#you know how when you get a really good whirlybird

[halavibe]

.

[aerialflight]

an even longer fic rec list (sorry about that)

I have too many fics to rec so you can see this as part 2 of my previous list. Enjoy!

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[One Piece] (just realized that I read a lot of zoro ship fics. huh)

The Many Marriages of the Straw Hat Pirates by LadyCrimsonAndBlack

Ship: Straw Hats (and Law)

There are a lot of strange traditions to be found on the Grand Line. Sometimes, the Straw Hats get caught up in them.

(Or: The Straw Hats get married to each other. Repeatedly.)

(I cried laughing, this is somehow both hilarious yet sweet! They are so Chaotic here lol)

the serpent with the empty eye by apollothyme

Ship: Kalgara/Montblanc Norland

When he is a child, the mark takes up the majority of his chest.

It’s a long winding spiral with triangles decorating its length and an empty dot in one of the ends. He spends many a moment in his youth tracing it with his chubby fingers, staring in contemplation at the black ink unique to him and him alone.

Well, not just him. His mother says there’s another person in the world with the very same mark as him. Still, as far as Noland knows, no one on his island has the same mark as him.

(SKYPIEA FIC WITH NORLAND AND KALGURA BEING SOULMATES AND BREAKING MY HEART AND MENDING IT I WANT TO SCREAM AAAHH!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH! One of the most heartbreaking relationships shown in one piece and they get to be happy here damnit I am so here for this!!!)

firestarters by adietxt

Ship: Zoro/Sanji

Zoro doesn’t have a single romantic bone in him, and never once the idea of marriage crossed his mind.

At the end of the day, though, marriage is about loyalty, about devotion and faith in something outside of yourself. And that — Zoro’s good at that. Zoro’s a natural at that.

(Five times Zoro accidentally proposed to Sanji without even knowing what a proposal is, and one time he gets properly proposed to.)

(This both made me laugh so hard because Zoro is so freaking Zoro and had me swooning because Zoro is Zoro. fienwfioweafew)

Fealty by Arowen12

"Faithfulness to something to which one is bound by pledge or duty," or "is a pledge of allegiance of one person to another." or Luffy was always going to be the one to who the Worst Generation would kneel.

(A really interesting character study of all the Worst Generation and how they view Luffy and the Straw Hats. That moment of realization that Luffy is a King and worth following is always *chef's kiss*)

ask a question by WhirlyBird70

Straw Hat hums, tilting his hat back, revealing piercing eyes. “I wanted to ask this on the volcano island, but there was no time, cause we had to party.” Law reminds himself that this is the man who took down Ennies Lobby and dared to punch a Celestial Dragon. He is strong. An idiot, but he is strong, and do not despair at his lack of intelligence do not– “So I can ask you now.”

The ship keeps rocking. The waves the only sound besides their soft breathing.

“Why did you save me?”

Or: Luffy asks Law a question that he doesn't quite know the answer too.

For Mishaboyd's prompt: In manga when Luffy meets Law on Punk Hazard he says that he wanted to find Law anyway to ask something. What the question was and did he ever asked it?

(WhirlyBird always hits the nail on the head when it comes to Luffy's characterization and I love them for that. And Law being introspective over his own motivations was beautifully written!)

A Split Thread by SrirachaBunny

Ship: Zoro/Luffy

The Straw Hats find it a little weird that they don’t have a first mate. Whenever they ask, Luffy just laughs and says they do. Which is weirder, because none of the crew have ever met this so-called first mate.

A time-travel au, in which a captain and his first mate go back to the very beginning, and figures they can do more good apart than together. At least for now.

(Time travel! Luffy and Zoro the only ones remembering and Luffy trying to be a captain without his first mate next to him throughout canon and breaking my heart! Continuously!! Being the best duo and trusting and being loyal to one another and and *bawls* I love them so much!!)

