the same was going as easy for Logan, who has turned on the AC (after googling that Cancer patiants should probably be kept in cold rooms, but kept warm) and now was crawled into the bed too, pulling him close.

"Let go!" He started but was held until he clonked out again a good 7 seconds later, the resisting and pushing of his chest soon becoming the place for him to rest his drooly head on. It didn't take much for Wade to process 2 things. That A. This man had some awesome tits. And B. These tits were warm. And as a cold person with little ability to retain his own body heat at the moment from the rapid level of dying and regenerating cells within his body, heat was good.

So here he was. At 4:15 pm on a Tuesday. Cuddled up with a man who was both dying and agonizingly surviving, letting him nuzzle himself as close and as deep into his neck that he possibly could, going as far as putting his cold hands under his tank top.

"Aye, watch it, bub. Cancer or not, I'll still kick your ass."

The tiny scoff of a chuckle that came from him was enough for the big manly mans act to drop, a small smile coming to his scruffy face as he held him, the warmth helping him come back to the living world and sleep soundly, instead of shaking.

It wasn't until 8: 37 pm that night when Wade was finally conscious again, now teasing him.

"I can't believe you just let me grope you for 4 hours! I should get violently ill more often!"

"Shut up! Next time, I'll just let you freeze!"

"Oh suuree pal. As if you weren't totally snoring too."

"You were asleep! How would you know?!"

"Oh please, I wasn't asleep that whole time."

"Why you-!"

"Ah ah ah!" He says, putting up his arms. "Cancer!"

"Don't care!" He grumbled, slapping him upside the head, a soft, embaressed blush over his cheeks. God.. this man would be the death of him.. and honestly? That might not be that bad..

"Ow!"

Thinking about Logan getting really worried when Wade's (metaphorical) mask comes off and he's not the guy dancing on the bar, making boob jokes and kicking people in the face but rather the one with his face in the toilet at the club, promising he's okay while still struggling with the side effects that come with cancer.

"No no, really its fine! Go on, go have fun ill be out in a second!"

And being the emotionally closed off manly man that Logan is, doesn't press about it but still waits outside by the door, not letting people in the bathroom, ending up causing a bar fight because hed rather get punched in the jaw then let someone see Wade like that and embaress him.

Thinking about him coming home with groceries and finding him dead asleep on the couch, but the kind of sleep that looks like it was taken by force rather than comfy. The kind where you pass out because your body has had enough and just coming to check on him every couple of minutes before eventually sitting next to him and just waits until he wakes up.

Al can't see. But she's had a smug look on her face ever since Logan has walked in the door because she can hear him walking back and forth to go check on her room mate.

"You're really worried about him, ain't you?"

"What?"

"He's fine, you know. He does that. Go on. Go do what ever it was you angry men do."

But he doesn't go. He stays put. Like a loyal dog at his owners death bed, hoping if he stares enough, he'll get better. Eventually, he falls asleep too And Al is going to tease them both about this for the next month. She took photos to prove it.

Soon enough, it evolves into him picking up tasks so that Wade can rest but refuses to tell him why. He doesn't want to embarrass him and make it feel like a big deal.

"Alright. Well, I'm gonna go walk mary puppins. You want anything from the bodega?"

"No.. actually.. could I walk her? I can take her. Being in this apartment is killing me."

"What need to get your steps in or something?"

"Something like that."

"Ah I get it. Wild cat needs to prowl. Well alright. But dont be taking our baby to any skanks house! Shes too innocent!"

[darkistheday]

Dark is the Day

Chapter 2

Read on Ao3

The ashen water that flowed deep in the crevices of the Darklands had a way of making you feel like you were wading through sludge, and it soon began to take its toll on them. Jim was clearly exhausted. Hisirdoux wasn't sure if the power of the Amulet had faded from Jim's lack of energy, or if he had drained it with his magic. Either way, he didn't think Jim had much strength left in him.

"It's just a little further," Hisirdoux said, hoping his encouragement could have some impact on the boy.

"I... I can't," Jim said as he fell to his knees. Hisirdoux quickly reached out to grab his shoulders and stop him from falling further into the water. "I'm sorry..." Jim leaned against Hisirdoux, his full weight suddenly against him.

"Jim?"

No response. He must have passed out.

Hisirdoux shifted his weight around to get a better grip. He sat there in the water holding Jim for a moment to catch his breath. He'd have to carry the boy the rest of the way now, which he wasn't really looking forward to. But while he crouched there contemplating this, his attention shifted to the physical sensations of the moment. Aside from the wet and the cold of the water seeping into his clothes, he could feel the warmth radiating off of Jim's body. It was such a foreign feeling, seeing as how the creatures of the Darklands were either hard, cold, or slimy. Jim's skin gave where he held it, soft and thin, it almost seemed as if he could feel the blood rushing underneath. Hisirdoux felt almost transfixed, the push and pull of Jim's breathing against his chest, the almost burning warmth of the boy's face against his neck. He was really warm, almost too warm.

Hisirdoux reached a hand up to feel Jim's face. Putting aside his curiosity of the experience of touching another human this way, his limited knowledge was telling him this wasn't normal. It was likely Jim was more than just exhausted. Hisirdoux pushed aside his selfishness to explore the moment further, and lifted Jim up out of the water. He'd get Jim to the safety of his little hovel, where he could get him dry and comfortable. There was no way he was going to let the only human he'd seen in nearly a millennium die like this.

~~~

Throughout the years there had been times Hisirdoux would leave the trolls for days, weeks, or months at a time. The last 100 years or so had been the longest stretch he'd ever spent away from them. It had been rough. In-between hunting, cooking, and anything else he had to do to survive, he had slept a lot just to avoid dealing with anything else; his feelings, his loneliness, his boredom. He started the years off excited, he would often make things for himself; jewelry made mostly out of bones and crystals, paper for drawing and making notes, leathers for clothes and bedding. He'd even managed to carve a lot of intricate tools and weapons out of horns. Despite all he had managed, in the end he had to admit to himself he needed the company of the Gumm-Gumm's. As dull and obnoxious as they often were. He'd even missed talking to Dictatious about his half-baked theories.

He had found an incredible spot for all of these activities not long after he and Gunmar's army had settled where they were now. There must have been a long dead tree of some sort, who's roots had twisted around a softly glowing, champagne colored crystal. The middle of the root had hollowed out, possibly by a steady stream of water that once flowed through it. It was great protection from the creatures of the Darklands, as well as a warm place thanks to the energy of the crystal. He'd filled it full of everything he had managed to make over the years, as well as keeping it stocked with clean water and rations. If there was ever a time he had thought the whole excursion was pointless, it was replaced now by his overwhelming gratitude for its existence.

How he'd managed to get Jim inside, along the rest of the dark ravine, up the craggy cliff that led to the opening in the root, was a blur to Hisirdoux. He had been entirely too focused on the task at hand; get the boy warm and safe. He removed Jim's shoes, socks, jeans, and blue jacket, bundled him with his softest leathers and laid him down next to the crystal. Hisirdoux usually slept in the deepest part of the root, where the crystal's light barely reached, but this seemed like a better idea since it would be warmer. Once he had Jim settled, he changed out of his own wet clothes.

Then he tore into the place he kept his rations, suddenly realizing how incredibly hungry he was. There wasn't much left of his stock, but there was at least enough to tide him over for now.

Turns out, it was a thousand times easier, and faster, falling down into the ravine to his home away from the trolls , than it had been to climb up to where they lived. It might have been at least a day and a half since he'd eaten anything. Starvation would usually have his mind focused solely on food; kill, gather, prepare, cook, ration. He figured the excitement of finding another human temporarily distracted him. He looked over at Jim sleeping as he nibbled on what was left of his rations.

It wasn't a dream.

The only reason he knew for certain it wasn't, is because he spent a long time dreaming of something like this. At first his fantasies were about escaping the Darklands, but that idea faded from him a long time ago. Now, if he found himself daydreaming about anything like that, it was about some faceless figure, maybe hunting, or exploring with him together. These daydreams were always comforting, predictable, perfect. The reality felt strange and terrifying.

Once he finished eating, he got closer to Jim to check on him. He knelt down beside the boy, who seemed to be struggling to fight the effects of his fever. Hisirdoux wished he had something more to help him, but he himself rarely got sick, so trying to figure out if there were any remedies that existed in the Darklands was never a priority. He could only hope Jim was strong enough to fight this.

He felt the boy's forehead again, it was damp from sweat and still warmer than he thought was normal. He let his fingers trail up to push aside the boy's bangs. Wandering further, his fingers trailed through the boy's hair, pushing more of it off to one side, and resting them around Jim's temple. The boy stirred slightly, only enough to move his head in the direction of Hisirdoux's hand where it then cradled his face.

Then Jim muttered something about his mother.

Hisirdoux didn't quite understand the feelings that suddenly stirred up inside him, other than the fact that they seemed unpleasant. He backed away from Jim, and shifted his attention to the rest of his dwelling. He'd have to find more food for them both to eat once Jim woke up, so he decided to prepare for a gathering mission.

He put some supplies in a small pack. There were some things he had in mind to get, such as some herb-like plants that grew nearby. He didn’t know if they had any medicinal properties, but at least they were edible. Their location was a short hike away from the top of the cliff where his tree stump was rooted. There was also some edible fruit around the same location, so he would gather the herbs along with some of the fruit. If he managed to pass an animal along the way he could try and hunt for it, but he was mostly focused on the easy stuff.

After giving Jim one more look over he headed out.

It didn’t take him long to reach the area where the herbs grew. He started to collect them in a habitual manner, as they were easy to gather. His thoughts went back to Jim, and the feelings he had after hearing the boy mumbling in his sleep.

It wasn’t surprising that the boy had a mother, so why the negative sort of feelings?

The fruit he was looking for grew just above the area where he gathered the herbs. It was a bit of a climb to reach them and it wasn’t much effort, but he would have to be careful. His mind however, was still on Jim. It wasn’t long into his climb that his foot slipped on a loose portion of rock. Hastily, he managed to regain his footing. Then he felt a pang of anger with himself for allowing his absentmindedness to make him reckless.

<i>Also fear.</i>

It wasn’t the first time he’d made a blunder like this, there had been much worse things happen while living on his own. There was something different about it this time though. The anger wasn’t new, but the fear was. Fear, because now he had someone else who was relying on him to return.

That’s when it suddenly hit him, why he had felt the way he did about Jim mentioning his mother. Jim had people who were waiting for him. Hisirdoux stopped climbing, clinged to the cliff side, and leaned his forehead against the rocks. He wanted that thought to sink in.

Ever since coming into the Darklands, Hisirdoux felt alone. The company of Dictatious or the Gumm-Gumm’s was just something to fill that void, but it never felt like enough. They didn’t care about him, not truly. If he had never returned to them today, they wouldn’t care if he’d ever came back.

There was no one out there waiting for him.

He wanted what Jim had, people who would look for him when he went missing, people who would care if he was hurt or lost or alone. But he had no one.

<i>Well, maybe now…</i>

But Jim would surely go back to the people who missed him. What was Hisirdoux to Jim but a random stranger in the Darklands, who fumbled their escape plans and almost got them killed? Why would Jim give a second thought to him? He would probably leave once he got better and go back to his family, maybe even forget Hisirdoux ever existed…

It was hard to pull his mind out of that spiraling dark hole, but it also felt really stupid to be hanging on the side of a cliff. So he pulled himself the rest of the way up, collected the fruit, and scaled back down. He’d gotten pretty good at suppressing dark thoughts in favor of doing what needed to be done.

His mind was still hazy after he returned to his dwelling. Jim was still where he’d left him. At least he wasn’t alone for now, even if Jim was still unconscious. That small, but pleasant thought pushed Hisirdoux to unpack his cargo and begin making something that would be easy for Jim to get down even while in his condition.

So he set to cooking.

There was a small runoff of water that he’d redirected along one wall. The top of the redirect was full of rocks and some other materials to create a filter. He gathered the water from this makeshift tap into a large wooden bowl and set it next to a small pit where he then started a fire. The smoke of the fire escaped through a hole further up the root, possibly a branch of root that had long since crumbled away. Since Hisirdoux had no metal containers to boil water, the method he used to do so was a bit complicated, but it worked. Instead he heated an iron bar, which he’d insulated by fashioning a handle of wood. Once it was hot he would then dip it into the water, which had to be done several times to get it boiling. While the fire heated the metal, he got out a makeshift mortar and pestle, using it to turn the herbs into a paste. The fruit which he collected had a similar consistency as potatoes but had a mild lemony flavor. The herbs had a harsh and bitter sort of spice, but if he boiled it with the fruit, their flavors tended to blend together into something pleasant. He skinned the fruit and cut it into small pieces and put them in the water, then scooped out the herb paste into the water as well. He finished boiling the water, the heat softened the fruit, and he mashed it as he stirred everything together. It was a lot of work for a simple soup but it didn’t bother Hisirdoux if it helped Jim.

The taste of it in the end was pretty much what he had planned, so he poured some into a smaller bowl and brought it over to Jim’s side. He took a moment to study the boy’s face as he slept. He’d never had someone else to care for before, the idea made him feel both elated and afraid. Swallowing that fear he reached out to Jim’s face again.

“Hey,” Hisirdoux said to the boy softly. There was very little response to the gentle prodding, so Hisirdoux tried to lift him into a sitting position to make it easier to feed him the soup. This caused Jim to stir a bit more, he made soft noises in response to being moved. That was a good sign, Hisirdoux told himself.

Jim’s eyes fluttered open a bit, though he still seemed on the edge of passing out.. Hisirdoux used his own body as a prop to keep him sitting upright as he brought the bowl to Jim’s lips.

“Can you drink?”

“Mmmm..” Was the response Hisirdoux got, but Jim parted his lips when he felt the bowl against them.

Hisirdoux tipped some of the contents of the bowl slowly into Jim’s mouth, waiting till he swallowed. Which he did, and then Jim moved his hand up to hold onto Hisirdoux’s wrist, pushing the hand that held the bowl against his lips again to swallow the rest. Hisirdoux was about to get some more but Jim slid himself out of his grasp and laid back down. However, he didn’t let go of his wrist. Hisirdoux transferred the bowl to his other hand and set it aside, then he laid down next to Jim. It was a weird position, but this way Jim could keep holding his arm. Hisirdoux wasn’t sure why that seemed so important, but he didn’t mind the slight discomfort for it.

The moment felt oddly calming. He watched his arm resting over Jim’s chest as it moved up and down with his breathing. Hisirdoux’s mind seemed devoid of worry, which was unusual, since normally his mind being empty meant he was trying to ignore something painful. It was nice.

Hisirdoux closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself relax. Not wanting to fall asleep just yet, he shifted his thoughts over to hunting. He wasn’t sure if his presence in this part of the Darklands was the reason for the lack of game he’d been experiencing lately, it had just seemed difficult the past few months. Maybe he had over-hunted? If that was the case, they would have to move on from this spot if they wanted to survive. But he wasn’t sure what Jim would say when he woke up. He seemed grateful for Hisirdoux’s help, but maybe he had to move on as soon as possible.

The need to get up and begin a hunting trip was plagued by the desire to lay here as long as Jim would hold onto him. He was finally able to pull himself away, but only with a large pang of guilt. Hopefully hunting would be easier than that had been. After taking a swig of his now cold soup, he switched his gear from gathering to hunting. There wasn’t any way to know what he would or wouldn’t find out there now, big or small, he hadn’t seen anything on his way to the gathering spot. He might have to travel further down the ravine, which would make for a much harder hunting trip, but he hadn’t been down there in a while. If it was his presence here, then going somewhere that he hadn’t been much made the most sense. He decided to leave the larger hunting weapons behind, climbing through the ravine would be easier without them.

Hisirdoux knelt down beside Jim just before he was ready to head out, his mind was a tangle of thoughts. They hadn’t said much to each other, or even known each other for more than a day, but it seemed to make a world of difference for Hisirdoux, even as Jim slept. Having someone near, a human someone, who needed care and attention. Someone more like Hisirdoux, someone who could be vulnerable. There was a strange code among troll soldiers to always be afraid, but they never seemed afraid to him. They were stoic and unrelenting, they weren’t vulnerable like this.

He couldn’t help himself from reaching out and touching Jim’s face again. Jim seemed to have relaxed a little since being brought here, but he was obviously still recovering. He didn’t stir this time from being touched, though his eyes were moving visibly under his eyelids, possibly dreaming about something. Caressing his cheek lightly, he vaguely wondered what the boy would think if he were aware of what Hisirdoux was doing. The guilt of that thought made him stop. He longed for the touch, but wouldn’t want to disrespect Jim in the process.

He made sure Jim could easily access water or the soup if he woke up, and put the leathers back over him. Hisirdoux didn’t want to be away for too long in case the boy woke up, but he had a feeling the hunt for game would be a challenge. With one last look over everything, he headed out again, his feelings dancing a thin line between uncertainty and elation.

[inkrabbit]

Sucker - Pete x Vance

 Sitting on his bed, yearbook resting in his lap, Pete stares at the signatures from the greasers. Summer break had started a few weeks ago, and while some students had gone back home or were on vacation outside of Bullworth, he had been trapped in his dorm. Sure, he went out occasionally to walk around town, see what was new at the cinema or get some fast food, but that was it. Even Jimmy had been too preoccupied to hang out with him, which wasn’t too much of a surprise. Sure, he had hoped maybe he could hang out with his best (and pretty much only) friend over the summer before the ginger went home, but when he found the dorm room closed and texts explaining he was working those odd jobs for extra cash, all those expectations had flew right out the window. Pete was used to being alone, sure, but this felt worse. Having finally made a friend and then to just be… forgotten.

 So here he was, feeling sorry for himself and wondering if he could ease it by taking Vance up on his old offer. Join the greasers at the tenements, hang out and forget – just for a moment – that he was a loser. But the phone number seemed so intimidating, and as Pete grabbed his phone, he found it hard to do anything. To power it on, input his password and create a new text message. What would he say? “Hey Vance, I’m feeling lonely and wanna hang out”? Did that sound too desperate – too emotionless? Should he ask him how he was doing and hope he would be invited to hang out? He didn’t know how Jimmy did it. He had seen his friend start up a conversation out of nowhere. Even whenever he would text Pete, it would sometimes just be a simple “wanna hang out?” message that seemed so nonchalant. Is that what he should send?

 His phone’s ringtone going off scares him, making him jump as he looks down at the caller ID. It’s a familiar phone number, and it’s only familiar because he’s spent the past hour or so staring at it in his yearbook. With a deep inhale, he accepts the call, holding his phone up to his ear.

“Hey, Vance! What’s up?” he greets, trying to sound confident as he closes the book, slipping it into his nightstand’s drawer.

“How’s it hangin’, big daddy?” What did he call him? Pete sits there, brows knitted together and mouth agape as the name replays over and over in his head. “You got my number memorized, huh? Now why’s that?”

“Ah, I was just gonna text you, actually,” he confesses, “Why do you have my number? I don’t remember giving it to you.”

“Jimmy gave it to me,” He can almost see the greaser shrug, his reply coming like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Now then, what were ya gonna text me?”

“Uh I guess – uh…” He’s stuck now, mind drawing a blank. He can hear Vance on the other side, an interested mhmm coming through loud and clear, curious to hear his reply. “I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out?”

 There’s silence on the other end for a bit, and now he’s worried that was the wrong thing to say. He should’ve asked how he was doing instead, cursing himself for blurting out the first thing that came to mind. However, he starts to hear shuffling, and he can faintly make out someone else in the background, but not one he recognizes from the academy.

“If you don’t shut your mouth – not you, Petey – I’m gonna shut it for you!” Vance’s booming voice makes him jump, the sound of a door slamming shut at the end of his threat, as if proving a point. With a sigh of relief, he starts again in a calmer tone. “Now, what was that? Hangin’ out? Sure!”

“Ah, are you okay?” he asks, “Who was that?”

“Oh, ya mean the yellin’?” he chuckles, the shuffling continuing on the other side of the call. “Sorry ‘bout all that. Sergio’s a bit of a prick sometimes.”

“Sergio?” Vance lets out a breath that sounds like a mixture of a scoff and a chuckle.

“Older bro,” he tells him softly, and that airy, jokey tone has vanished. “Likes to butt into my life a lot. Annoyin’, but that’s why I stay away from home so much.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were home…” He should’ve guessed. Vance wasn’t one of the quiet kids at Bullworth. He was probably busy for the summer, either being home or with friends.

“Nah, I need a break,” Pete can only guess he hears a window creaking open, and a few seconds later, Vance is letting out a huff. “You still at school? I’ll come swing by, pick you up. We can do whatever.”

“Really?” He tries to keep his cool and not sound like some desperate dweeb, but with the soft chuckle he gets, he knows he failed.

“Really. ‘Sides, I told ya to hit me up whenever. That’s why I gave you my number!” The comment makes him smile and Pete makes sure to let his appreciation be known. With a soft goodbye, he lets himself relax. A smile is plastered on his face and for a moment he wonders why Jimmy had given Vance his number. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t dwell on it too long. He knew Vance lived somewhere in New Coventry and he didn’t have long to get dressed.

 Setting his phone on the nightstand, he hops up from his bed and walks over to his wardrobe. He keeps it casual, knowing Vance wasn’t exactly someone who critiqued people’s fashion too harshly. The first thing he grabs is the old band shirt Jimmy had left when he spent the night months earlier. It’s simple enough, a white Billy Talent shirt with a little design, “like a fire!” right below it. It’s a little baggy and the material isn’t the thickest, but it’s something and truth be told, he had always liked the shirt. Or, just maybe, he liked how cool it had looked on Jimmy and he hoped it would look just as good on him. Throwing on some old jeans and his sneakers, he ruffles his hand through his hair, ridding himself of any lint. He lingers for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror. Maybe he would grow his hair out this year? Something new.

 With a shake of the head, he snatches his phone up and shoves it into his pocket, exiting his room and steering clear of Wade dumping one of the nerds into the nearby trashcan. Pushing open the doors, he jogs down the steps and makes his way over the main gate, anticipation coursing through him. A part of him is worried about how today’s events will transpire. What would they do? Would Vance make fun of him? Would he flake out? He did seem eager to meet up. But was that because he just wanted to get away from his brother?

“Ay, Petey!” He looks up, sending Vance a smile as the greaser approaches. Eyeing him up and down, Vance lets out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “What’s your tale, nightingale? Ya look different!”

“Oh, I uh – I-I didn’t wanna make you wait,” he responds, letting out a nervous chuckle. Vance claps a hand on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Looks good on ya,” he tells him. Heat rushes to Pete’s face. How long had it been since someone had genuinely complimented him?

“T-thanks! You look good too!” It was the first time he had seen the teen like this. His hair had been slicked back, almost hastily, and while he still wore his leather jacket, the rest was different. A white dress shirt that had been unbuttoned, a black top underneath with matching jeans. Even his shoes were changed, old worn out high tops that were left untied.

“What? Ya like what ya see?” Vance’s teasing tone brings Pete out of his daze, the greaser laughing when he starts to stutter.

“I-I just – I mean I-” He takes a moment, breathing in and trying to collect himself as they start to walk. “Y-you just look different, too. Never seen you like that.”

“Got dressed quick,” he confesses, and even though his tone turns to a more calmer one, his smile never fades. “Wasn’t really expectin’ to go out today. Glad you asked, though. Sergio was startin’ his crap.”

“I never heard you talk of him,” That wasn’t much of a surprise. Pete had often kept his distance from shop class, intimidated of the clique and their hostile personalities. He wasn’t exactly the best at fixing bikes either and didn’t have much of a desire for it, which was why he had skipped it when filling out what extracurricular he had wanted. “What’s he like?”

 Vance hums a bit, lost in thought as they pass over the bridge that led into Old Bullworth Vale. He tells Pete of how Sergio used to go to Bullworth, and how he was the main reason he got into fixing bikes and wanting to eventually move on to cars. They lived in a broken home, their father occasionally bringing home some woman for the night and locking them out. Sergio would often steal the keys to the car before they were pushed out, giving them a warm and somewhat safe place to sit in throughout the night. Vance never knew if his brother slept those nights, but he remembered falling asleep in the passenger seat, the older teen behind the wheel with a scowl on his face and switchblade in hand. They often parked on the street in the richer part of town, but Sergio was paranoid, knowing of the delinquents that roamed around. Apparently they were worse those few years ago from the stories he heard and the cuts and bruises on his brother’s body when he would come home in the early mornings. Vance even bragged about knowing how to set a broken nose and pop a shoulder back into its socket, much to Pete’s horror.

 The stories of Sergio eventually turned into how Vance joined the greasers. Once the leader of the clique, he had filled Vance’s head with stories of shop class. The stupid antics he and the others would get into, the stories and conspiracy theories Neil would tell them. They all seemed very entertaining and fun, and it was no wonder Vance had wanted to experience it. Sergio had apparently appointed Johnny’s brother as leader, but had forced him to agree to watch over and take care of Vance when he started his high school life the following year, knowing how hostile the other member was. So before Vance had made friends with Lefty and made a strong connection, Johnny’s older brother was right by his side, deterring any other greaser that came up with ill intent.

“Maybe you’ll join us, too?” Vance’s suggestion catches Pete off guard, his eyes going wide as he looks at him. Could he ever really pass off as a greaser?

“I-I dunno,” he stammers softly, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I-I don’t really see myself being… one of you guys.”

“I do!” he declares, a bright smile on his face. “C’mon! When school starts up, we’ll go talk to Neil!”

“We?” he repeats. Would Vance really go speak to the man with him to get him enrolled into shop?

“’Course! It’ll be fun!” he tells him confidently. His head is held high as he wraps an arm around his shoulder, bringing him closer. “You’ll have us to hang out with and protect you. What? You think sometimes I don’t wanna goof off in class?”

 The greasers had always seemed so serious when it came to their bikes, but he told a different story. How he, Ricky and Peanut would make jokes, harass each other and even start small fights. They had been sent out more times than he could count, and Pete thought what that would be like.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally tells him. Throwing his fist in the air, Vance lets out an overjoyed holler. Pete supposed he would be speaking to Neil when August rolled around, and he would be spending more time with the greasers. At least he wouldn’t be alone.

 Pete doesn’t realize they’ve made it all the way to the carnival until the loud music reaches his ears, having been too enticed in Vance’s interesting (and overly dramatic) stories. Some about the clique and some about his older brother. And as Vance pays for their way in, the greaser turns his attention to him.

“What about you?” he asks, curiosity thick in his voice as they find a bench to sit down on.

“W-what about me?” He lets out a nervous chuckle, avoiding the teen’s gaze.

“I told you all about me!” he starts as he raises his voice just a bit, “Now it’s your turn! What’s ol’ Petey’s life like?”

“Not as exciting as yours,” he confesses softly. Vance just scoffs, rolling his eyes with a smile on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” he dismisses with that snarky tone, “I seem to remember ya bein the one to operate that old hunk of junk in the junkyard way back when.”

“You mean the magnetized crane?” he clarifies, snicking as Vance rolls his eyes and waves a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, whatever,” He turns back to him, grin once again appearing on his face. “Now, again, tell me about yourself!”

“W-well...” There wasn’t much to tell, but Pete decided to share anyway. His story wasn’t as exciting or scary, but Vance seemed to take interest. He scoffed when Pete said his parents lived decently close to the school, but he lived in the dorm room anyway because his parents wanted “some peace and quiet”. No wonder he was so awkward. Vance would bet anything that his parents were to blame for the younger teen’s poor social skills. Not to mention his father was a librarian, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the man kept a quiet tone around the house too.

 When asked about any siblings, Pete could only shake his head. His parents were dismissive of his existence, often leaving him to his own devices, only coming around once in a while to check on him. His main entertainment was watching TV or playing video games, occasionally even drawing. His parents would buy him little sketchbooks, seemingly pleased that he had found something quiet to do without them having to hear noises coming from the television set. He did admit that he had a hamster at one point, an orange and white long-haired rodent that was his best friend for a few years before it passed from old age. It was sad that he didn’t even seem to have friends growing up, his parents not wanting him to go out in fear he would get hurt or taken. Maybe that was the only nice thing Vance had heard about the couple, but Pete had been right. His stories weren’t as exciting. Apparently his first year at the academy had been the most thrilling time of his life, and Jimmy had been his first and only friend. Vance couldn’t imagine having a life so… sad.

“How’s ‘bout we keep makin’ this depressin’ life of yours fun?” Vance suggests, a glint flashing across his eyes as he grabs the younger teen’s hand, pulling him up from the bench. Pete falters and stutters out a flurry of questions, almost tripping over his feet as he tries to keep up with the teen’s fast pace. Vance is just a bundle of laughter, promising him a night he wouldn’t forget.

 They start at the back of the park first, walking through the freak show and marveling at the people behind the glass.  Alfred, the skeleton man, had been the first freak to greet them, eyeing Pete as he took a drag from his cigarette. Seeing his bones poke out through his skin had sent shivers down his spine, and his voice held something Pete couldn’t quite place. As they made their way further in, they could hear Paris talking, making some remark about the show she was watching. Sitting on her couch with legs spread, she sent them an acknowledging smile as she picked up a few chips, throwing them into her mouth as she scratched at her beard. Of course, Vance had a couple remarks about her, but Pete had tried to drown him out as he led him throughout the rest of the freak show.