Cut My Feelings Off Clean by Augment

Ship: Zoro/Law

Trafalgar D. Law establishes trust through both loyalty and control, so while Roronoa Zoro's strong aspect of loyalty makes him a potential figure of trust for Law, his position on a different crew, and his independence of spirit, places him outside of Law's control. Consider the counterfactual situation where Zoro retains this unique position but is, from the first and mutatis mutandis, placed in the role of first mate on Law's crew (instead of Luffy's). In this essay I will,

(wow, WOW JUST, such a well-executed what if on what would've happened if Law had gotten to Zoro first! I am so impressed by the characterization, the divergences, the relationship development, and everything else about this fic. It's unimaginable to think of Zoro as anything other than Luffy's first mate, but this made a pretty damn good argument for another possible route that could've been taken.)

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[Naruto]

Come From the Holy Fire by JulyFlame

"Do you feel stupid and regret it yet?" A twist on the usual isekai reincarnation. It'd be less embarrassing if it was as anyone other than Sasuke. SI/OC-Insert.

Canon has fallen off a cliff entirely as of chapter 22.

Some tags from this fic: The Isekai Truck Didn't Finish the Job, Transmigration, We're starting off on track for canon but everything gets derailed pretty much immediately

Series Part 1 of Consume My Heart Away

(Not exaggerating when I say this is one of the best SI stories I've ever read, holy shit. The concept is fresh and half of me wants to laugh and cry from how the plot went so off the rails from such minuscule, small choices. It leaves me with so many questions on how this is all going to turn out, especially after CHAPTER 22. I am STILL ScREamING, oh my god. Everything flips on its head, it's INSANE! Please read!!!)

Spite, Pettiness and Stubbornness (Do Not A Relationship Make) by ThatOnePlatypus

Ship: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara

"Spite" is apparently not the conventional answer to the question "how did you two get together?" or "how do you make this relationship work?", but it's exactly the motivation that gets Tobirama and Madara together, and keeps them that way.

or:

Madara and Tobirama get into a fake relationship to avoid their Elders pestering them. Everyone decides to let them know this is a terrible idea that will end in disaster. Obviously, that sounds like a challenge - and they're not going to lose.

(Yes, this summary really is a summation of the utter hilarity and insanity that takes place in this fic. Seriously, I was crying when reading this, it's incredible. Truly the most spiteful, entertaining ship in the Naruto fandom I can't X'D)

Hiding in the Leaves by aventria, iluxia

Ships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Itachi

In another life, Orochimaru never leaves Konoha, opting to remain within the village that equally reveres and reviles him. Fighting a bitter battle against forces within the village that are more influential and well-positioned, he finds himself gifted with one last shining opportunity: three children, a team of genin, handed to him because Konoha has no better choice. Orochimaru agrees to become a jounin-sensei for the first and the last time, taking on the next generation's Team Seven: Uchiha Sasuke, Nara Shikamaru, and Uzumaki Naruto.

[ A gradual exploration of the author's very liberal Naruto headcanon, with a good!Orochimaru (well, sorta good) who eventually becomes the Godaime Hokage. Lots of chakra theory, cool jutsu, in-depth backstories, character development, political intrigue, and den mother Orochimaru feels! Also featuring: BAMF baby Team 7! Be prepared to suspend your disbelief; this will be another one of my long-running intense worldbuilding AUs. Let's go have fun! ]

(Re-read this recently and it's just as good as I remember it being. I will hold you at knife point until you read this fic, feiwoafnpwea. The characters, the worldbuilding, the politics, the canon divergences, the friendships, EVERYTHING'S BEAUTIFUL AND PERFECT!!)

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[Merlin]

The Homecoming of Arthur Pendragon by TheSeasonOfWinter

The dragon leaned forward. "Your destiny is to protect Uther Pendragon's heir, the one who will be the Once and Future King and unite all of Albion."

Merlin blinked. "But . . . Uther doesn't have an heir."

. . .

In many Arthurian texts, Arthur is raised as a peasant by Sir Ector with no knowledge of his royal lineage. Let's bring that back, shall we?

(Honestly the BEST MERLIN AU EVER. Arthur grew up as a servant away from Camelot and goes into Camelot without knowing anything. Arthur in this AU makes me want to hug him, he DESERVES THE THRONE, he truly shows that in this fic, and nothing about how he's characterized here is out of character when in line with how he grew up in this AU. His and Merlin's friendship here honestly is Incredible, they are both trying so hard to live up to the expectations placed on them and I feel for both of them, I really do. And all the characters are fantastic and are given the spotlight many times over! This feels so much like what I wish the show was like, it makes so much more sense. I guarantee anyone who reads this will love it so give it a go! Can't wait for the sequel that's coming up!)

No Man's Land by thenerdyindividual

Ship: Merlin/Arthur

The Dragon Lords once lived and ruled happily in Camelot. That all changed after the Battle of Camelot. Now they live in the Wilds, No Man's Land, a place where clans and dragons rule. A routine errand to collect herbs for Gaius gets complicated when Merlin ends up saving the life of one of Camelot's best knights. Which begs the question; how and why would a knight from an enemy kingdom come to be in the middle of nowhere?

(Merlin has a leadership role! Arthur and Merlin are equals! A slowbuild friendship then romance that is paced well! Arthur learning to appreciate magic!!! This fic just hit all my favorite tropes and really developed the plot and their relationship well, definitely recommend!)

The double life dilemma by dragoonsbeard

When those from Camelot are reincarnated into the modern world. Only an immortal merlin and a reincarnated Uther remember the past. That's right. Uther

Aka, Ygraine thinks them old dear friends while Arthur and Morgana firmly believe their father figure had once been in the mafia.

(This is not a duo I thought I needed in my life, BUT I DO. I was cackling like a mad man by the end of the first chapter, they are so petty lol.)

All Through the Night by rubyjayne

Ship: Merlin/Arthur

The people of Camelot suddenly start acting more lovesick than usual towards Arthur. When Merlin encounters the creature behind it all, the last thing he expects is for his dreams to become inextricably linked to Arthur’s.

A canon AU in which a pining Merlin is cursed to see Arthur’s dreams every night, Gaius is of no help whatsoever, and Kilgharrah thinks it’s all rather hilarious. Little do any of them know, this minor inconvenience (though neither Merlin or Arthur would call it that) sparks a series of events far more momentous than anyone was expecting.

(The early season Merlin vibe this fic emits is IMMACULATE. It retained the light tone and fucking hilarious shenanigans these idiots get up to and just, I love this fic so much. And it's not afraid to create believable conflicts between the characters and the romance is a well-built slow burn that's growing steadier by every chapter. Everything about this fic is just *chefs kiss* so well done, I am so happy!)

Three weeks ago by Rona23

Ship: Arthur/Merlin

A sorcerer burns at the Pyre. And as always, Arthur can only watch. He had long closed his heart from such sights. What breaks his heart is seeing the people he loves hurt from such moments. Such as Merlin. But there is more to the boy than Arthur thinks. And soon he sees the entire day unfold once more. This time - from a different perspective.

EDIT: (You should totally go and check out "Two Sides by birdie7272" which was inspired by this fic! I'll put a link in the notes. Totally worth checking out!!!!!)

Series Part 33 of Merlin´s magic

(I have never read a time travel fic like this before and it's intriguing! The way it's told is so well done and the writing had me holding my breath at times, it's magical hahaha!)

Two Sides by birdie7272

Ship: Arthur/Merlin

There's two of them!

(Three words: Magical Twin Arthur. The concept is utterly fascinating and god I am almost tempted to write a full-length overblown fic that expands this.)

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[The Witcher]

The Witcher and the Lordling by Alex51324

Jaskier, prevented by political unrest at home from going to university and becoming a bard, steals a Witcher and runs away. OR, Geralt, made even more miserable and downtrodden by a series of reforms placing Witchers under human control, steals a lordling and runs away.