 The others had all been interesting, and Pete had wondered how life could be so weird. Siamese twins, a mermaid that Vance wasn’t too sure was real. However, the one who stuck out the most to Pete was Drew, the crazy painted man. His screaming and incoherent rambling had already made the teen nervous, but when the man threw himself against the bars of his enclosure, he had jumped back with a shriek, scared the bars wouldn’t hold him. Vance had grabbed his arm, steadying him as he tried to calm his nerves.

“He’s just actin’,” he tells him as he shoots an agitated glance at Drew, “Guy’s just some wacko. Probably doin’ this for the easy money.”

 Pete just nodded his head as he followed him, but the screaming had stuck with him, and he was sure it would for the rest of his life. And though he didn’t want to admit it, he was more than overjoyed to have walked out of the freak show, letting out a breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding in. Maybe it was the dark lighting or how cramped everything felt, but Pete didn’t like it, only noticing once they were outside just how close he had been walking to Vance.

“How about we try out those rides ‘fore it gets any darker?” It’s only now that Pete realizes the sun is starting to set. With a smile, he gives him a nod and follows him over to the Big Squid. The line moved quick through the queue, and before they knew it, they were being seated in one of the carts. The monotone voice of Freeley comes through over the speakers, the request that everyone keeps hands and feet inside and not try to stand up during the ride. And when it starts, picking up speed and throwing them around, Pete can’t keep the smile off of his face, occasionally glancing over to Vance, seeing him laughing as well. It felt nice for Pete, to feel like he finally belonged somewhere or meant something to someone.

 By the time they get off, both are a bit dizzy. Pete raises his hand to rest it on Vance’s shoulder in order to stabilize himself, but when he finally registers the cool leather beneath his palm, he pulls away, worried about what response he would receive from the greaser. However, Vance just gives him a joyful smile as he leads him over to the roller coaster. They’re not seated in the front, Pete being too nervous, so both opt for the cart in the middle.

“Lemme slide by ya there,” Vance’s voice is soft as he moves over Pete, who’s sitting in the seat closest to the steps they had just walked up. They pull the bar down securely, Pete giving a few extra tugs to ensure it wouldn’t be going anywhere. Of course this doesn’t go unnoticed, and the greaser snickers softly at the younger teen’s actions. Once more, they hear the monotone announcement before the ride starts, launching them towards the opening of the canyon before pulling them up. Everyone else on the ride has their arms raised, but Pete’s holding onto the metal bar for dear life. And as they approach the top of the hill, he screws his eyes shut, body tensing as he prepares for the worse.

 A scream is pulled from him as the coaster falls down the hill, and Vance reaches over to pry his left hand from the handle bar, raising it into the air with his, yelling at him to just let loose and have fun. Although his body is trembling a bit from the fall, he takes the advice and finally opens his eyes, loosening the grip he had on his other hand and letting it raise into the air as well. Vance is still holding his hand, palms pressed together as Pete grips him with almost the same intensity as he was the bar. However, despite the biting wind in his face and the sharp turns that throw him into the teen, Pete can’t keep the large smile off of his face. Vance is right, this is a lot more fun. And as the coaster returns its original spot, the two are still laughing. The bar rises and Pete stands up, stepping out, still holding Vance’s hand to keep him steady and make sure he doesn’t trip as the greaser asks him how his hair looks. There’s one more ride and as they walk over, Pete has to stop the teen before he pays yet again for their fun.

“You’ve paid for everything!” he tells him with a laugh, digging out a dollar from his pocket and giving it to the operator. “It’s time I paid for something.”

“Well, ain’t you just the sweetest,” Vance smiles at him as he leads him over to the rickety seat. He scoots over to the end, allowing Pete to climb in after him, both pulling down the bar that creaked loudly. The ride starts, jerking them forward a bit as they follow the curve up. The sun’s set by now, and the carnival lights illuminate below them as they’re taken higher and higher up. Pete shivers as the soft breeze picks up, but he tries to concentrate on the view around them. He can see the beach in the distance, the lighthouse’s light rotating around. Their cart stops at the very top, rocking slightly and Pete looks below. They’re so high off the ground, it’s intimidating. Another shiver runs through him, this one out of fear.

“You cold?” Vance questions, cocking his head as he looks at him. Pete lets out a soft hum, eyebrows raised as he turns his gaze to meet his. Vance just gives him a cheeky smile as he brings his hands up, gripping his jacket and removing it from him. It was the first time Pete had seen a greaser without their iconic coat on, and he was honestly surprised to see that he actually had some muscle to him.

“U-uh… what’re you doing?” Pete’s confused when Vance drapes the jacket over his shoulders, but the warmth he feels is more than welcoming.

“You’re cold, ain’t ya?” he asks with a small chuckle, “I’m fixin’ it!”

“Y-you don’t h-have to,” he stammers softly, but Vance doesn’t seem to be taking no for an answer. He just sits there, a smile on his face as he tilts his head up, looking at the stars.

“Glad ya asked me out, ya know?” he starts, catching Pete off guard. He was glad? “Gets kinda… crazy at home sometimes, and everyone else was off doin’ their own thing. Managed to find Jimmy and get your number, just to chat but… well, you had a better idea.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” he agrees, going to hold the jacket close as he matches Vance’s smile. “I don’t really got anyone except Jimmy, and he’s been busy. I'm too cool to be a dork, and too dorky to be anything else, so I’m always just… alone.”

“No you’re not,” The confident tone makes Pete knit his eyebrows together. “Ya got me now! And soon, you’ll have the greasers! Peanut’s gonna be the leader, and I just know he’d be happy to have ya!”

“Maybe cause I’m Jimmy’s friend,” he scoffs softly, looking to the ground as the ride resumes, slowly bringing them down. “I just… I wanna feel like I exist without him, you know?”

“You do,” Vance wraps an arm around his shoulders, bringing him closer to him. “You and me? We’re existin’, right now, without Jimmy. And you’ll be existing, without Jimmy, when you join us.”

“Yeah, sure. We’ll see,” Maybe it was the low self-esteem Pete always had throughout his life. How dull and mediocre it was, and how the most exciting thing to ever happen to him was falling in with the only two psychopaths in all of Bullworth. “Just feels like I only had a meaning when Gary and Jimmy showed up in my life.”

“And you’d be wrong,” As they get to the bottom and the railing lifts, the two make their way out of the old cart, thanking the man and being on their way. When they walk to the gates, Vance’s arm finds its way back across Pete’s shoulder and they fall into step towards the exit. “Tonight’s been amazing, and it’s because you asked me to come hang. Not Jimmy, and sure as hell not Gary. Don’t see any of those two makin’ you do this.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles. They walk back through the tunnel, Vance still giving him a pep talk he probably needed years ago. He’s still holding onto the jacket, his face tinted red and a smile pulling at his lips. It’s not long before they get into a more friendly conversation, making jokes and thoughts about what the next school year would hold. Vance kept referring to him as the newest greaser, and at this point, Pete wasn’t even denying him or the idea. He loved the thought in fact. To be part of a clique and feel like he belonged? Have something relatively close to a family that would care for him and make him feel like he mattered? It was almost like a dream come true.

 They walk all the way back to school, sneaking past the prefects that were out prowling, looking for any students breaking curfew. It was a lot warmer inside the dorms when they entered, the doors shutting loudly behind them as they walked down the hall and towards Pete’s room. However, that was as far as Vance went. Standing outside of his room, he’s practically beaming at the younger teen.

“I had fun,” he tells him, and Pete can only nod in agreement. They stood closely together, and the faint smell of Vance’s cologne mixed with the cigarettes he smoked almost religiously had radiated off of him. It was nice, calming in a way.

“I uh – I’m uh… I-I’m really glad you called,” Pete laughs, turning his gaze to the floor. “Not sure I would’ve been able to text you.”

“Me too,” Curling his index finger under Pete’s chin, Vance raises his face so he’s looking at him again. Softly brushing his thumb across his bottom lip, he leans in to press a kiss to his mouth. Eyes going wide, Pete stares at him in disbelief when he pulls away, hearing a chuckle. “You have a good night, Petey. Maybe we can hang out again tomorrow.”

 He opens his mouth to say something – anything, but nothing comes out. So instead, his just nods, his face on fire as the greaser chuckles once again. He takes a step back, gives him one last smile and finally moves to leave the dorm. Pete’s knees feel weak, his heart racing, thudding so loud against his chest that it reverberates in his ears. He turns to go inside of his room, but a gasp escapes his lips. He rushes after Vance, flinging the heavy door to the dorm rooms open.

“Y-your jacket!” he calls after the teen. Turning back with an innocently confused face, he looks Pete up and down. The leather jacket is still hanging from his shoulders. It was cute that he didn’t put his arms through the sleeves.

“You keep it,” he tells him, a smug grin forming. “Every greaser needs a leather jacket! Consider it a gift!”

“O-oh, o-okay…” He smiles, shrinking in on himself just a bit. “Thank you! I’ll take good care of it!”

 Vance just nods, turning his heels and continuing his way out of school grounds and towards home. Pete watches him until he makes a right, disappearing behind the walls. With a soft sigh, he closes the door and returns to his room. He gently takes the jacket off, hanging it on the coat hanger by the door. His heart fluttered as he admired it, and he couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face. He owed Jimmy his gratitude, and come the beginning of the school year, he was going to make his way down to shop class and speak with Neil about joining.

[gaknar]

Review: The Claremont Crossovers

Geez, I haven’t written a review for this blog since my Secret Wars review from like 17 years ago. How can that be? Well, I guess I used to work on this blog a lot more often and now I’ve gotten way more into Super Nintendo games and BDSM. Like a lot of people. But now that I finally finished reading Inferno, it is time once again to bookend my experience with an overly wordy wall of text filled with the worst kind of oblivious meninist butt humor jokes and pretentious sounding run-on sentences that are trying to sound smart but are always improperly ended with prepositions of. And lots of ridiculous comic book panels.

These are only the silliest panels from this reading that I could find after looking for about 25 seconds.

Bookeeping. This review covers everything that I have read since X-Factor #1. This includes Uncanny X-Men #204-243, X-Factor #1-39, New Mutants #38-73, along with a smattering of annuals, Daredevil, Power Pack, Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, Excalibur, and X-Terminators comics that were all part of the Mutant Massacre, Fall of the Mutants, and Inferno crossovers. There were a lot of developments over the course of the 4 years these comics were published. Jean Grey was resurrected and the original members of the X-Men reformed under the moniker X-Factor.

Mr. Sinister formed his band of evil mutants, the Marauders, who would become the X-Men’s main antagonists, and their most devious act would include committing mutant genocide against the Morlocks in the New York City sewers while dealing critical wounds to main X-Men team members Kitty Pryde, Nightcrawler, and Colossus during the fight.

Later, the X-Men were seemingly killed in a struggle with the mystical being known as the Adversary, but in reality they went into hiding in their new Australian outback base.

Illyana Rasputin lost control of the hell dimension Limbo which led to a demon invasion of Manhattan.

And finally, perhaps most prominently, Cyclops left his wife Madelyne Pryor and their son to get back together with Jean Grey, an act that led Madelyne to become corrupted with Pheoenix Force power and to turn into the Goblin Queen.

This era of X-Men comics contains the first major crossovers between the main X-Men comic book and its spinoffs. These events would become common as Marvel found ways to use its more strongly published works to carry the weaker ones, and the ploy still works apparently since here I am 30 years later reading 500 page omnibus collections just because there are 4 or 5 absolutely killer X-Men comic books in them. I love the X-Men so much that I’m willing to wade through the unending buildup to get the most out of the climaxes.

Seriously this artwork.

However, I find that this style of editing leads to a peculiar trend in pacing that can be tough to recover from in-between the major storylines. As Mutant Massacre leads into Fall of the Mutants, which then leads into Inferno, the characters are faced with consistently increasing stakes. With each passing story line, casualties grow and become more grave, and the consequences are more lasting. Mutant Massacre starts with the genocide of a mutant community, and several main characters are critically wounded as the X-Men face the worst defeat they’ve ever experienced. Then a year later in Fall of the Mutants, just as the team is starting to recover, the entire team of X-Men is killed during their battle against the Adversary. They would immediately be resurrected as a reward for sacrificing themselves to save the world, but it is still a defeat that claims the lives of every member of the team, if only for a moment. By the time we get to Inferno, the world is literally ending. Demons are raining from the sky and regular people are straight up getting slaughtered in the streets and elevators as the X-Men are more or less helpless to stop the destruction.

Inferno is an amazing storyline, if only for all the scenes of inanimate objects coming to life and straight up eviscerating common folk who are just minding their own business. Look at this shit!!! How did the comics code of conduct ever approve this. A mob of people just packed themselves into a demon FOOD PROCESSOR and every inch of them was liquefied except their bones. Chilling. (And let’s just forget about how the writers retconned all this blood orgy stuff in the Inferno Epilogue).

This all works in a capitalistic sense. Constantly raise the stakes and don’t let up for a second because if you do, the reader will take their eyes off the page and you will lose money. But the problem is, you can’t do this forever. And if you try, eventually you are going to write yourself into a corner where you’ve raised the stakes so many times, and you’ve re-manufactured the drama so often, people will stop caring. I call this the Dragon Ball effect.

How many times have these characters become gods at this point? Like three movies ago, the most recent movie was literally called “Battle of Gods.” I’m not even watching Super. Once your characters get so far away from humanistic stories people can relate to, you are no longer creating art. You’re manufacturing sensationalism. And it gets boring. These guys are starting to look like different flavors of freezie pops.

Maybe this is why the X-Men comics that come after this, the comics that make up the last leg of writer Chris Claremont’s 17 year run on the series, become so weird. Because perhaps there was no way to continue to raise the stakes any higher. After this point, we don’t get any more big crossovers until X-Tinction Agenda, but even that story is small and quaint when compared to what is presented here. Wolverine completely disappears from the series, all our other favorite characters disappear into the Seige Perilous to be transformed into completely different versions of themselves, and we get a lot of surreal stories that don’t have any sort of climax in the way that we’ve been conditioned to expect. The series becomes murky and ambiguous, without a solid narrative arc, and I think that’s why people regard the end of Chris Claremont’s writing on the series to be the weakest part of his run.

I can’t wait to read the X-Men comics that are coming up next. Because I didn’t know what in the FUCK was going on in these comics when I was a kid and I’m hoping they make more sense now.

Anyway, I’ll be the judge of all that, once I get there. (I may even indulge in the Infinity Gauntlet omnibus because, you know, there’s a couple X-Men involved in that). But regardless of what comes after this, I think it’s also true that the crossovers presented in this reading are generally regarded with less respect than Chris Claremont’s earlier work on the series, such as the Dark Phoenix Saga and Days of Future Past. This I don’t agree with. While the stories in this reading do range in quality, with Fall of the Mutants definitely being the weakest of the three big crossovers, and even though the Uncanny X-Men portion of Inferno isn’t even the central story of that crossover (the critical story elements take place in the far inferior issues of New Mutants and <ugh> X-Terminators written by Louise Simonson), Claremont’s writing is still much stronger, more layered, and more elegant than anything else that is presented in these collections. These crossovers may not be as timeless or original as the most famous X-Men stories, but the writing here is still really darn good and engaging (at least in Uncanny X-Men), and in my opinion, does not represent a decline in aptitude on the part of the writer. It’s clear that Claremont’s writing has continued to mature and become more nuanced, so much so that when you compare it to the first issues he wrote for the series, it seems like he’s a completely different writer.

KALIDASCOPICALLY. Again, these were just the silliest panels I could find after looking for about 25 seconds.

Personally, I love this period of X-Men comics. Under Claremont’s executive control, no plot thread gets dropped. No minor detail goes disregarded. Characters continue to grow and develop at such a natural pace, sometimes it feels like my own life is developing right alongside theirs. This adds depth to these readings and I can’t describe how it feels to be a part of them, and I think it’s this element that is missing from so many other comic books written by so many other comic book writers, including nearly every X-Men story written after Chris Claremont left the series.

Case in point, there are so many minor recurring characters that appear in these stories, like Franklin Richards. (I seriously tear up every time I see these panels). This little guy bounces around the Power Pack, the X-Men, and the Fantastic Four like a ping pong ball. He’s a key character in the story line where Kitty Pryde finally recovers from the wounds she suffered during Mutant Massacre. And even though Kitty and Franklin have only met each other a few times, those meetings have meaning and they are remembered and called upon in the telling of the current story. All of the efforts made by the writers and editors to keep the narrative linked make these characters seem like real life people with weight and substance, rather than a thin layer of ink on a piece of paper. And it totally works.

Ugh, this review turned into another circle jerk about the writers of these comics, and especially about Chris Claremont. But what can I say. It’s because of the writers that we are here. Love or hate these comics, and I know Claremont’s wordy scripts are not everyone’s cup of tea, but these are the stories that make the X-Men what they are. It’s tough to be aware of these things when you’re in the middle of reading them, but I’m having the absolute best time writing this blog right now, and it is primarily because these are the comics that resonate with me the most. And when I’m finished with Claremont’s material and I’m slogging through some crap written by Chuck Austen, I bet I’m going to look back on these days with envy.

[serotoninsuggestion]

How do you continuously stay positive?! And not fall back into ur negative ways

o gosh!!!! hi

this is such a complicated question and it’s a long ass answer apologies in advance

firstly it’s very very untrue that i’m always positive and that i never fall back into negative ways. that sounds lovely but probably a bit unachievable.

i do cultivate a positive presence online, true, and it’s a purposeful choice to focus on the good stuff bc i find that helpful. but maybe i need to work on making it more obvious that i do also struggle lol

and i guess it’s also true that things are better.

i often dismiss it as “oh, that’s just because your circumstances have changed; you’re not at the school you hated anymore and you’re not friends with that toxic girl and your dad isn’t ill anymore, so of course you’re going to be happier” or “oh, it’s probably just a chemical imbalance in your brain that righted itself over time, nothing you did” but i think it’s not just that

even at uni with my great friends and my healthy dad and buzzing social life and general “i’m better now” mentality i occasionally went back to feeling like i did not deserve to be on the earth and i would not understand at all i’d be like u were supposed to be gone where the fuck did u come from

so i actually got help and went through 2 rounds of CBT. if i’m honest on the whole i didn’t find them that useful because the first was a group session so i felt let down that they gave such general blanket advice, and the second was over the phone so i just people-pleased my way through the six weeks saying the expected answers i knew she wanted to give the impression i was improving. oops. also there was homework????? ew???

HOWEVER there was a recurring thing both therapists mentioned which stuck in my mind despite how cynical i was about the whole experience:

learn how to recognise the different types of negative thoughts

google tells me they’re called cognitive distortions, but “unhelpful thinking styles” is a lot nicer. i’m not gonna list them, u might know them already or u should look them up.

but for example, i learnt and noticed that most of my spirals were full of self-critical thoughts and hypothetical questions. a lot of “no one likes me i’m the most hated person in every room” and “what if a gunman walked in the flat right now and i didn’t have my phone on me”

and before therapy i never realised i could just interrupt and go “uh. excuse me. just noticed that you’re catastrophising there. wanted to point out that none of this is true or likely and it’s just your brain lying to you.”

and then you’re like “shit yeah u right. my bad. what else shall we think about?”

it’s excellent. it feels like you’ve hacked your own brain, like you’ve pressed pause on the horror movie and remembered it’s a nice day outside. keep an alert lookout for those thoughts like there’s a game of laser tag going on inside your mind, and after you’ve shot them down they hold their hands up like “fair play. you got me.”

sometimes it works like that, all over in a second, and sometimes it’s only retrospective. sometimes it is bad, still

e.g. this christmas eve i didn’t sleep a wink because i was up all night sobbing convinced my dad wasn’t going to be alive by christmas the following year. it was a lot of “what if his diet means the cancer will come back because i read somewhere white bread can do that or what if the cancer doesn’t get chance to kill him because a shredder falls on him in the garden”

then on christmas day at like 9am i was suddenly like “what an unlikely array of events and a stupid waste of sleep. but it’s fine. i’ll get an early night tonight.”

another example i went out for drinks with my amazing work colleagues and it felt like wading through water trying to join in the conversation, i felt like i was a useless unnecessary part of the party, i never knew what to say and only thought of it when the topic had already passed, and i got on my train home and hated my reflection and cried and felt that familiar ten-tonne weight on my chest.

and then i got up in the morning and thought “everyone has an off night, it’s fine, just chat to them at lunch” and i did and we all had a giggle imagining forming a work synchronised swimming team

so in summary of this ted talk.......

life is shit on all of us in big or small ways and sometimes we forget how to pull ourselves out of holes which we then look back at and realise were two-foot deep. it’s ok. it’s ok. just try and remember next time u have a step ladder right there in ur pocket.

and sometimes the whole really is that fucking deep. and if that’s where u are right now, i’m sorry. because i can’t remember that stage of my life too well, i can’t give very specific advice, all i can tell u is that it ends, and hopefully the cognitive distortion thing will give u just a little step up.

i love u and i believe in u and we might never have a life full of 100% good days but the bad ones will seem less and less and less intimidating

[alegacyofmikalsons]

The Act of Living Chp. 3: A Link of Fate

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and supported this, I've loved seeing your reactions to what is happening. As you can see this chapter is a flashback, I want to include some of these to give some background context for why Sera has the relationship to all of them that she does. I also wanna include some other important moments from her past that don't involve them as well. I'll probably be including these every three to four chapters, depending on where it would make sense to put this in the story.

I've already started the next chapter so hopefully it won't take quite as long to finish as these ones have. 

Rating: Mature

Series Summary: Klaus and Elijah were supposed to die, but fate in the form of new friends Serafina Hewitt and her sister Stevie intervened. A year later Stevie is dead and Sera returns to New Orleans to see her friends and investigate her suspicions about what happened. When it’s confirmed that a powerful hunter group is responsible, she realizes a much bigger threat is coming, one that threatens all of New Orleans. As they race to stop it, she gets more than she bargained for, finding the truth about who she is and a growing attachment towards a certain Mikalson. Most importantly, they all get answers to the biggest riddle of all: what the act of living really means. 

Link to Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/874712498-the-act-of-living-chapter-3-a-link-of-fate

@kinda-iconic​ @endlesshero1122​ @bbchoices​ @katelynnicolerollins​ @im-a-bisexual-mess​

If anyone else wants to be tagged in future chapters, please let me know and I’l add you!

New Orleans, LA - 2019

The streets teemed with locals and tourists alike as I searched for any signs of potential danger. In New Orleans, there was plenty to look out for. There were the normal creeps looking for a harmless young woman to bring home and the rogue vampire who didn't want to wait until midnight to obtain their refill. However, the thing that concerned me the most was the group of hunters who wanted me dead more than any other powerful being. While not a typical threat here, if they ever learned how important this place was to me they could become one.

"Are you sure we should be out here?" I asked.

Hearing a sigh, I finally glance over in time to catch my sister rolling her eyes. "Uh yes. Taking part in the nightlife here is practically a requirement."

We slowed to a stop as she looked at one of the bars along the street, Rousseau's.

"Says the person whose ID is fake?" I crossed my arms raising an eyebrow.

"Oh come on, that hasn't mattered before." When my expression didn't waver, she gave me a pout. "Come on. Don't be such a Debbie Downer Sera! We'll be fine, especially if I stay by you."

Letting out a sharp exhale, I muttered, "That's what everyone in Mirebrook thought too until Nemean showed up."

Until I gave my heart to the worst person I could have.

I didn't say that part out loud but, judging by the scowl forming on Stevie's face, I didn't have to.

"No," she stated, shaking her head adamantly. "We are not bringing them up, especially not James. In fact, you aren't going to think about them for the rest of this trip. It's not like they're going to follow us here. Even if they do, there aren't any large events this weekend for them to crash. So, let's just get out of that overactive mind of yours and have a good time. Who knows when we'll be able to come back."