Series

Part 1 of The Witcher and the Lordling

(Where Geralt has an even worse time being a Witcher than canon and through choice and circumstance, Jaskier and Geralt end up escaping the paths chosen for them and run away together. I love how this explores how the two rely on one another in different ways, with Jaskier being very young and not at all experienced of the world while Geralt slowly becomes a person instead of just the Witcher, finding himself along the way. Really great worldbuilding that totally shows how fucked up this world is compared to canon and the sequel has me so excited to see more of this AU. Also! It's a rare fantastic friendship fic that explores new dynamics between the two I've never seen before! Definitely recommend!!)

In The Sky by karauna (read their other fics too, they're all neat!)

In Kerack, there's a magic-shop with a purple banner hanging over the door.

Or:

Yennefer is on vacation.

That is to say, she got tired of being in Rinde. After a solid ten or so years as mayor, she passed leadership down and then left with a flick of her wavy, luxurious hair. And now she's here, in Kerack. Selling spells. Making potions. Doing... things. Important things.

"I'm closed, can't you read?"

Very important things that this rascal is rudely interrupting.

"Nuh-uh, not a word! Say, are there dragons in here?" The boy asks, blue eyes shining like moon-discs, "are there phoenixes? Faeries? Serpents? Can you make the sun rise faster? What about winged shoes? Is it true that mages stay pretty because they have mud-baths? Can I have a pet dragon? That one's important, I really want one."

She pinches the bridge of her nose. "No. To all of the above, it's a no."

(This has such a feral, sweet, and sunshine vibe (the last one is completely Jaskier's fault lol). Where Yennefer adopts a tiny, child Jaskier who attracts monsters like a disney princess much to everyone's bewilderment.)

Forever Wanting More by stormandstarlight

Ship: Geralt/Jaskier

Geralt has always been a little afraid of losing control. And after what happened the last time, it's not an unreasonable worry, one which the Council shares. He's been watched since he left Kaer Morhen, but he's always been... perfect. Kept himself in control, never done anything to create a reason to come after him. And then he meets a girl. A girl with a grudge against a sorcerer, who asks him to give her her revenge. And he fucks it up worse than anything else in his life. --- Julian has always told himself that he doesn't mind being a Witcher. It's not like he's got another choice, after all. But when the Council asks him to take down a half-feral fugitive, he starts to think that might not be true anymore.

(The fic where both Geralt and Jaskier are Not Having A Good Time but it's a-okay since they have each other! (even if one of them doesn't know the other is a witcher that's supposed to hunt them down and kill them) Absolutely nothing can possibly go wrong! *bright smile*)

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[Crossover]

fill the mold, break the mold by Beastrage

Fandoms: One Piece, Fairy Tail

Nico Robin runs into another D, years after the fall of Ohara.

As for the D in question...Gajeel's ready to help out a kid if she needs it. It's what a Fairy Tail Mage does, after all.

Series

Part 1 of D for Dragon Slayers

(Love this whole series in general! Really great characterization and character interactions here that I never thought would happen. The Dragon Slayers are D's and it makes so much sense, I love it!)

I Could Not Stop for Death by writing_as_tracey

Fandoms: Marvel, Game of Thrones

Ships: Natasha Romanoff/Brandon Stark, Natasha/Eddard Stark

For Natasha, this story ends and begins with a fall - although, two very different kinds. After Vormir, she finds a second chance for herself in a new world - Westeros - but the game stays the same.

(Natasha is reborn as the middle child between Catelyn and Lysa and I honestly loved how all the characters are depicted here. Also, Natasha just can't catch a break can she?)

[arlathen]

i’m going to love you as i know how

rosanna x adam (2.5k) -- domestic violence mention cw 

They stumble in, giddy, tipsy. Kat doesn’t bother to click on a light, and at the moment, they don’t need one -- they’re not doing much looking, anyway. Kat crowds her against the sofa, lifts her up on the back so Rosanna has to hold onto her to avoid toppling. Her hands are up her skirt, thumbs drifting along the lace panels of her underwear.

The lace is nice, but the fun part’s in back. Straps and things. Uncomfortable for a night out, but worth it for this ideal end to a night out.

Kat’s lips at her neck, and Rosanna lets out a high moan. It’s a little forced, but she’s learned by now that it gets people going. It’s been like holding her breath, these last few months. Denying herself this. Fingers and toys get the job done on a technical level but it is nothing like this -- like having someone starved for you, and being able to serve yourself up to them. Being wanted. Having someone grateful for your presence and everything you do.

And why had she even bothered withholding? Because of something timid and tender and foolish in her, whimpering out that this wasn’t what it wanted? She’d been led astray by that voice before.

Rosanna pulls back, pushes Kat a step away, and then gestures to another sofa, outlined in moonlight. “Sit,” she says. And Kat obeys.

There’s the rush, there’s the flutter. The way Kat’s looking at her: so, so hungry -- so ready for what happens next. This is what she wants.

Rosanna clicks on a little table lamp by the door, finally, and the room is cast in dim creams instead. And then she undresses. Little black velvet mini dress. She tosses it on the floor in a way that is meant to look carefree but is actually quite deliberate. She doesn’t want to have to spend time searching for it when she sneaks out in a few hours. This is an old dance and she knows its steps without thinking about them.

She takes it slow as she makes her way to where Kat’s sitting. Turns in the right way to give her a good view of a very carefully chosen bra-and-pantie ensemble. Then she climbs into her lap, guides her hands to her hips so she can feel the fun bits -- the straps, the lace, the warmth of her skin where it peaks through.

This is what she wants.

Isn’t it?

From the console table by the door where she’d dropped her purse, her phone rings as if on cue. Rosanna straightens. “Let me just make sure that’s nothing important.”

It’s a little awkward, standing in dull silence in a near-stranger’s living room, dressed down to her intimates. The phone stops ringing as she reaches it, and she wakes the screen.

It’s 11:15PM. She has three missed texts and a missed call. All from Adam. And normally she might pull an annoyed face, snort derisively, toss it back into her bag and get back to business. Right now, she just stares at the messages. The last one, the only one the notification shows, reads, “Where are you?”

“Everything okay?” Kat asks, worry and anxiety high notes in her voice.

It isn’t. This isn’t what she wants. She wants it to be. She wants it to be so badly. This love in bite-sized pieces is so easy to swallow. She barely even needs to open her mouth to take it. And she’d been able to subsist on it for so long -- full up on crumbs. Why, now, does the thought of it make her stomach heave?

Rosanna blinks, shakes her head. “It -- I think so, but this does unfortunately need my immediate attention.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really sorry, honey.” She stands between Kat’s knees and tips her chin up to kiss her. “I’m gonna need a rain check.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” And she collects her dress, pulls it back on. In a single motion, she collects her purse with one hand and the heels she’d kicked off by the door with the first too fingers of the other hand, and then she breezes out without so much as a pause.

 Wayhaven has largely not changed since she was a teenager. Especially in the dark, where new signage and missing trees are obscured. The smell of cooling concrete and the feel of dewy grass is the same, and the night symphony is the same, and the streetlamps cast the same orange glow. For a while, walking home, she is almost sixteen again. Tender, timid, and foolish.

She’s peeling the seed out of whirlybird when her phone rings again, and she drops the debris into the grass. Answers it with a curt, “What?”

“Rosanna.”

There’s a half-second of tempest in her at the sound of Adam’s voice. Happiness, longing, relief, warmth -- and then disgust, self-hatred, anger. Flickering back and forth, on and off. Puppy-dog joy and repulsion at the fact that she would feel that way about anyone.

She swallows it down, and her voice remains neutral: “What do you want, Adam?”

“Are you safe? Where are you?”

“Walking home.”

“Where?”

She sighs into the receiver. “Uh, approaching the corner of Maple and Church.”

And the line goes dead, so she walks on in silent dread. She wants to see him. She always wants to see him. The world grows a bit quieter when he’s there, everything still and safe. Her heart leaps at the thought of it. Puppy-dog joy. But she’s raw, now. Fragile and red.