This didn't ease my anxiety entirely, but she did make a dent in it. She was also right. I did love being in New Orleans again after twelve years. As soon as we drove into the city limits, I felt like I was returning home, something Mirebrook hadn't felt like in years.

"Fine," I told her after a minute. "But, we're leaving before midnight. You know what happens then. And if anything goes wrong, I'm blaming it on you."

A contagious grin spread across her face. "Deal. Now, is this place fine or should we walk further?"

I read the sign above the door once more turning my attention to the inside. I remembered it being popular when I was here last, at least with the underage crowd since they were pretty lenient. However, I was barely in high school when we left so, I didn't get to join in much. Most of the few parties I attended were in the Bayou.

"Yeah, this is fine," I told her with a nod. "Let's go before I change my mind."

Following her inside, the bar is already filled to the brim with loud conversations and dancing. After a minute, we were able to snag the last two open seats at the counter. I took the time to examine the surrounding scene. Everyone seemed to be having a good time with a live band playing a jazz tune.

"Sorry about the wait," I heard the bartender shout over the noise. Quickly, I turned back around to find her eyes carefully trained on us. "I'll have to see some ID, you both look a little young."

We both handed them over without a fuss. It didn't take much time at all for her to return Stevie's fake with a nod. However, when she got to my genuine card she paused, looking back and forth in disbelief.

I traded a knowing look with my sister. Ever since I was a teenager, I appeared younger than my real age, the difference becoming more prominent as I got older.

Finally, after another minute, the woman returned my card shaking her head. "Well, I'm not quite sure I believe it but, it looks legit"

"Yeah, I know. I get that a lot," I replied with a shrug. "It certainly isn't the strangest thing to find in this city."

The lady at the counter suppressed a laugh. "It definitely isn't. Anyway, what can I get you, ladies?"

"Rum and coke please," Stevie said, excitement tingling in her veins.

"And I'll have a Vieux Carre."

It was the Big Easy after all. But there was another sentimental reason why I picked the whiskey cocktail, it was our dad's signature. Since this trip was to honor him a year after his death, it felt right.

"Interesting choice. I'll have those ready as soon as I can. In the meantime, enjoy the entertainment. It's open mic tonight."

She turned away to make our drinks and I sighed, focusing my attention back on the stage where a man sprang up with a lively grin. As he approached the microphone, I raised my eyebrows.

Marcel Gerard.

Our parents talked about him frequently when we still lived here since he was running the supernatural scene. He implemented the rule banning witches from practicing magic, keeping Stevie from studying her spells for a few years and me from using dark magic. However, unlike many at the time, our parents didn't really protest the rule out in the open. While they didn't particularly like it, they understood where it was coming from, that the witches' added fuel to the ever-burning flame among the different factions. That ability to see every side is something they instilled in us and that I took to heart. So, Marcel often came to them when he needed a favor requiring magic, giving our family an exception in return.

"How's it going?" he exclaimed, causing the small crowd to cheer. "Who's ready for some music?"

Hearing the bartender shout that our drinks were ready, I took mine from the counter with a courteous smile. "Thanks."

Bringing the glass to my lips, I was surprised to find myself enjoying more than expected as I let it linger on my tongue. In fact, the more I tasted it, the more it became my new favorite.

Looking over, I noticed Stevie's face scrunched up in disgust. "Don't tell me you actually like that."

"What can I say," I answered, gladly having another sip. "Dad had good taste."

I frowned for a moment before shaking it off. This wasn't supposed to be sad, he wouldn't want that. As I scanned the masses of people, I couldn't help tapping to the beat. Music has always been a passion of mine since it was one of the few things I did that felt effortless. It was more feeling than thinking. Which, for my overactive mind was a needed comfort. Soon, only half of my drink was left and I willed myself to slow down, remembering to pace myself. My tolerance was high but, it wasn't roofless.

"Come, let's dance!" Stevie shouted, hopping off her stool.

I debated turning her down but, then I remembered I was supposed to be having a good time. Sighing, I stood up and took my drink with me.

"Oh, why not."

Wading through the crowd we managed to get ourselves relatively close to the stage. With a giggle, she spun me around, catching me off guard for a split second. She was definitely more buzzed than I was but, then again, she was a bit more of a lightweight and had less experience.

"Hey, take it easy, I am not losing my drink." I told her, trying not to encourage her antics with my laughter. "Or breaking a glass."

"You're no fun," she complained but, let go of my arm.

I rolled my eyes, continuing to dance on my own until the song ended. Pausing, I took a deep breath as my heart raced with an electric feeling. I hadn't been this happy in ages, not like this anyway. Realizing Stevie was no longer beside me, I glanced around a little concerned.

Then, I heard her voice shout from the other side of the dance floor. "Vincent!"

At the name I turned to see her approaching a long time friend of our parents, our dad especially. Smiling, I quickly made my way over being careful not to bump into anyone. When I arrived, I found them deep in conversation.

"Last time you were here, you were about this short and had bright pink braces," he told her.

She scowled, her nose wrinkling at the end. "Ugh, I'd like to forget that ever happened, thank you."

"That is definitely not going to happen, Stevie," I chimed in. "He's seen you in diapers. Something I didn't even get to witness."

Turning in my direction, the grin on his face widened. "Sera. It is sure good to see you in person."

I got pulled into a tight hug that filled me with nostalgia.

"It's good to see you too Vincent," I said once we separated. "Only took a death to bring us back."

A sad look entered his eyes and he swallowed. He and our dad were friends since they were both kids. "I still can't believe he's gone. It's been, what a year now?"

Vincent watched both of us grow up at least somewhat. In fact, he was the reason I was adopted at all. It was him I met first when he stopped by the foster home to donate some supplies. Then, my parents showed up the following week. I didn't know until years later that he was the one who encouraged them to do so. Without him, my whole life would be completely different.

Biting my lip I nodded. "Yeah, it certainly doesn't feel like it."

"Is Mary not here?" he asked, scanning the bar surrounding us.

Our mother.

"No, she didn't feel like coming with us tonight," I replied. "Not really her scene. But, she did plan for all of us to come to visit tomorrow. I hope that's okay."

His expression brightened once more. "Of course it is. She actually already ran it by me the other day, wanted to make sure I would be available. Tell her I look forward to seeing her."

"I will." Taking another sip of my drink, I asked, "So, are you here with anyone, or are you drinking by yourself?"

Hesitating, Vincent ran a hand along the back of his neck. "I'm actually meeting up with...a family I know. The one I've complained about before."

Suppressing a smirk, I remarked, "Ah, so they're what...frenemies?"

"You could say that. One of them invited me and I couldn't really say no. She can be a bit persuasive."

I raised my eyebrows in interest. "Oh, I hope we're not keeping you from them."

"You're not, I'm still waiting for them to arrive," he replied with a half-hearted chuckle. "Actually, why don't you can stick around and I'll introduce them to you. You actually might get along which would be very helpful for me."

I let out an aggravated sigh. "Vince, I am not going to be your pawn for ass-kissing. I have to do that enough at home, I do not need more." However, I found myself becoming curious about these acquaintances. "But, I will meet them, only because I want to. From what you've told me, they sound interesting."

"Yeah, that's...definitely a word for it. More like dangerous and cruel when provoked."

Well, now I was definitely interested. "Is that supposed to make me dislike them? Because it is not working. I can be like that if the impulses take over, you know that. That doesn't necessarilly make me a bad person."

He flashed a disapproving look at me. He always tried to steer me away from the dark energy's effect on my desires. I didn't necessarily love that part of myself either but, I'd accepted its presence a while ago. It was a part of who I was. Plus, the more I used it, the more I learned to control it.

A wave of cheering and applause erupted around us and I looked just in time to see the person currently onstage finishing their song.

Marcel hopped back up as the noise died down slightly. "We'll be taking a five-minute break but, after that, since there are no more names on the list here, anyone can come up to play something."

Vincent glanced in that direction before giving me a grin. "You should go up there Sera."

"What, me?" I stammered as a subtle warmth grew in my cheeks. Then, I shook my head, mild anxiety coursing through me. "I don't...not in front of all these people."

It wasn't a lack of confidence that held me back, but the prospect of being noticed because that led to prejudice. During my childhood and adolescence, most of the attention I received from strangers and acquaintances were for things I didn't want to be known for. Actions I couldn't control. It was easier to be invisible, without any expectations or labels being placed on me. I wanted to be able to choose how moral I wanted to be, without the restriction of reputation.

"Come on sis," Stevie exclaimed, her eyes pleading once more. "You have the voice of a goddess. One of these days you're going to have to let the world hear it. Plus, I know how much you enjoy it."

I pressed my lips together. "That's not..." Once again this evening, the lessons I've given her on rhetoric backfired. "I don't even have an instrument with me."

Vincent shrugged this off, the determination now fierce in his eyes. "That's not a problem. The guitar up there is for anyone to use."

Looking back at the stage, I found what he was referring to and let out a silent gasp. It was one of the nicest ones I'd ever seen. The wood was a beautiful brown color with black on the edges. It was of good quality and the right amount of worn-in too. As soon as I saw it, my fingers itched with the temptation to pick it up.

"I see that look Sera," he said, snapping me out of my daze. "Do it for me will you? I haven't heard you live yet, just the recordings your parents sent me."

I peered back at the stage, as my resolve began to dissolve. The desire to create, that euphoric feeling, it tugged until I had to say yes. It was one of the more common ways my blood influenced me.

After a minute, I sighed. "Oh, alright. One song."

Stevie let out another squeal, spinning me around until I was slightly dizzy. "I win again." Setting me down, her gaze turned bittersweet for a second. "Will you sing one of Dad's favorites?"

I found myself swallowing a dry lump as I nodded. "Yeah, I can do that."

Clearing my throat, I finish off the last of my drink, handing the glass to her. Then, I approached the stage, nerves crawling all over my stomach. The person with the clipboard, a boy around my age, looked up with a sloppy grin. His eyes roamed my figure appreciatively. Instinctively, I tensed ever so slightly.

"Well hello, to you. Interested?" he crooned, tilting his head towards the small stage. His hair was slicked back with too much gel that it needed.

He reminded me a little too much of J...no. I needed to stop thinking about him. About what he did.

Feigning a smile, I nodded. "I am. What do I have to do?"

"Just sign here with your name and the song you're doing," he said, his words blurring together. "You'll be up first when we resume things."

I simply took the pencil from him and jotted the information down. "Anything else?"

"Nope, just wait here until we call for you. Won't be too long." He leaned in, more than a little too close for comfort. "You have a vibe, you know. Mysterious, dark. I like it."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed," I quipped deliberately taking a step back. "Let me save you some effort, I'm not interested."

He responded by letting out a chuckle. "Oh come on, I won't disappoint. At least let me buy you a drink." He inched forward once more, even closer than last time.

Strong coils of dread seized my stomach as the urge to do something violent took over.

"What part of 'I'm not interested' don't you understand?" I hissed with a glare.

Making sure no one was paying attention, I kept my eyes on him as I concentrated on the dark energy lying in my veins until it stirred ever so slightly. His smirk vanished as his eyes widened, no doubt noticing how my eyes had darkened and the orange glow.

"What the--?" Before he could finish his face contorted in visible pain as the blood boiled beneath his skin. "Ow!"

I continued for a little longer then released him to gasp and shudder. "Keep your hands to yourself, and we won't have any more problems. Is that clear?"

He let out an agonized groan. "Yes, I got it, thank you."

"Good." Smiling, I walked away to the other side of the stage to wait.

"Okay everyone, who's ready for more music?" Marcel eventually exclaimed setting off a loud cheer. "Now up onstage we have, Serafina Hewitt, singing Neon Moon."

Taking a deep breath, I climbed up on the black platform and grabbed the guitar from the hand, slipping it around me. Feeling the comfort of the instrument in my hands I relaxed enough to approach the microphone with a nervous smile.

"This is for my dad, Anthony Hewitt," I said, my voice wavering.

I pulled up the stool at the back of the stage and sat down, adjusting the mic stand until it sat perfectly in line an inch or so away. I took out the pic I always kept in the pocket of my jeans, mainly as a good luck charm, and placed my hands in the right position. Searching the bar, I found my sister and Vincent who were now at the counter joined by several people. They had to be the family he wanted me to meet. This made the nerves increase but, I pushed past them.

Closing my eyes, I strummed the first chords. "When the sun goes down on my side of town, that lonesome feeling comes to my door, and the whole world...turns blue. And there's a run down bar across the railroad tracks, I got a table for two way in the back...where I sit alone...and I think of losing you. I spend most every night beneath the light of a neon moon." I felt myself smile and start to let go as the chorus came in fully. "If you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely. To watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon."

Now, I as I looked out, the stares of the people listening didn't matter anymore. Everything drowned out except me and the music until all too soon, I approached the end.

"To watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon." I played the last note, letting it reverberate in silence.

Once it died, I sat back with a smile as people began to clap enthusiastically. It made me a bit sheepish but, not as terrified as I was in Mirebrook whenever I played at the local café.

"Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your night." I placed everything back where I found it and climbed down to reunite with Stevie and Vincent.

After a minute, I finally made it through.

"Okay Vince you were right," I said.

He looked in my direction his grin straining his cheeks. "Sera, that was amazing. Had the whole place in the palm of your hand."

"Thanks," I responded, tucking a loose strand behind my ear.

Once again I soon found Stevie's arms wrapped around tightly threatening to cut off my air supply. "I knew you would kill it!"

"And you are killing my lungs right now," I wheezed, and she immediately let go.

"Sorry, I couldn't help it! You were just so good."

Laughing dryly, I remarked, "Yeah, I know you can't help depriving me of oxygen."

As she stuck her tongue out at me, I turned my attention to the people I'd noticed earlier speaking to themselves. Now that I had a good look at their faces, I knew I'd seen them before, in my head. Not from my memories but theirs. After a beat, I realized with surprise who they were.

Oh my god. The Mikalsons.

I knew their story well, anyone who grew up within a school for the mystic did. But, the other version I received painted a more holistic, human picture of them. The two certainly had similarities, such as the endless number of people they'd killed over the centuries. But, they also had differences. I started receiving their memories back in high school after we started to cover them in supernatural history. The first was a painful one from ages ago, probably around the time they first were turned. The intensity of it all woke me up, and I'd been unable to stop thinking about it the rest of the night and following morning. Then, in class that afternoon, I began to question what they were telling me. I wondered just how much information was hyperbolic.

After that, I continued to see them almost daily until the end of that unit. After that, they occasionally showed up though it was only once every few months now. Strangely, I didn't mind. For some reason, I felt like I could sometimes relate to what they went through. Balancing the different parts of yourself, having this darkness that sometimes took over. Even letting it when it was easier to forget you had a heart.

I caught myself staring, and I blinked, willing myself to look away before one of them noticed. The last thing I wanted to do was make them feel uncomfortable. I decided that I'd wait to judge them until we talked. Lord knows I would love someone to look past the demon blood and destructive powers for once.

Glancing at Vincent once more, I raised my eyebrows in interest. "So, Vince, you promised me an introduction to these friends of yours, did you not?"

"I did," he replied. "Let's see, we have Freya, Rebekah, Kol, Elijah, and last but not the least Klaus." I followed along silently as he named each of them. "And this is Serafina. She's Tony and Mary's other daughter."

"The adopted one I presume?" Klaus commented, his grin widening.

He received a punch on the arm from Rebekah. "Nik! You can't just say that. Excuse my brother he has the manners of a two-year-old."

I shrugged it off.

"Oh it's fine," I answered with a laugh. "It's something I don't mind people pointing out. It doesn't make a difference they're the only family I've really had."

"I presume you don't know your birth parents then?" Elijah observed in mild curiosity.

Getting lost in his inquisitive stare, it was a minute before I responded. "I don't know anything about them really."

I scolded myself for being so flustered all of a sudden. Though I had to admit, his eyes were captivating, even more in person. I snapped out of it, noticing the smirk on his face.

"Except that, at least one of them isn't human, right? Or did that poor fellow suffer an aneurysm all by himself?"

So much for being subtle. At least I didn't have to feel guilty about my knowledge of them. Hearing Stevie snickering next to me, I pursed my lips.

"No, that was me," I admitted freely. "Though I figured it was that or breaking his hand when he put it on me without my permission."

This received some more laughter from his siblings and even an impressed look from Rebekah. "Sounds like the bastard deserved it then."

I found myself smiling at this. No wonder Vincent couldn't get rid of them.

"I sure thought so." I returned my gaze to Elijah. "Now, I'm guessing what you really want to know is what I am."

He opened his mouth then closed it. "You could say that. Usually, it's a bit more noticeable. Vampire I'm guessing?"

"Demon, actually," I answered. "Well, a half-blooded one anyway, but that just means we work up here, on Earth. We absorb malevolent souls which transports them to Hell. It also gives us a little more power for a short amount of time."

He almost choked on his drink, his eyebrows raised once more. "Demon...I knew you existed but I don't think we've ever met one."

I feigned shock. "Even with that thousand-year life span? That's...a bit surprising," I replied with a smug look.

Now he was the flustered one which only increased the satisfaction.

"Ah, so you do know who we are," Klaus laughed.

I scoffed loudly. "Of course I do, you're the Mikalsons. What supernaturally gifted person hasn't? I mean you're taught in schools now these days." I ignored Vincent's cautionary stare. "I just didn't feel the need to point it out until now."

"There's no need to be shy love," he chuckled to himself. "Most people make it known either in disgust or fear."

Shrugging, I remarked, "Yes, well, I try not to be like most people. And from outside research, I know the people who wrote the story of you have a bit of a bias. So, while my lessons were entertaining, they haven't influenced too much." The stranger sitting on the barstool next to Freya left and I immediately took his place. "See, not bothered. In fact, I kinda like you. Now, I'm gonna need another drink."

This was met with an array of smiles including from Elijah. "The feeling's mutual."

There's no way I could be Vincent's little spy now. It was an innate pull as if the universe wanted to forge a link between us, a link of fate. However, I wouldn't know why until years later. When the thing that I once hated would prove to be exactly what they needed.

[bixshits]

Lost Odyssey - A Thousand Years of Dreams - Story Ten Transcript

Don't Forget Me Now, You Hear?

“Brother dear!”

The cry comes from someone behind as he wades through the post town's crowds. At first Kaim does not realize that the person is addressing him, and he walks on in search of lodging for the night.

But the cry comes again, all but clinging to him, “Brother, dear! Big Brother!”

This is puzzling.

He last visited the town eighty years ago. There can't be anyone here who knows him.

“Wait, Big Brother! Don't go!”

His puzzlement begins to take on an eerie edge, for the voice addressing him as “Big Brother” can only belong to an old woman.

Without letting his guard down, he turns around slowly.

Just as he thought—it is an old woman.

Dressed in the clothes of a young girl, the tiny old woman is looking straight at Kaim with a bright smile on her face.

“I think you may have the wrong person,” he says, allowing his discomfort to show.

“No I don't,” She says with a big shake of the head and an expanding smile. “You're Big Brother Kaim!”

“What…?”

“What's wrong, Kaim, did you forget me?”

“Uh… well… I mean…”

He can't place her. Even if he were to succeed in doing so, he knows he has no acquaintances in this town. He wonders . . . could this be a chance re-encounter with someone he once met on the road? But no, he is sure he doesn't recognize her, and strangest of all, why would this woman who looks old enough to be his grandmother address him as “Big Brother”?

“Don't pretend you don't know who I am Kaim! You're so mean!”

She yells at him loudly enough that people in the crowd stop and stare at them.

It is not just the fact that she is shouting, of course, People always have to shout to be heard in these crowded streets. That alone would not attract attention. The old woman's voice is different from a normal adult yell. It is like the innocent, unrestrained cry of a little girl who throws her whole body into her scream.

People turn shocked expressions on the old woman and quickly avert their eyes.

Their dismay is understandable. The old woman has her stark white hair up tied up with a colourful ribbon, and her dress has the same floral pattern and floppy sleeves as a little girl's.

Many of the passerby look at the old woman with a mix of sympathy and pity on their faces.

Gradually, Kaim begins to comprehend the situation. This old woman has simply lived too long. This is why the past, locked away in her memory, has become realer to her then the reality before her eyes.

A middle-aged passerby tugs on Kaim's elbow.

“If I were you I would just walk away. Don't get involved with her. She'll be nothing but trouble.”

“It's true.” says the wife by his side, nodding. You're a stranger here, so you don't know, but this old woman is senile. You can ignore her. She'll forget everything in five minutes.”

They may be right, but the fact remains is this old woman knows Kaim's name.

In the little girl part of her mind, she thinks of Kaim as her “Big Brother.”

He tries probing his distant memories.

He spent no more than a few days here so long ago. He got to know very few people, and there can't be any of those left who still remember him.

When Kaim goes on standing before the old woman, the nosy middle age couple becomes indignant. “You try to be helpful and what does it get you?” snorts the husband.

“Let them work it out themselves.” adds the wife. “Let's just go.” Which they proceed to do.

Winding up the voice for maximum shrillness, the old woman calls out to them as they walk off in a huff. “Don't forget me now, you hear?”

In that instant, Kaim's memory makes the connection.

The old woman greets his look of recognition with an expression of joy.

“Do you remember me now?” she cries. “I'm Shushu. It's me—Shushu!”

He does remember her. A little girl he met in this town eighty years ago.

Perhaps five or six years old at the time, she was a precocious little thing whose lack of shyness with strangers came from her being the daughter of the innkeeper.

Somewhere along the way, she had probably picked up a phrase she heard someone using and so whenever a guest would depart after a number of days at the inn, instead of the standard “Goodbye” or “Thank you” she would see the person off with a smile and a cheery “Don't forget me now, you hear?”

Only now is he suddenly able to see the girl beneath the wrinkles, Kaim must avert his gaze from the old woman's face.

“What's wrong Big brother?”

He cannot bring himself to look directly at Shushu's vacant stare.

Eighty year have gone by! What can they talk about when a man who never ages meets a little girl from the distant past who has aged too much?

“Let me through here, please. Sorry, let me through here, please.”

Forcing his way through the crowd, a young man rushes up to where Shushu and Kaim are standing. “Great-grandmother! How often do I have to ask you not to go out without telling me?”

After scolding the old woman, he turns to Kaim with an apologetic bow

“I'm terribly sorry if she's been a bother to you. She's old and getting senile. I hope you can forgive her.”

Shushu herself, however, angrily purses her lips and demands to know, “What are you talking about? I'm just playing with Big Brother Kaim, What's wrong with that?

She peers at the young man and asks, “Who are you?”

The young man turns a sad gaze on Kaim and begins to apologize again.

With a pained smile, Kaim stops him.

Kaim knows that, at times, it can be sadder and more heartbreaking for a life to be prolonged than for it to be cut short. Sad and heartbreaking through a life may be, however, no one has the right to trample on it.

“She just can't seem to get it through her head she's old.” Even if I hold a mirror up to her she asks, “Who's that old lady?” The young man, whose name is Khasche, further explains the situation to Kaim, “she might forget that she ate breakfast, but her memories from childhood can be clear as a bell.”

Kaim nods in silent understanding.

Khasche and Kaim sit on a bench in the town plaza, watching Shushu pick flowers.

She is apparently making a floral wreath for her long-lost “Big Brother.”

“But really sir, do you have time for this? Weren't you in a hurry to get somewhere? ”

“No, I'm fine, don't worry.”

“Thanks very much.”

He smiles for the first time and says, “I haven't seen her this happy in ages.”

The young man seems convinced that his great-grandmother has encountered in Kaim a person who resembles someone she knew as a child. Kaim allows him this. He knows that Khasche cannot, and need not, imagine the existence of a person who never ages.

“Her health has really deteriorated lately. Whenever she runs a fever, we wonder if this is going to be the end for her and we prepare for the worst. But then she springs right back. Sometimes we joke that her mind is so far gone, she's forgotten to die.”

Kaim sees the young man in profile, Khasche has a gentle smile on his face as he speaks of his great-grandmother. No doubt, when he was little, she used to hold him and play with him. Grown up now, Khasche watches over his Great-grandmother like a parent watching his own child.

He calls out to her, “That's nice, Great-Grandmother. I haven't seen you weave flowers together like that for a long time!”

Squatting in the grass with a fistful of flowers, Shushu answers, “That's not true. I made a wreath for him yesterday!”

Then she says to Kaim, “isn't that right, Big Brother? You wore it in your hair for me didn't you?”

Kaim cups his hands around his mouth and calls back to her, “I certainly did, it smelt so nice!”

Shushu's face became as mass of joyful wrinkles. Overcome with emotion, Khasche bows his head.

Kaim asks Khasche, “are you the one who takes care of her?”

“Uh-huh. Me and my wife Cynthia.”