She doesn’t think she could take it, being near him. She couldn’t take the drip-drop from the bathtub faucet at Kat’s -- so like hell can she handle a tsunami. Submerged in everything pouring out of him, all that might-be-love, and then grabbed by the scruff of her neck and yanked back up to surface. Might-be -- is-not, could-never-be.

“Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself,” she whispers, and stops walking, stands in the shadow of a streetlamp with a knuckle pressed to her forehead. This is the voice of the mother she wishes she’d had. This is the woman who picked a scared teenager off the kitchen floor and sat her on the toilet seat and leaned close to the mirror to patch a split lip and smear bruise cream on a swelling cheek.

And she lies. This woman lies, and she’s a very good liar. She lied to nurses and doctors in the emergency room about stairs and car doors and clumsy, silly accidents. She lied to police officers, hiccuping sobs and feigning ignorance. And she lies to herself, sometimes, insisting this is what you want. But beneath the lies, this is the woman who keeps herself safe, even when it’s warm and the frogs in Cherry Park across the street are so loud, just like they used to be, just like summer nights before this Rosanna ever had need to exist.

One moment, she is alone, gazing out over the street lamps that dot the pavement trails crisscrossing the park, looking a little like the lonesome stars of a city sky. One of the last poems she’d ever penned, before she’d lost so much feeling in her heart that no blood came out when she tried to squeeze it over paper, had been about the stars in the city. Maudlin, clumsy verse. There are so many more stars in Wayhaven, with no light to drown them out. Out on full display with no shadow to shrink in to.

One moment, she is alone, and the next Adam is there. Falling in step beside her.

“What’s so urgent?” Rosanna says. Her fingers clench where they’re carrying her shoes by the heels, a proxy for a clenched fist. From the corner of her eye, she can see him examining her. She probably smells like alcohol. She wonders if she smells like Kat’s perfume. She wonders what conclusions he’s drawing.

“What’s urgent? Detective, you were missing for hours. No one knew where you were -- you didn’t answer your phone -- we thought something had happened --”

She holds up a hand to stop him and, surprisingly, he does. They walk on in silence for a moments, and then he exhales a tense sigh. “I say ‘we’ -- I mean ��I’.”

“We don’t have to do this tonight.” She swallows, then laughs, weakly. “I say ‘we’ -- I mean ‘you’.”

“I don’t catch your meaning.”

“I don’t have it in me right now, Adam. I just deal with it, normally, everything you say and take back -- every time you --” She sniffs, hard, and scolds herself: you are not going to fucking cry in front of him. “But I can’t do it tonight, okay? So if you’ve got to follow me home, can you shut up and stay a foot away from me while you do?”

And, surprisingly, he does. The five minutes back to her townhouse are blessedly silent. The front room lights are on, the door left cracked. When she pushes at it experimentally, she finds it has been forced open, the strike plate torn out of the threshold. And she tenses, preparing herself to deal with having been burglarized, before Adam clears his throat: “I will have it fixed.”

“This was you?”

“I thought -- I was worried. Your car was here and you weren’t answering --”

She brushes her finger over the latch, and shakes her head at the unexpected fondness that overcomes her. Novel, to be worried after.

“I apologize, Rosanna.”

“I’m not upset.”

The silence between them is heavy as she stands in the kitchen and mixes herself a drink. Adam wants to leave desperately, she’s sure of it. Part of her wants him to leave desperately, too. She wants to curl up on the sofa and cry, and she can’t do that while he’s here. Because it would make him uncomfortable, and she loves him, and she doesn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable. Because she doesn’t know what it would mean if he wanted to stay -- because she can’t remember the last time a hand that wasn’t hers has brushed tears from her cheeks.

“I admit, I thought you would be angrier.”

“I’m sure I will be in the morning. I’m just a bit lost in memory tonight.”

“Oh?”