“How about your parents? Or even your grandparents? Are they still living?”

Khasche shrugs and says, “I'm the only other member of my family left alive.”

His grandparents both died in an epidemic twenty years ago.

His father lost his life in the war that enveloped this area ten years ago.

His mother, Shushu's granddaughter, aged more rapidly than her own mother, and the lamp of her life was snuffled out five years ago.

“So my great-grandmother has had to keep holding funeral over the years-for her Children and grandchildren, Before we even noticed, she had become the oldest person in town. It must be lonely living that way…”

“I'm sure.” answers Kaim.

“It might even be a kindness of the gods to let people fade out of mentally when they've lived too long. At least that's how I've come to see it lately. You would think she would feel lonely to be left behind that way, but she's not lonely at all. To live long means you have a lot of memories. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to live in the world of you memories during the last days for your life.”

Shushu stands up, her arms filled with flowers.

“Big Brother Kaim! I'm going to make a floral wreath for you right now! And if I have any flowers left over, I'll make one for this other person too.”

Kaim and Khasche look at each other with bewildered smiles.

Why are you smiling like that? Shushu asks. “Are you two friends now?”

She opens her wrinkle-ringed eyes wide in surprise and gives the two men a joyful smile, and collapses into the grass.

Khasche starts to run for a doctor but Kaim grabs his arm and holds him back, saying, “You'd better stay with her.”

Ironically, Kaim, who can never truly know what it feels like to age, has been present, for that very reason, at countless deaths over the years.

His experience tells him that Shushu will not recover this time.

Shushu is lying on her back where she has fallen, her armload of flowers now spread over her chest.

Her face wear's a smile.

“Wait just a minute, Big Brother Kaim. I'll make your wreath for you right away. . .”

Her mind is still lingering among her memories of the past.

Will she stay like this to the very end?

“Keep fighting Great-Grandmother! Don't let go!”

Khasche clings to her hand, tearfully shouting encouragement, but she may not even realize that this is her own great-grandson.

“It's me, Great-grandmother, it's me, Khasche! You haven't forgotten me, have you? I bathed you last night, you knew who I was then, didn't you?”

Khasche appeals to her with all his might.

But Shushu, a girlish smile on her lips, is departing for that distance world.

I'm going to be a father soon, Great-grandmother! Remember? I told you last night. Cynthia has a baby inside. It's going to make you a Great-great-grandmother! Our Family is going to grow—another person with your flesh and blood.”

Still smiling, Shushu grasps one of the flowers on her chest in her trembling fingers.

She thrusts it towards Khasche and in a voice no more than a whisper, she says, “Don't forget me now, you hear?”

Khasche doesn't understand.

Indeed how could her know the little phrase she always used to speak Long before he was born?

Kaim puts his arm around Khasche's shoulder and says “Answer her.”

“I know what you mean Great-grandmother. I won't forget you. I will absolutely never forget you. How could I forget my own Great grandmother?”

“Don't forget me now, you hear?”

“I won't forget you, Great-grandmother. Believe me. I'll always remember you.”

“Don't forget me now, you hear?”

Shushu closes her eyes and lays her hand on the flowers on her chest as if groping there for something. She seems to be trying to open the door where the memories are sealed.

A soft breeze moves over her.

The flowers adorning her chest dance in the wind along with the memories. Surely among those memories is the Kaim of eighty years ago.

Kaim snatches at one of the petals dancing in the wind, enclosing it in the palm of his hand.

Shushu will never open her eyes again.

She has left on a journey to a world where there is no past or present.

The only ones she has left behind are Kaim, who will go on living forever, and Khasche, who is about to welcome a new life into the world.

Clinging to her corpse, Khasche raises his tear stained face to look at Kaim.

“Thank you so much.” He says to Kaim the traveler. “Thanks to you, my Great-grandmother was so happy to be picking flowers at the very end.

“No. It wasn't thanks to me,” Kaim says.

He closes his fist on the petal in his hand and says to Khasche. “I'm sure if she had made a wreath, she would have given it to your sweet new baby.”

Khasche shyly cocks his head and mutters, “I hope you're right.” But then smiling through his tears, he declares. “I'm sure you are.”

“About that promise you made to her—be good and don't forget her.”

“No, of course not.”

“People go on living as long as they remain in someones memory.” With these words, Kaim begins to walk slowly away. Behind him he hears Shushu's voice.

Don't forget me now, you hear?

It is the voice of the little girl from eighty years ago, ringing ever clear, sweet, and innocent, declaring farewell to the man who will travel life forever.

[artificialqueens]

Five People’s Thoughts on Adore and Bianca: Raven & Raja (3-4/5) (Biadore) - doctor bitchcraftt

A series of conversations between Raja and Raven, with appearances from Shangela and Mariah.  Dialogue-driven rather than a narrative, because I live for Raja and Raven’s interactions. Also? Raja is a legitimate witch.

1. Courtney Act

2. Laganja Estranja

3 & 4. Raja & Raven

5. Trixie Mattel (WIP)

A/N: One of the more fun perspectives I’ve written from, particularly since Fashion Photo Review was one of the things that got me hooked on Drag Race.  Raven & Raja are goddesses.  Xoxoxoxo, bitchcraftt

********

Raven leaned forward far enough to see past the shimmering curtains out to the audience.

Shangela was tearing up the runway, to everyone’s obvious delight.  As she watched along with them, movement in the first row caught her attention.

Sitting pressed together from shoulder to knee, Bianca and Adore out of drag looked like any other couple enjoying an evening at Micky’s.  Adore’s head dipped briefly onto Bianca’s shoulder, receiving an indulgent smile in response.  Moments later and completely unprompted, Bianca casually reached over to squeeze Adore’s knee.

”Sure you want to stay back here all night?”

”Yeah,” Raja sighed, “too many people wanting the full Raja experience and it’s been forever since I saw you.”

Raven pressed a kiss to her cheek, and they fell back into comfortable silence.

“What are you looking at?”

Raja’s voice interrupted Raven’s voyeurism, and she turned to find her lounging lazily against the wall, wineglass held precariously in hand.  Partial drag was a good look on her (any look was a good look for Raja, honestly), the natural grey of her hair setting off her painted eyes.

She gestured vaguely towards the stage with her drink.

“Bianca needs to wear more color.  All of that black makes her look small.”

Raja breathed out a mellow laugh.

”She is small.  How many of those have you had if you’re forgetting that?”

”Do you think-“ Raven started then paused, trying to get her thoughts in order while simultaneously checking the set list and blotting her forehead with a powder puff.

”Hmmm?” Raja handed her a napkin for the sweaty cocktail balanced on her knee.

They both applauded as Shangela finished her set, and Raven headed back on stage to introduce the next performer.

********

Half an hour later, she picked up the thread of conversation as if they hadn’t been interrupted.

“Ever think the two of them are together?”

”Who?”

Raven raised an elegant eyebrow, but Raja was too busy peering out into the audience again to appreciate the look.

”Bianca and her little drag baby.”

”Oh.”  She didn’t sound surprised.  At all.  Actually…Raven thought she seemed more contemplative than anything else.

”Yes?  Or no.”

”Depending on how you look at it, yes and no.”

Turning to face Raja fully, she waited for an explanation, keeping an ear out for the change in music.

“Well?”

“Bianca told me once that she didn’t do boyfriends because she didn’t have enough time to commit properly.”  

Raven blinked at what appeared to be a tangential statement, but probably would end up being relevant.

“That bitch, out of everyone we know, could make time for anything.”

She waited patiently for a response as Raja took another sip of wine and waved at a local queen passing through.

”It’s complicated between them.”

”Obviously.”

”Bianca is almost as old as I am.”  

Raven snorted.

”Don’t tell me it’s an age gap.”

Lifting her glass to punctuate the previous statement, Raja continued.  

“There’s almost…It’s easy to forget that Adore is almost thirty.  She’s still figuring out how to be completely comfortable in her skin.  She’s so young in a lot of ways.  In some ways, that makes the difference even more obvious.  And Bianca has been at this for half of her life - and way more than half of Adore’s.”

“Well, she’s practically her drag daughter at this point.  But,” Raven checked the stage again, “they’re way too comfortable for that to be a problem.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

A sweaty Shangela came off stage and ushered the local girl on before heading over.

”What’s the tea?”

Raven smiled and patted the bench next to her.  “Sit down.  We’re trying to decide if Bianca and Adore are fucking.”

”Raven thinks they’re fucking.  I,” Raja deliberately flicked her hair over her shoulder, “was trying to explain that it’s more complicated.”

They both waited expectantly while she drained a bottle of water.

“My opinion?”  Shangela dabbed at her forehead delicately.  “Miss Bianca is too direct to not go for it if she wanted to.  And Adore, well, god bless that horny little thing.  She’d have jumped her if she wanted.”

Standing up, she air kissed them both and left in a cloud of neon fringe for her next costume change.  Raven headed back on stage, and somehow they didn’t manage to finish the conversation before the night was over.

********

Another Monday at Micky’s.  Adore and Bianca were once again seated in the corner near the beginning of the stage, clearly a few drinks in each.

”She’s got to be in total control, or else gets so drunk she doesn’t have to be,” Raja announced.

”What?”  Raven’s glass was empty and she signaled a server for a refill.

“You know who.  Bianca.”

“She’s a drag queen, drinking is part of the job.  Fuck, no one I know can function as well as Bianca does when she’s drunk.”

Raja nodded slowly.  Tonight she was completely her boy self, lending an air of casual chic to a slouchy deconstructed sweater and jeans.

"We were talking about Bianca and Adore.”

“Rave, you’ve known Adore for what, over a decade?  Since she was a baby queen.  And what’s her defining energy?”

“Messy slut?”

“I was going to say disorder, but that’s close enough.  Mix that with Bianca’s control and you’ve either got the worst combination of opposites or two people that complement each other perfectly.”

“So opposites attract.  It’s hardly news.  We’ve seen how they look at each other on and off stage.  And it sounds like most of the internet has too.”

“Half the net thinks we’re fucking, or haven’t you read the comments out there?”

Raven ignored the question entirely, watching as Bianca draped an arm around Adore’s shoulders without even looking as they carried on two separate conversations between sets.

"Bianca and Adore.  Practically on each other’s laps.  And that weird no-talking-but-I-know-right-where-you-are thing that they do.”

“We do that.”  Raja drained her glass and set it carefully aside.

"You didn’t pay for me to fix this hairline.  Or hang all over me all of the time when you’re sober.“

"That’s Martin’s job - ”

“You know,” Mariah’s voice cut in, “Adore made a whole video post about borrowing Bianca’s running shoes in Australia.”

Raven raised a sculpted eyebrow.  “Couples share clothes,” she pointed out.

Raja gave them both a look over the rim of her now-full wineglass.

"Bianca loaned Manila two whole outfits for All Stars that she hasn’t given back yet.  And I don’t think anyone thinks they’re fucking.”

"That’s drag.  We’ve all done it,” Raven pointed out. “This is boy clothes.”

“Awww, you wouldn’t let me borrow your shoes?”

“Your raptor toes wouldn’t fit.”

“Ha ha.  Whose side are you on anyway?” Raja demanded when Mariah snickered helplessly at Raven’s jab.  

“Oh, most definitely theirs.”

“Gonna tell us what you know?”

Mariah grinned wickedly.  

“Nope.”

********

“There’s more sexual tension between them than people who are actually fucking, then.  Look,” Raven tugged Raja over until she could see.  As they watched, Adore and Bianca laughed along with the rest of the audience at something the queen had done on the runway.  Mid-laugh, Adore twisted in her seat to look at Bianca, head tilted and a soft look in her eyes.  

“And?”

“Adore practically looks like one of those heart eyes emojis.”

Raja shook her head with that enigmatic half-smile that made Raven want to simultaneously hug her and shake her until she answered.

********

“It’s better than sex though, isn’t it?”

“…suuuuuuure."  Raven didn’t sound convinced.

"Think about it.”  Raja gestured eloquently with her free hand before settling back on the chair.  “Can you see Bianca putting minimal effort into anything?  She doesn’t let herself have the time to meet someone and direct her energy into a relationship, and you know how many race chasers are out there.”

”Bitch needs to get her dick sucked more often.  Unless you finally agree that she and Adore are hooking up?”

Predictably, Raja continued down her original train of thought.

“Other than sex, she’s got all of the best parts in Adore already - best friend, someone to take care of, someone who understands what we do.  And Bianca is exactly what Adore needs to stay grounded and let loose together.”

“You’re not convincing me that they aren’t fucking out their frustrations together.”

“It’s safe for them to love each other, because they’re never going to hurt each other like you do in a relationship.  Sex is simple, but having the kind of bond they do?  Worth way more, and I don’t care what you say, I’m sticking to that.”

Raven sighed, not sure why they hadn’t just asked the two of them rather than wading through Raja’s musings.

“Oh go ahead, I’ll just watch Bianca shade you into next week.”

She was positive she hadn’t voiced that thought aloud.

”I hate it when you do that.”

“No you don’t.”

”Raja,” she sighed again, “not everything is always profoundly spiritual.”

Raja set down the now-empty glass and fixed her with a look that said she was being incredibly dense.  From anyone else, Raven would have bristled, but over the years she’d learned to trust Raja’s instincts.  

Mostly.

“Give me your hands.”

With a bland expression, Raja folded her fingers around Raven’s, not squeezing but gently holding.  

“…what-“

”Shhh, just concentrate.”

”On?”

A tingling buzz started to grow where their palms made contact.  Raja’s energy manipulation was hardly surprising anymore, but she closed her eyes without being asked.

“This is what Adore feels like when you touch her.”  The buzz grew sharper, brightness mixed with playful nudges of static.  

“And this,” she murmured with a squeeze of their fingers, “is Bianca.”  Immediately, the erratic frissons of energy subsided in her left hand.  As Raja breathed out, the flow became regimented, controlled and steady with the impression of overwhelming power behind it.

Opening her eyes, Raven nodded and the buzz dwindled down to nothing.  Not that she would be able to describe the feelings, but they nonetheless made sense.

“This,” Raja sounded mischievous, “is how it feels when you’re in lust.”

Heat filled her entire body and Raven was suddenly acutely aware of all of the sounds and smells surrounding them.  A spark of pure fire raced up both palms, through her corsetted midsection, and settled just above her tuck.  

”Very funny,” she muttered, shaking her hands free.

Raja didn’t look the least bit sorry.  Recapturing her fingers, she continued.

”The kind of love they have?  It’s like this.”

This time, the playful buzz in one hand and solid strength in the other met each other in the middle of her body, melting together.  The sensation was warm instead of raging hot, gliding up her arms and settling in her chest.  Her own heartbeat fluttered briefly before slowing into a hypnotically steady beat.  Raven felt the tension in her shoulders relax as an undefined feeling of rightness descended.  It was how she felt falling asleep cradling Martin, lazy afternoons watching tv while working on a new outfit, laughing with Raja in the basement at WOW Presents.

Raja gently released her hands, but the sense of safety and calm affection remained.

”Adore needs that kind of stabilizing energy. And Bianca needs to feel it’s safe to be loved, that she has permission to be vulnerable.”

Oh.  

********

Later on, after Raja had recharged her witchy batteries with hugs and being social, Raven pulled her aside and smirked.  "Think they just couldn’t figure out how to both be tops?”

“Bitch, like you’d know anything about it."

[onewhoturns]

Fireworks (1/4)

What?? Another?? Damn straight, I’ve written one thing a day just about for the past four days which is insane but here we are.

Fandom: Oxenfree Pairing: Alex/Jonas Chapter: 1/4 Characters: Alex, Jonas, (later) Michael, Ren, Nona, Clarissa Word count: 2437 Rating: T for language Summary: The one saving grace of that first kiss (apart from, well, it wasn’t a bad kiss) -- the one thing she could point to as making the kiss sort of okay, morally -- was that it was in a timeline where they were just friends. Well… okay, maybe the kiss might have changed that. A little? Or maybe it didn’t get a chance to, much, cause Alex was too busy shutting herself away and having a teensy tiny crisis over kissing her sometimes-stepbrother. And then, naturally, as always seemed to happen July 8th, it would be May 1st all over again. or: the First, the Fourth, the Fireworks.

-

She should’ve seen it coming. He’d become her other-brother, the one she went to with the things she wasn’t sure she wanted Michael to know. Even if Michael so often ended up finding out anyway (the awkward moment when Michael realized Jonas had been her emergency ride home from a party at Pat’s where she got a little past shitfaced, that was a memorable one). It’s par for the course, in these realities where Michael is with Clarissa, where Ren is with Nona, that Alex gravitates toward “new in town” Jonas. At least, at this point she’s pretty sure that’s how it goes. She doesn’t remember everything, just bits and pieces and vague feelings. She would remember if she’d kissed him - if he’d kissed her - before, right?

There had been moments, sure, that might’ve hinted at it. Halloween night, when Clarissa wore those red contacts, and Alex was shaken to her very core, Jonas had been the one she drove to the coast with. Staring up at the stars, in comfortable silence, feet knocking against one another lazily. Wrapped up in the ratty blankets from the back of his truck, sitting on the rocks and looking out at the ocean. Not that she’s all that big of a fan of the ocean, either, but it was too cold for anyone to try to pressure her into swimming (and Jonas has never been the type to do that, anyway).

Actually, it was weird-- the first time (this time around, anyway) she’d balked at deep water, everyone had seemed surprised. Like this Alex was a friggin’ fish or something. A couple of panic attacks later, they’d learned not to push it. It was wading or the shallow end for her. And Horn Lake was officially a no-go area.

Maybe that’s why she’s been perhaps a little bit clingy with Jonas at the 4th of July barbeque. She couldn’t convince her parents not to have it at the lake, so instead she brought Jonas along and once there dragged him as far from the water as possible, perching on top of the playground equipment, throwing snap poppers at the ground and lighting sparklers and dollar store smoke bombs and trying to forget the fact that Michael is probably at this very moment swimming in the thing that killed him. In the dark. Like an idiot.

It jolts her heart straight into her throat hearing Clarissa’s yelp of, “Mike!” from the beach. The smile wiped from her face, the sparkler drops to the ground and she’s on her feet in an instant, staring worriedly toward the spot their families are camped for the night’s festivities, but unable to see past the silhouettes of a few bodies gathered around the camplight. But then Clarissa bursts into shrieking giggles and Alex finally breathes again.

“Hey,” Jonas’s voice is soft as he wraps a hand around her wrist, giving a gentle tug. “You alright?”

She might be about 50% of the way to crying when she turns back to him. Maybe. Possibly. Or maybe it’s just the wide-eyed panic that has him suddenly concerned, that small crease between his brows just visible in the mix of moonlight and tree-trunk-filtered LED camplight as he reaches for her other hand as well. “Alex, seriously-- are you okay?”

Her pulse had skyrocketed, but with his thumbs rubbing circles into her palms, it’s a lot easier to come back to herself. She hadn’t realized the memory -- a false memory, now, of something that never even happened -- was still so clear, that it could flash so vividly into her head, no matter how briefly. A noise somewhere between ‘mhm’ and ‘ehhhhh’ croaks from her throat between closed lips.

God, his face is so soft. For someone so good at maintaining his cool (ever-vigilant, after his juvie stint, of keeping his temper in check), Jonas’s expression is pretty transparent. None of the usual wariness she gets from others about her baseless fear of the lake, or her occasional moments of sheer panic. His smile, small and slow and warm, is genuine. Caring. A corner of his lips lifts wryly. “Don’t go all Edwards Island on me, now.”

It’s so easy to step forward, to stand in front of his perch on the stupid plastic wall of the kiddie playground, to step between his knees and rest her forehead on his chest and just breathe. He’s grounding. Dependable. A few breaths of his shirt - his deodorant a scent she’s pretty sure she can pick out of a lineup - has her head a lot clearer.

“...Alex...” His voice is almost hoarse, and he clears his throat.

“I’m okay,” she mutters, and sighs before straightening, pulling her hands from his to rest on his knees, avoiding his eyes. “Just… you know. That thing,” she tilts her head toward the sounds of splashing and laughing and people checking their watches in expectation of imminent fireworks. She’s told him about Michael. Well, in a way. She didn’t go into the whole parallel timelines thing, but he knows she had some kind of experience, or maybe a dream, that made Michael + swimming + lake = terror. He puts a hell of a lot more stock in it than Michael, too.

“Right. Yeah.” He swings his legs a bit, thudding his heels against the hollow rails with a thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk. “...Wanna get out of here?”

Alex shakes her head, staring at the ring that still hangs around Jonas’s neck. “Nah, I’m-- I’ll be fine. Besides, the fireworks are gonna be starting s--” The word isn’t even all the way out of her mouth before she sees as well as feels his shift of attention, looking up to the sky, and a moment later there’s the boom and crackle of the first rocket. She half turns, watching the scattering of sparks floating a bit sideways in the slight breeze. The camplight went out from where the rest of their group had stopped to watch. And then up goes another, another thud and a noise like hard rain on a plastic roof.

She turns to watch the sky, midnight blue, speckles of stars lost in afterimages of the fireworks. A triple explosion - the loudest ones they’ve got, all in a row - brings a smile to her lips. “Nice.”

“Yeah. It’s, um… beautiful.”

Alex scoffs, shooting a glance back at Jonas with a small smirk. “They’re like ten bucks a pop, Jonas, this isn’t some masterful pyrotechnics, just the annual July Fourth ‘extravaganza’ according to a few suburban PTA moms.”

“Heh... Yeah, well. Last year it was me and my dad watching Die Hard on the couch and listening to it all going down outside, so…”

“But Die Hard’s a Christmas movie.” She ignores the teeny touch of guilt that she didn’t invite him last year, after all the Island drama. Then, all she’d wanted was to be around her flesh-and-blood, no-longer-dead brother. This year, though, with all the graduation festivities over and done with, with Clarissa and Michael both home for the summer and both families chattering at each other constantly any time they’re in close proximity, Alex was way too eager to have a friend to hang with.

“Oh, we watch it then, too. Sandwiched between Trading Places and Gremlins.”

She narrows her eyes for a second, unsure if he’s serious, before elbowing him in the stomach, rolling her eyes. He hooks an arm around her to keep from taking a ten foot fall to the ground, pulling her back against him as she snorts, “Seriously, you guys have the weirdest traditions.”

“Hey, I take personal offense at that.” He flicks her in the arm, and when she bats his hand away, and he teeters once more, he wrestles her arms to her sides. “Alex I swear, if you push me off this thing and my legs stop working I will never forgive you.”

She’s smirking, but let’s him hold on. “Optimistic. I think I’d aim for paralysis from the neck down.”

“Well you’re the overachiever.”

Another burst of one, three, one, four explosions, and they’ve fallen into companionable silence. In a brief pause between pops, Alex muses, “You know, I heard three years ago one of the firework engineers almost lost an eye.”

“Hm.” She doesn’t get much more than that from him, and then there’s another pop-crackle-pop-pop-BOOM and his hold tightens a little.

“Scared?” she teases, as the sky clears again, in anticipation of the finale. She’s pretty sure that’s his heart she feels thudding against her shoulder. “You never told me your family has a history of losing eyes to pyrotechnical accidents.” Seriously, is he having a heart attack?

“Alex…” His voice is quiet, maybe hesitant, close to her ear.

She huffs out a small laugh, “Relax, I’m just-” But when she turns to reassure him their lips meet and-- Jesus Christ, they’re kissing, when did they start kissing? Her eyes close for a fraction of a second before the fireworks crackle through the air and she blinks back into her senses and pulls away. “What the hell--?”

“Shit, I’m-- Sorry, I--” He lets go of her immediately, and she can feel the heat off his skin even if she can’t see his blush as she stumbles a step away. “I didn’t-- That’s-- Fuck, my bad.”

She thinks maybe she should be leaving, walking back to her family, glaring at Jonas for kissing her so suddenly, but instead stands, dumbly, a foot out of his reach. She’s just… baffled. Confused? Perplexed.

Jonas’s head falls into his hands as he groans. “God, that was--” He’s mumbling into his palms, “Can we just pretend that didn’t happen?”

Alex stares for a second. Because, she’s just… there’s a lot happening in her head right now. Specifically, after mentions of Christmas, she’s remembering that awkward moment at Ren’s Christmas party, running into Jonas in a doorway, catching him spotting mistletoe and very quickly stepping out of her way, face flushed from what she’d initially assumed was the spiked punch. And maybe there had been glances across the front seat on those midnight drives, the way he looked at her when she stuck her head out the window and howled at the sky, that grin he gave her, and the look in his eyes. Tracing the lines of her palm hanging over the side of the couch as Ren and Nona battled it out button-smashing, as everyone threw taunts and jeers at game night. That time she’d had a nightmare and called him at 4am and he answered (with only minor complaint).

...Okay. Maybe she’d… um… maybe…

A hand is rubbing at his neck awkwardly, head hanging low, feet tapping a quick nervous rhythm close to the bars, super audible in the silence now that the fireworks are over and done.

Alex has never been particularly good with romance. She has, in fact, been notoriously obtuse when it comes to people liking her. Case in point, apparently. But she does like Jonas. And it’s definitely not the same way she likes Ren, or Nona, or even Michael. She loves him, really, just never considered it a physical thing, never thought that maybe it could be something… else. He’s her best friend. Closer than Ren in a shorter amount of time. She’s just… surprised, that’s all. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something settling in the pit of her stomach. Something not nearly as unpleasant as she might have expected.

She probably looks more angry that she feels, brow furrowed as she steps toward him. But she’s not angry. Just… trying to figure out what exactly she’s about to do. And really trying to ignore that nagging feeling in her head that this is one in an infinite number of timelines where too often this is not okay.

A tentative step forward and she’s between his knees once more, fingers resting on denim. He drops his hands and glances up; ashamed, hopeful, mortified. “Honestly, Alex, that was way out of line, I shouldn’t have-” His voice stutters to a halt as she brings her face closer to his. Her gaze shifts from his eyes to his mouth-- she’s just to his right, glancing away for a second, and she spots his hands gripped tight to his perch, and she turns back, and her eyelashes brush his cheek as she noses into his space, and then--

Their lips are touching. Again.

It’s… nice, actually. Better when he breathes her in and seems to melt against her and his hands wrap around her waist like he’s scared she’ll pull away again. Her heart is in her throat for a completely different reason now, because this is the closeness she likes with him-- only better, closer, but not in a way that makes her feel awkward or uncomfortable or… It’s just… really nice. Kissing him.

When she breaks the kiss, she doesn’t pull back, only moves to rest her cheek on his shoulder. There’s a pause, a moment when she realizes her heart is beating as hard as his was earlier, and she lets out a short huff of breath.

“Um…”

But whatever he’s going to say, it’s interrupted with a call from the beach. The camplight is on again. “Alex? Alex honey, we’re just about packed. It’s getting late.”

She’s not sure when her palms went to Jonas’s chest, but they leave it now, stepping away once more, only for him to catch one hand.

“Want to go for a drive?” It’s hopeful, maybe a little anxious, even though the request is one he’s made - hell, she’s made - time and time again. “Or-- or I can just give you a ride home, or…”

She shifts from one foot to the other, avoiding his expectant gaze. Instead her free hand traces the chain, hooks briefly into the ring around his neck. Shit-- She lets go, steps away again, pulling out of his grasp. And he lets her go, of course he does, and she wonders if she’d spot his expectations falling if she were brave enough to look. “I’m… look, I’ll…” The breath feels forced from her lungs in a puff of air. “Not tonight.”

And she feels like an idiot for it -- feels guilty and stupid because that’s just mean, leaving him like that -- but she leaves the remnants of sparklers and smoke bombs and poppers scattered on the ground (in a poor display of responsibility) and walks back to the picnic site not quite too fast, but with a kind of determination that only comes from pointedly avoiding thinking about potentially really fucking up a relationship thanks to an awkward kiss in the dark.

[spiderblog-mcu]

Spiderpool (nsfw) one shot

Peter swung onto the rooftop with the soft pat of his feet. It was a crisp night in New York City, the trees were loosing their leaves and Central Park had become a sea of orange and yellow, lit up by the never ending line of street lamps and night shift taxi’s. It was peaceful in a way.  “Hey Spider butt.” Well, at least he thought. Peter looked toward the voice and found that red suit laying on his back, hands used as a pillow for his head.  “Geez Wade I didn’t see you there.” Peter pads over to look down at him. “What are you doing laying down?”  “Star gazing.” He looks up to find what Wade is supposedly gazing it, but as usual pollution had covered the sky.  “But the-“ “I know.” Peter nodded quietly. He’s had enough run ins with Wade to know you don’t argue with him.  “Well don’t just stand there,” Wade insists “come join the tranquility.”  Peter pauses for a moment before laying next to Wade. “Which one is your favourite?”  “Star?” Peter assumes, “uh, that one.” He says pointing to...well nothing really. Just fog. “Shit really?!” Wade exclaims, “that’s mine too! What a coinkydink.”  Peter hums in response. His senses began to relax, even with the agitating noise of car horns and drunks shouting. This usually happens around Wade, Peter found it strange. There are times, when Peter is fuelling with adrenaline, that even the thought of Wade made Peter skin crawl, but other times there was little. Tingles really. Almost as if a thick wind was brushing against the hairs of his body.  “Are you into 80’s classics?” Wade breaks the silence.  “In what way?”  “Ya you know, music, movies, politics.” Peter turns his head to Wade then back to the sky.  “Well, Queen is my Spotify top play, Bryan Adams had a couple good hits.”  “And what about Wham? What do you think of them?”  “A great shower singalong.”  “Fantastic.”  Peter crosses his right foot over the left, overhead a plane is passing by. He recognizes the lights, it’s a Stark Enterprise craft. After he had taken down Oscorp, he was approached by Tony Stark. Literally. He was offered a paid internship which turned out to be fighting Captain America in a German airport. Now he works along side Bruce when he isn’t working or miserably studying his college courses. It’s ironic that Harry happens to be the teachers assistant, meaning Peters grades don’t always reflect what he knows. God damn Oscorp. For all it gave, it took, and it took.  “Whatcha thinking about Spiderbutt?”  “Gwen.” It slipped out.  “Who?” Of course Wade doesn’t know.  “Ben.” Peter mumbles. “Are you saying Gwen or Ben I can’t tell?”  Peter sighs and sits up, “both.” He crawls over to the ledge and sits criss cross. Looking down at the city, he sees flashes of lights, people coming and going. He often wonders about their lives. Are they good? Bad? Do they possess superhuman abilities too or are they just normal? Peter wished he was normal.  Wade is now propped up on his elbows watching him. His back was hunched and his head hung. Wade isn’t good with emotions, he often uses humour to deal with such situations but he always does his best to impress Spiderman. That’s the kind of crime fighter Wade aspires to be. So he gets up and sits on the ledge too, legs dangling over.  “You know, I lost someone too.”  “Sure but was it your fault?” Peter asked flatly. “Yeah.” Wade nodded. “I got messy on a job and they found my home. Six guys with guns broke down the door and I dropped all of them with kitchen knifes. God bless Betty Crocker. But the last one, he took a shot before I got him. The only bullet fired the entire time and it got Vanessa right in the chest. She died in surgery.”  “How did you deal with it?” Peters voice sounded strained.  “At first I was a mess. I’d kill myself over and over just to see her, to apologize...but after a while I realized it would fix nothing.” Wade rolled up his mask to the bridge of his nose. His lips were chapped from the friction of leather. “Then I found out I had a daughter from a past lady and Spidey let me tell you, reality hit me right in the sack. Just, metaphorically punches my balls back up into my body,” Wade motions his fist upward. “That’s when I knew that as shitty as the situation was, it didn’t define who I was. I had a lot left to live for and stewing in self loathing wasn’t helping. I didn’t sit back and let them kill Vanessa, I fought. The truth is man, in this line of work? You can’t save everyone, and your loved ones are no exception. We just do the best we can, and deal with the sacrifices that come along.”  Peter is glad that his mask is waterproof because he can’t stop the few tears that fell.  “I’m sorry to hear that.”  “Sometimes life is a sandpaper dildo, other times its free bag of cocaine. You just gotta roll with the punches, play the cards you’re dealt. You know what they say: with great power comes great responsibility.”  Peter looks at Wade. “Who says that?”  “Everybody.” Wade shrugs. “I have literally never heard that in my life.”  “...ya sure?”  “Positive.” Peter looks back to the city. “Right. Copy rights. So what’s going to get you out of this funk? Could be anything. Something fun. Something dangerous.”  “Wade-“ “Spidey just trust me. I know that seems like a bad idea but I got past my loss and I can help you.”  Peter sighs and shrugs. “I don’t know, dangerous I guess.”  “Ok good.” Wade sits facing Peter. “What’s something dangerous you’ve always wanted to do?” Peter thought for a moment. He had many things he’d like to do, many lines he’d like to push, but one stuck out in particular and it was calling his name.  “This.” He reaches up and rips off his mask, it was an adrenaline he hadn’t felt before. Wade stared at him mouth agape. Wade knew Peter was a fit guy but holy hell he was beautiful. “That feels better.” Peter head turns to Wade. “What do I have something on my face?”  “Yeah. A lot of handsome.” Peter felt his cheeks burn and lightly punched Wade on the arm.  “I’m not gay.”  “Don’t knock until you try it.”  “I have enough problems I don’t need my sexuality to be one of them.” Wades wonder turned into a stern, tight lip.  “Being fluid isn’t a problem. It’s normal. I bet you haven’t even tried it.”  “No I haven’t but honestly I’m going through so much shit that I might just get drunk and give it a go.” Peter rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know Wade I’m sick of feeling nothing.”  “Then let yourself feel something.”  “How?” Peter expected one of wades smart ass comebacks but he got a chin grip and a solid kiss on the lips instead. His spider senses shot up like a rocked but crashed just as quick. When Wade finally let go Peter could hear the thump of his own pulse.  “There’s your start.” Wade sits back to his spot as if he had done nothing. Peter felt a turn in his stomach, and a lump from in his throat. But most of all, he felt hungry, and not in the way he usually does.  “Again.” He demands.  “What?” Wade barely has time to finish his question before Peter has him pinned to the roof top. “Spidey?!” He crushes his mouth against Wades, successful reliving the surge of taboo energy.  “My names Peter.” Wade was speechless, even his boxes were silent. “Don’t knock until you try right? Wade, help me feel something.” Peter knew before Wade said yes, he was sitting low enough to feel Wades erection grow against his thigh.  “My suit stays on.” Peter nods at Wades request but starts removing his own. Wade does his best to help, both of them now heated with lust. Tossing the suit aside, Wade sits up to kiss Peter heatedly and forces him to sit against a dome skylight. Peters skin felt like it was burning against the cold glass. His cock too was now full and resting against his stomach. Wades mouth sucked heavenly at his mouth and makes it’s way to his neck.  “W-ade.” Peter cracks in a moan. He wanted to cry, this felt wrong but he’d just die if it stopped. He sucked in a loud gasp when Wades hand started pumping his cock, adding a little extra pressure just beneath the head. His precum dribbles out over Wades fingers and lands in the well kept patch of pubic hair on Peters body. Now Wade isn’t use to sensual, romantic sex, he’s always had the taste for the dirty but this time he was reserved. Peter had never even kissed a guy until now, Wade certainly wasn’t about to split him open (he’s a little hung in the pants if you know what I mean). But he couldn’t let butt stuff escape this opportunity, so with the middle finger of his right hand, left hand still on Peters dick, he scoops up some of the slick from Peters body and reaches down below. Peter yelps when he feels Wades finger against his hole.  “It’s ok,” Wade assures, “I won’t go in.” Peter nods and mewls when Wade begins to circle the untouched ring of muscle. Wades erection throbs in his suit, he had most of a mind to take it out but he wanted this experience to be all about Peter. Underneath him Peter was gripping onto the window ledge with his face nose to skin at Wades neck. He couldn’t quit squirming and had to take a look at the stroking below, which by now had started to make lewd noises. It was certainly a sight he’d never thought he’d see but he loved the leather glove against his shaft. He wasn’t pleased that Wade was doing all of the work, after all this is sex. Right? Kind of? Wade jumped and stopped his motion when Peter gripped him through his suit. “Peter that’s not necess-“  “Shut up and keep going.” Peter squeezes and Wade grunts. How could he say no to that? He starts again but this time his movements were sloppy, it was hard to concentrate while Peter rubbed him through his suit.  “Peter if you don’t stop-“ “You bet I’m not.” Wade groaned and quickened his hand on Peters cock.  “Fuck. Wade.” That’s when the orgasm hit Wade. He’d never forget how his name sounded in that moment. He also didn’t realize his finger and slipped into Peters ass, not until Peters back curled and a horse cry was heard. He had to have hit the prostate.  Peters whole body felt weightless yet paralyzed at the same time. His skin flushed red and hair damp with sweat. There was an uncomfortable tug at his bottom then emptiness. Peter felt empty.  “I thought you said you weren’t going in?” He asked, not that he minded. “Sorry.” Wade says sitting back, “it just kinda...slipped.”  “What was that in there?”  “It’s called a prostate, God uses it to punish straight men.” Peter chuckles and lays his head back to look up, the fog was still thick. “So uh...that happened.” “Yeah. Usually I wine and dine first.” Peter sits up to look for his suit, he’s bloody freezing now, and covered in his own jizz no less. “This is really going to stain my suit.” “I got you.” Wade reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls out a baby wipe. “I clean up a lot of blood now.”  “Thanks.” Peter starts to clean his stomach and chest, still bare naked and you know what? He doesn’t even mind. He doesn’t feel the least bit vulnerable with Wade. Of course he still puts his suit back on, he is in the open air after all. “Hey Wade do you like Rocky?”  “Do I like Rocky? Is that even a question? Is it legal to ask that?”  “So yes?” “Hell yeah!” Peter nods and walks back to the ledge.  “Tomorrow night then? Back here? I’ll bring my laptop and a blanket.”  “I’ll bring the snacks and cocaine.” “No drugs.”  “Ok.”  “See you tomorrow then.” Peter jumps from the ledge screaming Adrian, and swinging off into a city that never sleeps.  [Wade.]  “I know.” He says standing up. {And you’re totally chill?}  “I know.” He says with a smile. 

[soclosewiz]

City Park

Deep in the forests of the Skykomish valley in Western Washington lies the tiny town of Index and behind it, hundreds of feet of sheer granite cliffs that are home to some of the finest trad and sport climbing on the planet. The most easily accessible and popular sector, the Lower Town Wall (LTW), lies just across the rail road tracks from the parking lot. The wall is split in two by a singular line of weakness that scars an otherwise completely blank and dead vertical face. This is City Park. Index isn’t known for splitters (perfect cracks), with most if its classics combining crack and face climbing. That’s okay because I’m not much known for climbing splitters in the first place. Nevertheless, no one who has ever visited Western Washington’s local’s paradise could deny the appeal of the perfect and unmistakable line that is City Park.

City Park

It was first opened by the pitons of Roger Johnson and Richard Mathies in 1966 and has since become an iconic part of Index history and a popular aid route. It consists of 35 meters of 5.10 bolt ladder, 5.11 splitter fingers, 5.12 tech, and 5.13 pinky lock after pinky lock after pinky lock above nuts and size 00 cams. The smallest trad gear on the market. The caveat is that the entire climb shares an anchor with the most popular 5.9 in Washington, Godzilla. So it is that everyone and their mother who has ever plugged gear at Index has, at some point or another, lowered down over City Park’s striking pods and pockets and wondered...

So it was on my first attempt. Three years ago I visited Index with my friends Miles C., Jeff S., and Stefan B. for the first time and led Godzilla, my first 5.9 trad climb. What was this other thing I was looking at on the way down? Washington’s hardest trad climb and the top rope is already rigged? Of COURSE I was going to try. That day I don’t think I freed a single move. The crack was fully saturated with a winter’s worth of seepage and snowmelt, and it took alternating between two cams and my belayer’s gracious assistance for me to move even halfway up the climb.

At the time I couldn’t even fathom what it would take to send City Park. I knew nothing about how small the gear is, how runout the cruxes all are, how the sharp rock will only let one try once or MAYBE twice every 4-5 days, how the break/undercling seeps for half the year and how it’s too hot to stand on the microscopic feet for the other half. I also didn’t know how few people had done it nor how many had tried and given up. I didn’t know the stories of the five legends that had clipped the chains before me; about how Todd Skinner had to burn grease out for his first ascent, or how Hugh Herr had invented his own prosthetics to enable the second. I had never heard of Chris Schlotfield’s pinkpoint send or heard my friend Per try and describe why they call him “Snickers.”  I had never met Blake Herrington while wading across the Skykomish river to climb at secret sport crags, or belayed Mikey Schaeffer on his first 5.14a down at Smith Rock. I had no exposure to all the things that made City Park appeal to me, and yet even on that very first day, somewhere in my heart I knew that one day I would come for this beautiful, cruel rock climb. I didn’t know if it would be in one year or thirty, but somehow I knew. In a certain way it always seemed inevitable. I didn’t always know I would send it, but I always knew I was going to try.

Views at Index

In the fall of 2017 I pitched off of the final crux move of Pornstar, a 5.13d at World Wall that I had been working for several months. I had never been closer, and yet somehow simultaneously never felt farther away. “What more does it take!?” I screamed at the wall as tears streamed shamelessly down my face. Whatever the answer was, I no longer cared. My inspiration for the project was gone. I walked away with no regrets, right into the open arms of Index, a corner of the map I had thus far left almost entirely unexplored.

I fell fast and I fell hard, with a few early experiences changing the way I saw both the crag and myself as a climber. My favorite Index partner Pat S. introduced me to local climbers and classic climbs, spraying me with enough beta for all the classic Lower Town Wall 5.11ds to fall one after another. Guidebook author Chris Kalman showed me the beauty of some of the less travelled terrain and infected me with his contagious psyche whilst listening to me express my fears of leaving sport climbing behind and accepting what it meant to be something of a beginner again. “Don’t be afraid to redefine yourself,” he told me as we were driving to the crag one day; words I’ll never forget. All the pieces fell into place in exactly the way I needed them to most. Suddenly Index was the only place I wanted to climb.

I left Index when the rains came in November for drier conditions in the Red River Gorge, but when I returned Washington was graced by a rare weather window in December. My friend Jasna H. and I ventured out with one goal in mind: we wanted to top rope the one and only City Park to see if it just might be possible. By the end of the day on December 6th I was bleeding from more than half my fingers and had managed to link less than half the climb.

Jasna was in the same boat. I consider there to be five distinct sections, and the one in the middle remained a huge blank question mark. In that part in particular the feet disappear almost entirely, and the crack gets especially thin. Nevertheless, I wrote down all my beta for the bottom and top, and figured I had to start somewhere, even if I couldn’t even see how to do such a huge number of the moves.

My first topo for the middle section

Three weeks in Mexico came after, and it wasn’t until I was back in Washington in January that I can really say my skin had finally healed after that initial siege. Winter was also here to stay this time, so I did not revisit the route again until May 11th when I returned from an extended period of travel around the south west. During the previous weeks I had watched conditions in Index start to improve as spring arrived, but I had unfinished business in Smith Rock so I did not return to City Park at first opportunity. That day in May I drove out after work with one of my best friends Eric H., after having not climbed together in months. Everything turned out to be wet, including my project. It may have been wet, but it was also COLD, and when I climbed it my feet stuck to the wall like they never had before. For the first time I was able to do all the moves. I finally also figured out a sequence that could consistently get me through the break at the end of the middle crux, right before it eases off a bit for the final sprint.

Looking down at the break, which was the source of a lot of seepage in the spring

The travel bug was still in my veins a little more than the City Park obsession, so I left Seattle once more and tabled the project yet again. Early June brought me back and I kept top roping, slowly putting the pieces together and checking off micro goals that I had set for myself. Top rope the top 2/3rds clean after starting at the bottom; make it to the top clean from below the break; things like that.

On June 15th I arrived at the base of the climb to find a line four people deep for Godzilla and none of them willing to trail my rope to set up a TR for me. After a pep talk from Eric I decided I might as well make this my first lead attempt. I was absolutely terrified, but as I racked up all the small gear I could find, Index staple Randy L. walked by the base and called out to me, “you’re my hero!” It gave me the last little bit of confidence I needed, and I tied in and left the ground.

That first lead burn took me well over an hour. I placed an absurd amount of gear, and aided through many of the moves. If I had thought I was closing in before, I suddenly felt miles away. Nonetheless, it was still another box checked on my mental list of steps that stood between me and one day clipping the chains.

By the end of June I managed to TR one hang it for the first time while climbing with Maiza W., and then the next day Julian B. belayed me as I made it through the break from the ground. Three days later I came out with Pat yet again to find the route soaking wet, so I figured out all the gear in better fashion then my initial rack from the lead attempt. I mock lead it despite the dampness, and managed to fail spectacularly on some of the easiest moves.

Top Roping

By now everyone knew that if I invited them to come to Index with me, I was basically asking for support on this single project. We wouldn’t be doing a multipitch, and we wouldn’t be hiking past the LTW. It had become a completely selfish pursuit, but I had long since accepted that if I was going to have a shot I had to do absolutely whatever it took. I often would write exactly that on my hand, so I could keep the discipline to stay away from the temptations of beer, junk food, or other routes… At the same time I was plagued by guilt at the sacrifices I was asking of my belayers. I tried not to talk about the route too much, or seem too egotistical about the process. I didn’t ask for photos nor spray too often about progress unless it seemed particularly meaningful. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted any rock climb, and thus I struggled to find the balance between selfishness and necessary evils, because that was what it would take for me to send. Sacrifice not just from me, but from my friends who left work early for me, sat in traffic for me, or offered constant words of support and encouragement to me.

July 4th I had managed to recruit Pat yet again for a belay, and I tossed around the dream that maybe it would come together out of the blue on my first real lead attempt. Instead I almost puked at the pure physical effort it took to reach the chains. I also managed to whip on a brass nut so many times that it took a hammer to remove. Later that day I also decked off a 5.11a because I didn’t have the strength to pull through after climbing City Park. Not exactly what I’d been expecting, but by the end of the day as I watched fireworks explode over the town of Index, tears fell down my face as I contemplated how grateful I was to be in such a beautiful and magical place, and how I would not have traded these moments for anything in the world. Surrounded by friends, filled with good food, and celebrating a place I love, I felt like I would burst with the power of it all. That, or maybe it was just some damn good weed that had me feeling particularly sentimental.

Team America on the 4th of July

Three days later, July 7th I gave my third lead attempt while surrounded by a crew of some of my favorite Index personalities; Mike Massey, Pat, Eric, and others. I blasted up to a dramatically new high point, avoiding whipping on the nut and instead testing out the security of my next piece, a 00 shakily placed during the briefest moment of reprieve that two slightly above average pin scars offer after finishing the first real crux and before starting the second. For some reason I decided that I should change the way I held the undercling hold at the break, and try and place more gear to protect the next moves in case the 00 didn’t hold a fall from the upper crux. I thought it was a breakthrough discovery, but in the end I abandoned the change and reverted to my original sequence. That night we ran the Via Ferrata and I one again felt Index’s beauty take my breath away.

Enjoying breathtaking Via Ferrata Views with my best friends

During my lead attempt that day as I was climbing, a party descending from a pitch above began to lower a rappel line on top of me, not suspecting that someone would actually be trying to free climb City Park. It’s not exactly a common scenario, and as I watched the line snake down from the skyline I felt my heart sink as I and everyone around yelled at the party above to pull their rope back up because I was still on point (hadn’t fallen yet). The folks at the belay were very understanding and accommodating, and even took a few photos as I was nearing the anchors. The graciousness with which these strangers treated me made me more than ever consider the many complex emotions I had wrapped up in this climb.  

I had only been climbing at Index regularly for a short time before I started trying City Park. I had never done so many of the classics, or even visited many of the other walls. I had never bolted any new lines, nor cleaned off old ones. I didn’t know how to rope solo, and I hadn’t even camped in the climber lot more than once. I looked at City Park and the people that had climbed it before me with stars in my eyes every single time I left the ground. Who was I to be trying to follow in their footsteps? Sure I knew I was strong enough to do it eventually, but did I deserve it? Should the first female ascent belong to me, who could barely climb Japanese Gardens and had never even been on the Davis-Holland Memorial Route? This route was so intertwined in Index history that I often wondered these things; in making my mark, was I doing justice to a place that meant so much to me? More than sending City Park, I wanted to send it in style. When Todd Skinner first began trying it, locals poured grease down the crack to thwart his efforts because they didn’t want him to have the honor. I wanted to be someone that deserved the honor. Someone that people could celebrate not for, but with, and someone that would inspire others to get on the route in the years that would follow. To me, City Park is the perfect rock climb, and I wanted so desperately to be worthy of something so pure. Every time I pulled the final moves I imagined what it would feel like to do them while sending, and every time I trained at the gym I dreamed of the day when it would all come together. I wanted my send to inspire not simply because of the act itself, but because of my work ethic, what I give to my community, my passion, dedication, and all the other pieces that would be critical for success.

Alpinglow views at beautiful Index

On Tuesday, July 10th I saw the last weather window for as far ahead as the forecast could predict. I got the day off work, and I locked down my partner Eric. Having last tried the route only a few days ago, my skin was shit. My new shoes had been backordered for months, and got shipped only the day before, so my shoes were also shit. I spent all morning being agitated at car traffic on the roads and human traffic in the many stores I visited while looking for my preferred brand of superglue so I could make tape stick to my pinkies. Eric was late (through no fault of his own) and as I sat in my car in Monroe waiting for him I listened to a homeless man yelling at nothing as he ambled around the parking lot. Basically my mental game was shit. My elbows hurt from training and my back hurt from heavy lifting at work. Nothing was right, but nonetheless I had to try.

As I stood on the ledge at the top of the bolt ladder, first cam in place, I looked down at my body. My heart was racing so fast I could see my shirt twitching with each heartbeat. I waited, but it showed no signs of slowing down. Accepting that this was just going to be one of those fear burns, where I never caught my breath and never found flow, I set off in resignation. I reached my high point and placed the 00 with energy to spare, though I could feel myself slipping. I moved into the break and tried to place the new nut I had added to the rack, and in doing so lost my grip and fell. I fiddled with the gear, then fiddled with the crux, and discovered a bit of micro beta that seemed to make a big difference in getting through the most insecure moves right after the break. As I rocked up on a heel hook at the end of the final 5.13 section, for the first time it felt real; like I had a shot.

I came down and said as much to Eric and he agreed and asked how my skin was. I had just assumed it would be a horror show after how thin it had been at the beginning. It was raw and painful, but not bleeding. Maybe I could try again. I had nothing left to lose.

That was when a crew of aid climbers arrived and declared their intentions of spending the evening on City Park practicing their techniques. That was fine, I needed lots of rest anyway and how long could they possibly take? Eric and I went to the country, did a few pitches, and returned around 8:45pm as the sun was beginning to set. Paloma was still on the route, and she wasn’t very close to the top. Apparently some of the nuts were very stuck. As she cleaned the rest of their gear I watched the daylight fade along with my hopes.

A day when an aid climber saved me from getting on the route before it went into the shade

Finally there was only one nut left, and it was around 9pm. I had used normal white chalk to mark where my hands went (tick marks on the right side of the crack for right hand, left for left, with the direction of the tick indicating if my pinky went down or up), and colored chalk for gear. When I saw that the nut was not blocking either, I begged her to just leave it and let me try one last time. (to clarify, I did not clip the nut, I climbed around it as if it were not there) Thankfully, she agreed and descended. Yet again, I chose selfishness because I felt like it was my only option, asking others to make the one sacrifice I couldn’t make myself.

I started up the climb and everything felt different. Because of skin my expectations were realistic, but I was calm for the first time. The fear was finally gone. The pressure, gone. Just City Park and I, alone together as the darkness descended over the Lower Town Wall and the crowd below let their chatter fade to silence as they watched in anticipation, breaths collectively held. The air was the coolest it had been in weeks, yet there was a strange warmth inside the crack; normally one would expect the opposite as the sun heats the surrounding rock but not the slot itself. I knew I would no longer fall on any of the moves below my high point. As I did them I felt my feet stick when I expected them to stick, and slip when I knew they would slip, and I planned accordingly. My new gear beta worked like a charm, and before I knew it I was above the break.

The chalk in the center of the photo is marking a critical foothold. Par for the course on City Park

I felt myself slipping out of the last pinky locks but I told myself to weight the foot more and trust that it would stay, the micro beta I had identified on my previous attempt. As I pulled into the final hard section I felt tired, but in complete control. I sang to myself a song I had written about the climb and recited countless times during training over the past several months: “Watch those anchor gates, open up for me, for our City Park sending train.” With each move I became more and more certain that this was it, the moment that City Park had finally deemed me worthy. I placed each hand perfectly, each foot perfectly, and made not a sound until I was standing on the ledge below the final 5.11 section.

“Oh my God!” I yelled, as the small crowd below erupted in cheers of their own. In the past I have stayed on that ledge for up to several minutes, but within seconds I knew the true summit was calling my name and I could not wait. I began climbing once more and the voices below instantly silenced. All precision vanished as I slammed my hands into the final fingerlocks, feet skittering across the polished granite with no grace remaining. As I latched the final hold I let out a scream and felt tears immediately form and begin to fall. It was almost completely dark by now, and by the time I was back on the ground we had to pack up all our gear by headlamp.

In that moment I knew I had accomplished one of the most important and proudest things I have ever done with my life. City Park was never a goal, it was a dream. My dream. It was not about the process of ticking the boxes of each mini milestone, but about the relationship I formed with the route as it was happening. I fell more in love with each move every time I did it, each emotion each time I felt it. Fear, pain, adrenaline, hope, determination, joy, pride, and did I mention physical pain? There was a lot of it. In the end though it is all dwarfed by the overwhelming honor I feel at having been able to join my heroes in Index history as the first woman to climb City Park and the fourth person to place all gear on lead for a true redpoint.

While working it, many questioned if it was fun, or if it was worth the pain. To that I say this: to many it may not be. It’s just another climb, and it’s one that will not go down without a fight. That is why so few people have done it. City Park is a logistical nightmare. Conditions are critical yet elusive, skin is a constant issue, gear is finicky, thin, and downright scary, and no matter how you slice it the moves are just downright hard. There were parts that weren’t fun. There were parts that plain sucked. Those parts were when it was truly testing me however, and that was when it meant the most.

City Park I love you.

A near complete version of my beta (the final one has gear included)

The rack for most of the hard climbing

Another day, another gobe.

Having a good cry after sending my dream route

[cosmicpopcorn]

Deadpool 2 (2018)

So, your favorite crazy ass pansexual assassin/mercenary...antihero...whatever the fuck he is (let’s just go with fucking awesome)...has returned in Deadpool 2 ready to kick ass, take names, and make us laugh with the crudest of jokes. Colossus and Negasonic Teenage Warhead return with him, while the X-Force, Cable, and Firefist are introduced.

Before he made it to the big screen, Deadpool had a humble beginning when he first appeared in the comic book series, The New Mutants #98, cover-dated February 1991. Your girl Domino also makes her first appearance in this issue as well. The New Mutants series is a spin-off series from the X-Men franchise - it centers around a group of teenaged mutant superheroes-in-training. In issue #98, Deadpool has been hired to kill The New Mutants and Cable...such a wonderful way to meet your favorite neighborhood assassin/mercenary, right? He then began appearing as a regular character in the X-Force series and went on to make guest appearances in several Marvel comics such as The Avengers, Daredevil, and Heroes for Hire. After getting a couple of his own miniseries (The Circle Chase and Deadpool), he eventually got his own ongoing title/full series in 1997. Now this fool got two movies...he’s finally got a piece of the pie!

In the 2004 comic book series Cable & Deadpool, Deadpool describes his appearance as “Ryan Reynolds crossed with a Shar-Pei.” And since 2016 (if you don’t count Ryan Reynold’s appearance as Wade Wilson in X-Men Origins: Wolverine), Ryan Reynolds has taken on the task of being our beloved Deadpool and he’s pretty damn good at it. It was clearly meant to be. In Deadpool 2, starring alongside Ryan Reynolds, we have Josh Brolin as Cable (yes, that’s the same dude who did a fucking fantastic job as Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War), Morena Baccarin as Vanessa, Julian Dennison as Firefist, Zazie Beetz as Domino (guess who I’mma be for Halloween?), T.J. Miller as Weasel, Leslie Uggams as Blind Al, Brianna Hildebrand as Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Stefan Kapicic as the voice of Colossus, Deadpool’s wonderful friend who puts up with all his bullshit and possible love interest/sex buddy? (I’m just saying - even Vanessa told him not to fuck Colossus when she spoke to him in the afterlife, so clearly something may be happening there).

Before we get into the pros and cons for Deadpool 2, let me just say this: I’ve seen a lot of Marvel movies lately and I gotta be honest, they have set the bar high for not only superhero movies but movies in general. At this point, even the most “average” Marvel movie is gonna have great acting, writing, and special effects. This makes it hard for a nigga like me who is trying to find something to critique when writing these reviews because who the fuck just wants to read about me fangirling over a movie (e.g. my Avengers: Infinity War post). I don’t even enjoy writing fangirl posts, which is why the one for Avengers was as short as it was. So unless Marvel starts randomly fucking up their movies for no damn reason - which I doubt is ever gonna happen - I’m not gonna have half as much to critique as usually do. 

Anyway, let’s get into the pros and cons:

Pros:

From what I know about comic book Deadpool (antihero characteristics, humorous - especially crude humor, breaks the 4th wall, pansexual), the movie Deadpool appears to be a pretty accurate representation of him. They didn’t try to make him kid/family-friendly, I definitely see them playing on and/or hinting towards his pansexuality (if anything I swear he flirts with men more than women - the only woman I really see him flirt with is Vanessa), and movie Deadpool is crude as fuck. They even have movie Deadpool continue to break the 4th wall (in case you didn’t know, breaking the 4th wall is when a character is aware that they are a fictional character and may actually interact with the audience) and you can check out this Deadpool 2 trailer for an example of him breaking the 4th wall - he actually interrupts the trailer to discuss the special effects. You’re never too sure if a sequel is going to actually be just as good as the original...or good at all. Another concern is whether or not the sequel continues to build on the character while remaining true to the character’s essence/core personality and this is especially concerning when a movie is an adaptation of a comic/book. Deadpool 2, if anything, continues to emphasize Deadpool’s core personality while building upon it at the same time. 

Going off of the first pro, Deadpool 2 emphasizes his core personality traits (humorous, individualistic, sexual) while attempting to give him more emotional depth. The first half of the movie has us watch Deadpool experience grief after the death of Vanessa. Even before her death, watching him interact with her and plan a family allows us to see the side of him that desires stability, commitment, and family. This first half is important because it shows us that while Deadpool is securely individualistic and doesn’t necessarily need a team like the X-Men or The Avengers, he does still desire family and companionship. It lets us know that even the Merc with a Mouth isn’t beyond the basic human desire to connect with others. In the second half, while more fast-paced and action-packed, we still get to see more of Deadpool’s sense of morality and belief in the goodness, or potential goodness of others when he fights to save young Firefist from Cable. In fact, I would say that Deadpool has an even stronger sense of morality than Colossus - Colossus was willing to leave Firefist in the hands of the headmaster even though it was pretty obvious he was being abused because he refused to play “judge, jury and executioner,” while Deadpool was so sure of how wrong it was that he started killing the orderlies immediately. We also get to see him try to form his own family with the creation of the short-lived first version of the X-Force. 

Ryan Reynolds was made to play Deadpool. Makes me forgive him for Green Lantern and almost makes me forget it even happened! By the way, that post-credits scene of Deadpool shooting Ryan Reynolds in the head while he holds a copy of the Green Lantern script is PURE GOLD.

Zazie Beetz does an awesome job as Domino - she makes a big impact on the audience even though she may not have as many lines or scenes as some of the other characters. The directors and writers also did a really good job of showing the audience Domino’s power of luck - a power that seems so abstract and would be believed to be difficult to display well in movie format.

Cable is a character that I feel you can empathize with and who I actually kind of liked by the end. I really enjoyed how at first he was portrayed as the villain, only for things to be switched up and for us to find out the real villain was the chubby kid from New Zealand (aka Firefist). 

While being hilarious and action-packed, Deadpool 2 does take the opportunity to give you something to think about if you pay attention. First, they have Firefist point out how there are no chubby superheroes. It’s no secret that our society often discriminates, shames, and is prejudice against those who are larger. In media, they are often portrayed as the butt of jokes, being romantically and sexually undesirable, lazy, unhealthy, not athletic, etc. So, is it really a surprise that there are no chubby or plus-size superheroes? I love that Firefist is not skinny or unrealistically built and that he points out how there aren’t any superheroes who look like him (Fun Fact: In the comics, Firefist is a white, skinny, blonde kid from Tulsa, OK, so I’m digging the changes they made - both to Firefist and Domino, whose comic book version was a woman with chalk-white skin).

Second, Deadpool himself points out how the name X-Men forgets that there are female mutants in the group...this is why he chooses X-Force, a gender-neutral name for his group of superhero misfits. The language we use in a patriarchal society is often masculine - for example, we tend to say mankind instead of humankind or things like, “come on guys” to refer to an entire group of people who may not all identify as male and it’s because men are seen as the default. Deadpool’s jokes and commentary in this movie sometimes calls out societal biases that have also made their way into our comics and superhero movies and I’m here for it. Not only that, but Deadpool does not look like your typical hero - his skin is scarred and disfigured, despite him being fit and we still see him being a sexual and romantic being and I think that’s powerful when you have nothing but a bunch of super fit and conventionally attractive superheroes running around.

The soundtrack for the movie is perfect and they perfectly match the songs and scenes. 

All the references are so fun to pick up on - if you’re really into comic books, superhero movies, and honestly just a TV and movie junkie in general, you will love picking up on all the references they throw at you. 

Cons:

So, while those references are great for TV, movie, comic book, and superhero junkies, they’re not-so-great for those who just watch movies here and there and aren’t necessarily fanatics. I’ll go as far as to say if a person isn’t really into comics, superheroes, and doesn’t really know a lot of television and movie shit...a lot of stuff is going to be lost on them. Some movies are made for everyone and some movies are made for fans or at least those with a strong interest - Deadpool 2 is one of those movies and unfortunately that may alienate other viewers/audiences.  

Deadpool’s humor can be hit or miss - at times, the jokes didn’t really hit and weren’t really funny. The first half of the movie’s humor wasn’t as good as the second half of the movie. At times, I found myself laughing just because I knew I was supposed to and the humor and crudeness felt forced. 

Overall, Deadpool 2 is a fun, fun movie that poses some important questions about morality and makes commentary on aspects of society. Ryan Reynolds not only starred in but was also one of the writers and producers of this movie, and his talent shines throughout the entire 1hr and 59min of it. I’m proud of him, and I’m sure Deadpool is too.

Rating: 4.5 Caramel Popcorn Pieces 

[honeyedmilks]

song tag 💘

hi !! i saw @bubblejoy do this and it looked so fun so here i am to do it too !!

i’ll tag um !! some friends :’) @allonsy-allie , @lavenderbyun , @seokjinings , @myhalloweendreams , @championamjoon , @rabonghee , @rosejaehyun , @electrickisses , @jischangwook , @leekangdoo , @gimme-a-chocolate

1. a song you like with a color in the title: red by hyuna !!

2. a song you like with a number in the title: felices los 4 by maluma (a song about like a messy four people cheating relationship but you know what? it bangs !! also i was so blank went i had to find a song with a number in it but like i really hit the jackpot here thanks maluma)

3. a song that reminds you of summer: oh whisper by vixx lr !! it has a very bright beat and makes me think of seeing sunshine when i close my eyes :’’) a runner up tho is love is so nice by jonghyun :( i used to listen to it a lot in the summer last year

4. a song that reminds you of someone you’d rather forget: hmm memo by years and years takes me back to a time where i was talking to someone a lot and it just became a mess and i wish i could erase all of it so i can enjoy that dang song again

5. a song that needs to be played out loud: roll deep by hyuna 100% it should be blasted in every club and you rock my world by mj !!

6. a song that makes you want to dance: sim ou não by anitta and maluma djdjdjd a big bop !! and like any hyuna and bts bop ever

7. a song to drive to: i don’t drive but when you’re in the car and it’s a late night drive u all better play some coldplay binch !!!!! ghost stories is the album to put on for a sad but romantic midnight mood !!!

8. a random song you first think of: on and on by erykah badu <3

9. a song that makes you happy: essa mina é louca by anitta

10. a song that makes you sad: pearls by sade makes me generally tear up because of its subject matter :( it’s a really gorgeous song . but a song that makes me feel sad because it means something to me personally is probably tomorrow by bts hfhvghh i literally cried when ever i listened to it. but um also everything jonghyun sang :( and like so many other songs since i’m like a sad loser

11. a song you will never get tired of: one song is magic by coldplay . i listen to it often when i can’t sleep and play it on repeat till i can. it’s really romantic and soothing

12. a song from your past: tomorrow by avril lavigne and like all of her old discography snjdkdkd it really takes me back to when i like cried myself to sleep listening to it lol

13. a song that’s sexy: na na by trey songz is a sexy experience that i’m still not over also you know by yugyeom ................... and inspiration by jonghyun :( oh also AHEM LADIES get on your knees by miss nicki . additionally gotta love how it says A song but i don’t seem to care :)

14. a song you’d love to be played at your wedding: omg ... what an amazing question djdjdjd my wedding will most likely be desi so i’ll go with a bollywood banger . probably deewani mastani because it’s like so extra and ethereal but if we’re going for poetic subtlety then um i don’t know !! but i mean masakali is a cheerful sounding song that reflects some of my personality so i feel it should be played at least a few times :p also this is such a complicated question because desi weddings have like four day events KDJDJD so um masakali can be for the mendhi day, deewani for the baraat and um mohe rang do laal for the valeema because it’s very romantic i dunno !!

15. a song you’re currently obsessed with: king is sorrow by sade LOL i really be in my feelings these days crying to this song because i, too, feel like i am the king of sorrow

16. a song you used to love but now hate: crossfire by stephen sjdjdjdjd i don’t like it

17. a song you’d sing a duet with at karaoke: um obviously american boy by estelle with kanye ??

19. a song that makes you think about life: um strangely this came to me after some searching. it’s called you never know by immortal technique and it’s really good but sad and just :( makes u think about love and loss. i dunno tommorow by bts as well makes me think about my mess of a life lol

20. a song that has many meanings to you: hmm this is hard because nearly everything i’ve listed means something to me. but um stranger in moscow by mj is one i’ve not mentioned yet. but many meanings ?? i dunno sjsjsjdjdj proabbly all the songs i’ve mentioned that have comforted me or something

21. a song you think everyone should listen to: human nature by michael jackson and smile by nat king cole :( the later is especially good for when u r very sad :(( i really like these songs . very gentle and good

22. a song by a group you still wish was together: um nails for breakfast, tacks for snacks by panic! djdjdjd ik they’re still a thing but this is from the old original line up :’(

23. a song that makes you want to fall in love: oh like every sade song ever lol especially cherish the day (that’s also where my bio quote is from djdjdjd) um chantaje by shakira puts me in that mood also but like it really depends on what kind of love. like painting greys by emmit fenn and wading by jhene aiko put me in a whole Angsty love mood

24. a song that breaks your heart: pearls by sade :(

25. a song with amazing vocals: um for a vocal experience i love roy woods. get you good is a good one. for like the most mind blowing vocals is it a crime by sade (live version especially) truly ..... did That. and like every jonghyun song :(

26. a song with amazing rap: lol i have no idea what to say here because i genuinely think crank that by soulja boy is really the most iconic rap song ever . but um LOL want some more by nicki minaj is pretty cohesive and really smacks too . that’s a very main stream pick but i like rap artists like immortal technique and stuff too

27. a song that makes you smile: oh may by belle époque !! it’s so sweet sounding and i think it played in a really nice moment in coffee prince !! so maybe that enforces the good feelings

28. a song that makes you feel good about yourself: how’s this by hyuna (it really gets me going)

29. a song that you would dedicate to you and your best friend/mutual/someone close to you: toxic by britney for all my mutuals- this is our song now

30. a song that reminds you of yourself: um gust of wind by pharell if we’re thinking positive and heer if we going sad :( heer is also very meaningful to me ggvbbbnbhj

[tvandfilmconfessions]

Imagine walking into a Hollywood boardroom in 2018 in hopes of selling a big summer comedy. It’s a classic David versus Goliath story — a crew of nebbish geeks outwits a gang of maniacal, grunting bullies. Your pitch goes well at first until one of the execs wonders what sort of delightful hijinks ensue when the nerds and jocks face off.

You explain how the underdogs secretly film women naked, adding that they eventually sell “pies” (really just whipped cream) hiding an illegally taken photo of one of these women. The room goes silent and you pull another idea from the script.

“Also, one of the nerds has sex with a woman by wearing her boyfriend’s Halloween costume.”

The execs shift awkwardly in their seats.

“But it’s okay,” you assure everyone, “because it turns out the girl likes it.”

Is that sexual assault-filled movie getting made in 2018? I hope to god not. But thirty-five years ago that exact comedy was greenlit. In fact, it did well enough after its July 20, 1984 release to spawn sequels, a TV show, and plenty of revival talk.

* *

Watch the movie in question — Revenge of the Nerds — today and you’re likely to cringe so hard you miss all the jokes. Having just seen it for this piece, I can say: It feels dated. That’s no surprise, it is dated. It was released the year LeBron James, Prince Harry, and Katy Perry were born. But does that mean you can’t think it’s funny? Should we push aside all the movies, books, and TV that fail to fit with our current societal norms? Do we burn Gone with the Wind and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?

“I don’t necessarily think we need to dump our problematic past,” says Justina Ireland, a New York Times bestselling author who often speaks, writes, and Tweets about matters of race and gender in America. “I think a lot of times when we sanitize the past we overlook the bad parts and it becomes like ‘the good ol’ days’ ideology. But I do think we need to engage with the past in a way that’s realistic.”

For Ireland, that means thinking critically about art and placing it in a historical context. Though she (like many people starting conversations about creative work that fails our current cultural litmus tests) has been treated like some sort of neo-liberal killjoy, her take on what to do about our “problematic faves” is literally just a call for thoughtfulness.

“You can enjoy something and recognize that it has problems,” she explains. “Like I love buffalo chicken wings. They are not good for me. Buffalo wings are not good for anybody. No one should be eating those. But they’re so delicious, and I wanna eat them. And I wanna recognize when I eat them that they’re not good for me.”

Based on this scale, Revenge of the Nerds is a seriously over-sauced pile of wings. Of all the screwball 80s comedies, the problems are too problematic and the comedy not enduring enough for me to get over. Sometimes things fall by the wayside and for me, this movie has. Especially because I don’t remember loving it as a kid. I watched it, but it wasn’t something I quoted.

That’s not to say that I’m ready to ditch every movie with a cringey moment. There are comedies from the same era, some with similar problems, that I do want to continue enjoying — keeping in mind, as Ireland says, that “movies, they are so much a function of their day, time, year, etcetera. You can’t separate that from the movie itself.”

I was well into my thirties before I stopped considering verbally abusive men more interesting than the nice ones. I’m a little embarrassed to say that it took even longer for me to fully comprehend the scene late in “Sixteen Candles,” when the dreamboat, Jake, essentially trades his drunk girlfriend, Caroline, to the Geek, to satisfy the latter’s sexual urges, in return for Samantha’s underwear. The Geek takes Polaroids with Caroline to have proof of his conquest; when she wakes up in the morning with someone she doesn’t know, he asks her if she “enjoyed it.” (Neither of them seems to remember much.) Caroline shakes her head in wonderment and says, “You know, I have this weird feeling I did.” She had to have a feeling about it, rather than a thought, because thoughts are things we have when we are conscious, and she wasn’t.

This comes from Molly Ringwald’s recent essay in The New Yorker about the legacy of John Hughes and the filmmaker’s blind spots concerning race, gender, and consent. The piece applies the sort of context that Ireland advocates for to a few of Hughes’s creepy-feeling on-screen decisions — setting them in a certain time in history, focusing on the people they affected, and asking tough questions about how a male director portrayed female agency. The actress never bemoans working with Hughes (who died in 2009). In fact, she clearly carries fond memories of him. But that doesn’t preclude her from seeing his work through a critical lens.

This is an important point when it comes to dealing with outdated art: Are we being intellectually rigorous? Are we thinking critically? Are we examining our own biases and how they were influenced by the societal norms of the time?

“The problem is, is for a long time, the people defining what was canon were a bunch of straight white guys,” Ireland says. “They tended to favor things that privileged their perspective. Because even though Sixteen Candles is about a girl, it’s really not. It’s really about the men around this girl. There’s the nerd, who wants her underpants. There’s the hot boy who’s unachievable. There’s even the racist foreign exchange student. I would love for someone to go through and look at the number of speaking roles and how many times men get to speak as opposed to women in that movie. Because if you look at every other female character besides Molly Ringwald, they’re all a mess.”

The fact that straight white men defined the canon for so long explains why — as our culture wrestles with these issues — it’s straight white men who are in a panic. When you’ve enjoyed unchecked power for centuries, even questioning decades-old art seems to smack of censorship. This is a shame for a zillion reasons, but two of the big ones are the most obvious: 1) New, diverse voices and a deeper thoughtfulness about culture, gender, and sexuality clearly makes for better, more nuanced art and 2) considering that white men controlled the conversation for so long, it would be nice if we were introspective enough to help open it back up.

What’s lost when white men pretend that criticism equals censorship is the chance for genuine artistic growth. How quickly we forget that artists have always been forward thinkers and that the stories the creative community produces would surely become more potent if we allowed them to evolve. That’s what comedian Hari Kondabolu wanted when he made the documentary The Problem with Apu.

“I don’t want The Simpsons to just disappear,” he says. “I think it could be better, but I don’t think that’s a unique thing that Simpsons fans have said. Even predating this documentary, Simpsons fans were like, ‘It’s not as good as it used to be.’ And they’ve said that for years.”

Though The Problem with Apu was treated by people who didn’t see it (and onetime social justice warrior Lisa Simpson) as more fodder for the “the PC culture can’t take jokes”-brigade, it was actually the exact opposite. Kondabolu grew up loving The Simpsons and watching him wrestle with the issues that Apu’s character presents is the same as anyone else trying to put something they love in proper context. The big difference is that with the show in question still on TV, changes could feasibly be made.

“There’s a reason why I did The Simpsons,” Kondabolu explains. “It’s still alive, actively making episodes. So, it’s both a snapshot of 30 years ago and our thinking back then as well as an active participant in culture, right now. But you don’t get rid of it. You hope for something better, and if not, you create things that are more contemporary and relevant. That’s the way it’s always been.”

Here again, we see a creator from a marginalized group handling the matter with a deft touch and a propensity to give dated work the benefit of the doubt. Which makes The Simpson’s creator Matt Groening’s flippant “people love to pretend they’re offended” comments seem all the more wrong-headed, as yet another white male seems to conflate being questioned with suppression.

“As much as I hate the word ‘problematic,'” Kondabolu says, “if we were to read into it — it’s saying something has a problem. It doesn’t mean it’s awful, it doesn’t mean that it’s irrelevant, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t still good; it just means there’s a problem.”

In my experience, the boilerplate response from white men when concerns about outdated pieces of pop culture surface is an eye roll paired with some riff on the classic line: “I guess people can’t take a joke anymore.” It’s that dismissal that I can’t abide. My white/male/straightness has bestowed me with a certain degree of privilege and part of the responsibility of that privilege is a willingness to wade into tricky conversations. Besides, it’s fun to think about this stuff. Are you telling me that it’s cool to argue for hours about who Azor Ahai is, but a ten-minute discussion of race, gender, and shifting sensibilities before rewatching an 80s classic is somehow wasted time? Get out of here.

So that’s what I’ll be doing the next time my own “problematic fave” — The Goonies — comes on screen. Discussing it, fitting the piece into its historical moment in time, wondering what the hell One-Eyed Willy’s master plan was, and asking questions about the movie’s continued relevance in my life. If my final answer is, “Yes, I love this and feel like their treatment of Data — though clearly based in stereotypes — is affectionate enough for me to still have fun watching” then I’ll watch. It’s not exactly rocket science.

“Nothing is pure,” Ireland concludes. “It’s also really indicative of what we considered acceptable in the early 80s compared to what we consider acceptable now. I don’t think it’s fair to judge something from a hundred years ago by a modern standard, because you have to understand the place in which the art was created to understand the art.”

When I bring up my enduring love for The Goonies, Kondabolu echoes Ireland’s sentiment. “Just because something has an issue doesn’t mean it’s ruined. Data is a loved character. But there’s still an element that you have to acknowledge. This isn’t shocking for those of us who aren’t white.”

And it shouldn’t be shocking for those of us who are white, either. Because at some point, if you’re railing against even the littlest bit of critique over a movie, book, or show you love, the person it ultimately says the most about is you.

by STEVE BRAMUCCI  

@nerdsagainstfandomracism @oldfilmsflicker @profeminist

[matildainmotion]

What if Self-Love is Not About the Self? By Natasha Fowler and Matilda Leyser

This blog is a collage.

A collaboration

A conversation between my words -Matilda’s- and….

….Mine, Natasha’s

It’s a blog about looking after yourself, ourselves, and how I, you, we go about doing that.

It is in two parts. You can also listen to the blog if you go HERE:

PART ONE:

First, to introduce ourselves:

Matilda: I am a mother, writer, theatre-maker, co-director of Mothers Who Make, wife, daughter, insomniac.

Natasha: I am a friend, a lover, a guardian, a wounded human. I am a White woman, descendant from my ancestors. I make art, share what I know and raise children.

We met at an international MWM meeting.

I’m trying to finish a draft of my novel by Christmas, so I am not writing any blogs. Instead, I send an email to Natasha, in Amsterdam….

Hi Natasha, Please let me know if you wish to write a MWM blog for the month of November. The only requirement is that it ends with a question, relevant to the theme of mothering and making, that can become the focus for the month’s meetings should people wish to take it up. Let me know….. Matilda

Thank you, Matilda, yes. I started work on the self-care article yesterday. I’m going to edit today and share with a few friends. I can commit to having it to you by Wednesday. I hope you have a good steady day of eating, working, caring and resting. I have stretched, washed and consciously dressed but my teeth are not cleaned yet (3/4 of my morning routine). Time to get off emails! Natasha

Late Wednesday, I receive Natasha’s first draft. I see it come into my inbox at nine pm, as I am about to read bedtime stories to my daughter – I think, ‘I won’t read that now, or I won’t sleep.’ I close down my laptop.

I don’t sleep anyway. One of the worst things about insomnia is the radical loneliness – an irrational sense that no one else in the world is still awake.

The next day, tired, wired, I read Natasha’s blog. I know I am a word control freak -I have been known to edit, and re-edit, a text message - but I feel uncertain about publishing Natasha’s draft in the MWM blog spot. I want more mothering and making in it. This also seems a very dubious response- to invite new, diverse people to write a blog and, when they don’t sound like me, to want to edit them to make them sound more so…..and yet, at the same time, I think there is something valid in wanting to look after the particular space that MWM holds, in meetings, online, in writings. After dithering for a few days, I email Natasha –

Hi Natasha, first a disclaimer: I am not in a great place right now. My chronic insomnia has become acute and I am not functioning well, so my critical faculties are pretty ropey! …But would you be willing, to include a little more about your mothering and making in the writing….?

Hi Matilda, It makes sense to me that my approaches and the boundaries of the blog are having a conversation. I am curious about why I don’t talk about mothering and making in a way that meets the criteria. I have an imaginative block for what that’d look like - which tells me I’m categorising the requirement differently to you. It’s a familiar thought cul-de-sac that comes with this Neurodiverse mind I operate in.

Neurodiverse. It’s a term that is relatively new to me and suddenly tremendously potent: at the end of September my son at last received an autism diagnosis. “I get it,” he said when my husband and I told him, “My brain does this” – he drew a detailed picture in the air of different, curved and diagonal connections between invisible points of meaning– “And other peoples’ do this,” he said, drawing a series of straight, right-angled lines.

Hi Natasha, as part of my learning in this area I would be very interested to hear a little more about how you name and describe your neurodiversity. Please send me a few lines articulating your sense of it - why does our exchange feel like ‘a familiar cul-de-sac’ to you? Tell me more about the cul-de-sac and the other streets and highways of your mind :-) Thank you again for your openness, integrity, and all your work on this. Matilda xxx

The cul-de-sac I talk about is a place I get stuck when I've been given a task and I have no imaginable concept of what that would look like. With a long conversation and lots of back and forth clarification, I would probably discover that I do know what you're talking about but I learned a long time ago not to try and clarify everything so precisely, it was not practical/ possible and probably led to people being annoyed by my questions.

Part of my response to the task is to think "but I made the writing - that's the making" and "I am a mother, so if I speak, I'm speaking from the experience of mothering".

In the end I understand the labels autism/ADHD/dyslexia/neurodiversity to be bureaucratic necessities in a world obsessed with 'normal'. The necessary diversity of human experience is medicalised, categorised in order for us to get the money from the system that is needed to exist in the system. I am disabled by what I live in and my race/class/gender identity have protected me from that disabling being far more consequential.

I can’t and don’t want to argue with any of this. I feel dismayed at the idea that my requirements for the MWM blog might actually in themselves be exclusive. I don’t feel good about wading in and making Natasha’s voice more acceptable within my idea of what the text should sound like. So, I think instead I will be transparent – I will leave her words as they are and add some of mine – put in the mothering and the making that I feel the need to include. As it happens, Natasha’s chosen theme, of the need for self-care to be a process that takes place as a collective, community act, could not be more relevant to my experience of mothering and making this month.

Here we go then….

PART TWO:

Natasha: I ran out of self-love this summer, overwhelmed by stories of all my faults, what I’d lost and not done. I spent too much time subject to a cruel inner tyranny. I held onto the idea that I could take care of the situation alone. That I could create the self-love I needed. I could not. I needed to depend on something beyond my self. Although I had vowed to love myself first only two years ago, I was now raising questions about this individualised ideal of self-love.

Matilda: Take care, people say. I still struggle to do this. I sit on the stairs at 3am. My husband is asleep. My son and daughter are asleep. They are 8 and 4. I am 46. I ought to be able to rest too - how can I possibly take care of them, if I cannot take care of myself in this fundamental way? Self-soothing is a skill that babies, some say, are meant to have learnt after only a few months. I tell myself this when I get to the sobbing stage at 4am. I fantasize about a mother figure– not my real mother who is 79 now, also in my care, also asleep – but some great giant of a mother coming walking through the woods outside. She is coming to take me up in her arms, hold me against her, above the trees, hold me, grown as I am, until I fall asleep. Because tomorrow I have other people to take care of– the children, my mother. And I have another chapter of my novel to write. I know I cannot write when I haven’t slept.

Natasha: I finally gave up the idea that self-love is my sole responsibility. I began to accept the dependence that exists, the vulnerability of my well being. My self-love became communal. Just like the child raising that I do along with my partner, our friends and family; just like the neighbourhood garden my wee boy and I joined in preparing for winter last week.

But how did I end up believing self-love is something I have to do by myself? Born in 1978, independence and individuality were highly prized values when I was growing up. To be able to do things yourself without help was a given. To be free of the demands of a group was important. The myth of singular heroes was all over the culture, from lonesome superheroes to introvert inventors and brave explorers. The heroes saved the vulnerable, and the vulnerable were symbolised as young, straight, thin, white women. The stories of everyone around the inventor and all that they did were edited out. The people who were there before the explorer even set his foot down were erased. The values of independence of individuality, invulnerability are seeped into my bones.

Matilda: Did you sleep? My husband asks me in the morning. I shake my head. He is worried. I am worried. I don’t know what to do. I have tried so many things. I tell him I might put a post about it on the Mothers Who Make Facebook group– “You should,” he says. “That’s what it’s for.” True. I started it, but I find it hard to reach out for support. I have a kind of pride, almost a snobbery, that has often stopped me sharing. ‘What’s on your mind?’ FB asks me – so many things, but I don’t want to place them in that white public space. It feels immodest to do so, to turn my life into a headline. But the truth is, I am afraid.

I recognise this. It is also why I find it hard to share my work. I hold onto it. I have been working on this novel for ten years, and hardly anyone has read it. It is the same reason I edit, re-edit text messages. I do not let people see the mess. The missed comas. The words out of place. I feel safest when sealed off, private, when only carefully crafted images of vulnerability are revealed. And yet, when I am sobbing at 4am, all I want is company. A giant mother. Someone, anyone, to see me, to see the mess of me.

Natasha: I am communally made. My ideas of who I am, what I do, what is the value in me are made during my relationships. Maybe I always knew that like the self-hate I was carrying, my self-love was a communal responsibility. I suspect there is something about the experience of being a mother in my culture that helped me forget. It seems to be an experience that isolates and calcifies our individual sense of responsibility. The International mothers who make calls were part of my communal self-love recovery. Getting to turn up to a new group and hear me tell my story and listen to so much good company. I hope we might all give and receive the love that we need to maintain a sense of our self being loved. I hope we are all learning what we need to learn to be able to do that.

Matilda: So I did it – I put the post on Facebook. I need some help, I wrote, I don’t sleep and I can no longer blame my children for this. My children are sleeping – I am not. Many of you reading this, may have seen it and responded. It was extraordinary for me to see such a huge number of compassionate, wise, responses so fast. Humbling. Profoundly helpful – not just the resources, but the act itself of reaching out and finding so many hands writing back. After only an hour, I went online to look and I could see the wavy line that appears when someone, somewhere is in the process of typing something. A real person out there, taking care. Not just one. Over a hundred. A giant number of mothers.

I wrote back to Natasha:

P.s. The amazing response I received to my insomnia post rather wonderfully proves your point - we don’t have to do this self-care thing on our own. Xxxxx

Don’t have to – can’t even – whoever you are, how ever your mind works, however brilliant you are, however vulnerable, however divergent, however alone you feel.

It sounds so simple. So obvious. We are interconnected. All the streets link up, even the cul-de-sacs have passages leading onto one another. There is no such thing as social distancing. Physical distancing, yes, but social – two metres apart between your thoughts and mine, your experience and mine, your words and mine – is just not possible.

Here then is Natasha’s, my, your, our question for the month:

How do you understand self-love, is it clearly something you must do for yourself? Or something you share? or maybe you practise other ideals of compassion? Maybe you carry some communally made self-hate too? How do you sustain yourself when overwhelmed?

[lindoig6]

A Loooong Post about the ‘Sounds of the Bush’

We have been in south-central Gippsland for 12 weeks, unable to move elsewhere during the Covid-19 lockdown but have travelled extensively on daytrips to exercise by taking long walks in the bush. We have walked several hundred kilometres and the relative cacophony of birdsong juxtaposed against the ‘sound of silence’ a mere kilometre away has caused me to think a lot about the sounds of the bush and birdsong in particular.

It is hard to imagine that anyone in Australia (maybe almost anywhere in the world) would be confused about the creature they were listening to if they heard a ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’ across their neighbour’s fence or even a couple of blocks away.  But there are plenty of other birdcalls and songs that are just as distinctive.  I will talk about some of our Aussie birds shortly, but other countries have birds that are equally as evocative.  In Scotland, for example, I very quickly came to recognise the presence of Eurasian Skylarks even when I couldn’t find them and of course, Common Blackbirds singing at dusk are just as recognisable in Europe as they are here.  It is hard to misdiagnose the call of a Skua or a Peacock, or some species of ducks or owls.

In Australia, almost everyone would recognise the calls of Magpies, Ravens, Kookaburras, Boobooks, Currawongs, Whipbirds, Bellbirds and perhaps a dozen more, even if they were unaware that there were more than one species of some of them, with notably different calls. Most people would hazard a guess at an Emu drumming even if they had never heard one other than on television.

On the other hand, many of our birds are silent or almost so.  Many others are not encountered often enough (or often enough in places where we are) for most of us to become familiar with their calls, so we can be forgiven for not recognising them or understanding their language.

The more we hear particular species’ calls, the more likely we are to recognise them when we hear them again.  But with so many species and subspecies, with so many different calls, nobody can be expected to know more than a small proportion of them.  Perhaps you might be able to guess at a narrow range of possible species and use a bird app or a set of CDs of all Australian bird calls to identify the species, but this might be an insurmountable task if we don’t know where to start.  It is further complicated because, although we might intuitively imagine that big birds would emit louder and/or lower-pitched calls than smaller ones, this is not always the case.  Even remembering (accurately) what we heard in the bush whilst wading through a potentially long series of calls on our app is fraught and misidentification is a serious risk.

In an earlier post, I mentioned the joy I get when I hear the calls of the Pied Currawong, the Grey and Pied Butcherbirds and the Common Blackbird.  Their calls are quite beautiful, melodic, clear and distinctive and they transport me to times and places of significance to me, locking me into emotions and experiences that were important to me at some time – and remain so to this day.

Pied Currawongs remind me of cold mornings camping at Katoomba, hot bushwalks around Canberra, and particularly the high drama that was my life when living alone in Sydney.  The Butcherbirds’ clear ringing song is an unusually pleasant memory of our former apartment in Caloundra when almost everything was disastrous doom and gloom.  And Blackbirds are stereotypically Melbourne for me, especially my earlier years there, although I have since enjoyed their lyrical dawn and dusk serenades on many occasions.

But what of other birds?  In no particular order, I have recently thought about numerous species and their significance to me – whether that refers to a time, a place or an experience.  Here are some of them……..

Peaceful Dove – anything but peaceful with its incessant calling that seems to penetrate a kilometre or more in the bush.  I have seen and heard so many of them, but they always remind me of hot, dry, still, deserted places.  I first heard them in Queensland but recognised the call in crowded Kalbarri and that is what has stayed with me.  They say you never forget your first time, but that is only partly true.  In my earlier post (referred to above), I described my first encounters with Eastern Koels and Channel-billed Cuckoos in Sydney and I will always remember them, but for some reason, I associate Peaceful Doves with Kalbarri, despite having seen and heard them numerous times before without recalling those sightings.

Laughing and Spotted Doves – predominantly from Perth and Melbourne.  Their soft, repetitive murmuring seems to have been most often heard when I have been in bed and I still imagine snuggling under the covers and listening to the Laughing Doves on the roof or in the trees outside my window as a child. A warm, safe and comforting feeling.

Everyone loves the warbling of a Magpie.  Indeed, it has been recognised as one of the most iconic sounds of Australia: as has the mirth of the (Laughing) Kookaburra. In general, it is the quiet pleasant communication between birds but nobody fails to imagine that some of the time, the Magpie is simply carrying on a conversation with us.  We talk to them, they respond.  Who hasn’t had such an encounter with an inquisitive bird a mere metre or two away, head cocked to one side, listening to our wisdom before imparting some nonsense of its own?

Corellas – usually but not only the Little Corella. Many people hate them for the damage they can do but I love them.  My first memorable encounter with them was at Halls Gap in the Grampians, where hundreds of them squabbled over the best few inches of branch to roost on that particular night.  They tend to swarm into and out of the same tall trees for at least a couple of hours every night and are very often seen (by us) around camping areas.  They are wonderful aerobats, great characters, comics, highly vocal and seem intent on discussing every detail of their day’s adventures with every other bird in the flock so it is an entertaining, if noisy, reunion when many campers are trying to relax, listen to their televisions, or sleep. Interestingly, they are off on new adventures before many of us surface in the morning, usually without waking any of us.

Galahs are somewhat the same, performing superb aerobatics, just because they can.  Their monosyllabic call evokes the desert for me wherever I am: hot, clear evenings even though I have seen them right across the country at all times of the day, and occasionally at night.  They are stereotypically Outback birds in my mind, even though I know they are not.

Grey Shrike-thrush – a lovely nondescript bird with a big, melodic voice.  I first saw one in the West McDonalds near Alice Springs and heard its call with wonder. Such a small bird, so hard to find, yet singing its little repertoire so loudly just a metre or two in front of me. I rarely saw others until our enforced stay in Warragul but have now heard so many of them that I can identify them even if I can’t see them.  At one time, I imagined (from the end of their call) that they were similar to a Whipbird (equally hard to spot, despite their loud distinguishing call), but now know better and can easily identify both from their calls.

Most people hate the Common Myna, claiming them to be foreign invaders, aggressively supplanting our native birds.  But let’s not blame the bird for being what it is. After all, it was humans that introduced it to Australia and if it is aggressive, that is simply crucial to its survival strategy.  I am not even convinced of its risk to our own birds.  If you refer to my earlier post about the birds on our terraces at home, you will note that they have been put in their place by our far less aggressive Spotted Doves and House Sparrows (admittedly also introduced species). The reason I have highlighted this species is because their range of vocalisations is extensive and can be piercingly loud and grating or soft and musical.  Indeed, I often imagine different birds when I hear them because ‘surely, that can’t be a Myna!’

The calls of Magpie-larks and Willy Wagtails can also be shrill and deafening, especially for such small birds. Although I like their cheeky playfulness, I find their voices unpleasant, grating, raucous, piercing and uncharacteristic of diminutive species.  Magpie-larks in particular can screech at almost painful levels at a range of 100 metres or more.

The Masked Lapwing also has a distinctive call, albeit not as piercing as the Magpie-lark.  I first encountered them as a bowler in a cricket team where the run-up at one of the pitches we used was also used as a nesting site for a pair of Lapwings for at least 3 successive years.  The poor birds were frantic whenever we played there, screeching and diving at us constantly whilst we poor humans erected a few sticks to surround a small no-man’s-land near the eggs in the scrape on the ground.  Bowlers in particular found it frustrating to run around this quarantined area as they approached the crease – and many a catch was dropped when a fielder was screamed at for chasing a ball too close to the sacred ground.  Amazingly, despite the Saturday afternoon inconvenience to them, the Lapwings successfully fledged their chicks year after year.  More recently, when living in Richmond, my love of this species was renewed when they would call from the oval across the road every evening, particularly in the colder weather.  Huddled cosy by the fire, listening to the unmistakable calls from across the road became one of the more enjoyable features of our winter evenings.

Australian Ravens (the eponymous Aussie crows) are also birds of wonder for me.  All our crows and ravens have somewhat similar calls, but my favourite by far is the Australian Raven with its long, slow, lazy, down-turning groan.  Caaaahhhaaharrr – very different to our other corvids.  I grew up in Western Australia where all ‘crows’ were Australian Ravens and their call always reminds me of hot, dry, dusty days in the ‘great southern wheatbelt’ where I spent a lot of my recreational time as a child and adolescent.  On my relatives’ wheat and sheep farms, they were seen as pests, attacking newborn lambs and spilling grain from the unsewn tops of wheat bags. One uncle in particular temporarily stored hundreds of bags of grain at the side of the house and the ravens were attracted to it – to uncle’s annoyance.  He sometimes set himself up in the sleepout with his shotgun, but it took no more than a couple of inches of barrel to appear between the louvres before the ravens took flight.  He claimed that they were the cleverest birds on earth – much to his chagrin.

A rare call in Gippsland has been that of the White-plumed Honeyeater that has seemed the most prominent and distinctive call almost wherever else I have travelled in Australia.  I have heard it in a couple of places in Gippsland, but it is one of the most recognisable calls (for me) and its absence in this area has surprised me.

On the other hand, there are other calls that I find instantly recognisable, including most of those mentioned above. Among the others are the Black-cockatoos, White-headed Stilts, Oystercatchers, Striated and Spotted Pardalotes, Southern Boobooks, Bell Minors, Black Swans, White-faced Herons to name a few.

But there are also some areas of confusion. I always imagined that the sound of the Whistling Kite was diagnostic – until I heard the almost identical whistling of Black Kites.  Similarly, most ducks quack, but how does one differentiate between one quack and another? Many small bush-birds twitter away, largely hidden in dense thickets and it is hard to identify them from their call, especially if more than one species is calling in the same area.  But if you think it may be a particular species, it is sometimes possible to confirm it – although it might be harder to rule it out.  I was recently in an area where numerous birds were calling but I thought I saw a Brown Thornbill and heard its call.  I used an app on my phone to confirm my identification and interestingly, we were suddenly surrounded by several more Brown Thornbills, all trying to interact with the app.

I have been on the beach at dusk and have been able to identify Masked Lapwings, Silver Gulls and Oystercatchers from their calls, but anything else is a guess.  I have also been at sea surrounded by majestic seabirds and found it almost impossible to identify any from their occasional calls.  Some of that is simply lack of familiarity, but many pelagic species seem to be silent or have somewhat similar calls making identification other than by sight difficult.

Some birds rarely use their voice, but others are great communicators, at least between their species.  Families of Babblers are constantly babbling, almost never silent, simply keeping contact within the group.  Noisy Miners are (naturally) very noisy and who hasn’t been irritated by their incessant ‘chip, chip, chip, chips’?  New Holland Honeyeaters, Grey Fantails and Superb Fairy-wrens seem to be twittering constantly as they flit around the foliage hunting for a feed.

The sound of one species that is unmistakable to me, even if I don’t see it and it does not call is the Crested Pigeon.  The sound made by its wings in flight is absolute proof of the species.  (A bit like the sound of wind in Sheoaks – instant recognition).

But then there is the sound of the Superb Lyrebird – or rather the cacophony of sounds.  Being such a brilliant mimic, one needs to listen for a few moments to ensure you are not listening to a Whipbird and a Rosella and a motor bike and a chainsaw and the ringtone of a phone and…….  It is the variety of replicated sounds that enables you to identify this species.  Whether there is an innate ‘natural’ call of the species is perhaps doubtful because it incorporates the calls of so many other local birds (and incidental sounds) into its repertoire.

Despite some places and periods of silence in the bush where birds may or may not be present, there are wonderful experiences when the air is alive with birdsong.  Far and near, we might hear twittering and tweeting, raucous squawking and shrieking, melodic warblings, single peeps and long carolling.  These are often somewhat frustrating times when we are trying to see and identify the birds near us, but are constantly distracted by another call or another shadow, or another bird catching our attention because it is nearer or larger or louder and we simply don’t know where to look next.

Equally, we may be at a beach or beside a lake or surrounded by dense thickets or very tall trees and we can hear birds all around us or high in the canopy, but simply can’t find them.  In Gippsland, I have recently been in towering forests with many small birds flitting around the leaves, but have simply been unable to focus my binoculars on them because they are so small, so far away and so active in their foraging, cloaked in foliage and silhouetted against a bright sky.