The clink of her spoon against the glass slows a little as she leans against the kitchen island. “The first time things got bad with my husband, I locked myself in the bathroom. I thought I could just wait until he cooled off and then we could talk.” She taps the spoon against the edge of the glass to shake the last drops off, then tosses it in the sink. “But he kicked the door in. We never got it fixed. It was still broken when I sold the house. So it’s funny, to have another man I love break another door open -- just this time it’s because he wants to protect me.”

She glides over to the sofa and curls herself up on it, and her eyes settle on Adam, tense, stock-still. Love. Not a word she’d meant to say. It feels cruel, to heap something so heavy on someone who has told her time and time again that he does not want her. So she smiles, a little watery and wavering, and shakes her head in an attempt to be casual and reassuring. “Sorry. I’m talking too much. You don’t have to stay. I’m just going to finish this and go to bed.”

She’s holding on to herself white-knuckle. Vicious dog on a short leash. Please go, she thinks. Don’t make me let you see me like this.

She looks away then, down at the opaque peach of her drink, waiting for his silhouette to disappear from her periphery.

“Would you like to be alone?” Adam asks.

Would she?

Forever?

Does she have a choice?

No one has ever wanted her as more than a thing in lingerie. And being a thing hurts now. Prying open her mannequin mouth to take crumbs and crumbs and crumbs in exchange for being touched, in exchange for touching, hurts. They go down like hot ash.

She wishes she could want the cinders. She could never earn love, but lust was a fine enough substitute. In the dark, for a few minutes, it feels like love.

But she’s hollow, she thinks. If she were to beat on her chest, it would ring like a bell. Cold and empty and of no substance. A few breadcrumbs tumble over each other, down in her feet, when she walks -- but nothing could fill her up. And now that her molars have grown together, nothing will.

Do you want to be alone? She doesn’t. She desperately doesn’t. She wants to be something worth love. She wants to be a cherished trinket, held in a pocket, kissed for good luck. Warm to the touch, for being clasped in a hand so often. Plastic is still cold after you skim your fingers over it.

She flinches when his hand comes into view, pulling the glass cupped between her fingers with strange delicacy for a man so strong. He moves slowly, as if she would startle. Or maybe to give her time to tell him to stop.

She doesn’t. Hands free, her fingertips mere inches from him where he kneels before the sofa.

She’d once sat at the kitchen table with mascara running down her cheeks, hands trembling, as she made plans to bring about her husband’s death. She had thought at the time, fatalistically, that she might as well do it, because it wasn’t as though things could get any worse.

She finds herself thinking the same thoughts again. He doesn’t love her. He would tell anyone who would listen -- he does not love her. She is not a thing deserving of love. But he’s there before her, anyway, inches from her open palms. The worst that could happen, if she reached for him, is that he would pull away. Doesn’t he already always pull away? It isn’t as though things can get any worse.

So she reaches for him. She rests her fingers against the fabric of his shirt, over his shoulders, close to his neck. And she hardly even has to pull him towards her.

She expects the leash to snap, for the cracks in the dam to burst. Instead she finds the blood rushing in her ears goes quiet, and the world goes still, and all she can think for a moment is: this is what you want.

[iphoenixrising]

I had dream about Dick and Jay travel time to the time Tim tried to kill himself and Idk why but when I waked up I thought to share that with ya so...

Oh my, babe. I mean, that would be such a crazy moment. Like, if the moment they appeared in that safe house that is actually one of Tim’s secret ones, so it wouldn’t implicate Batman Incorporated or anyone else. 

Just, there’s a rung out Tim, exhausted and depleted and everything he’s been working toward is finally...done. Bruce is back, the Hit List is conquered, the new Robin is riding with the Titans now, and there’s nothing to go back to. 

The weight in his hand doesn’t really feel like it, even with the clip in, and just. He’s done being the last one left standing.

There’s tears running down his face when he straightens up, rubs the shuriken R from his last Robin suit, the one he’d incinerated sobbing like he was losing everything all the fuck over again. The shining symbol in his hand is from the last time he can remember being happy. It’ll implicate him, but he needs it to do this. 

Safety off, cocked and ready. 

(The last time he had a gun in his hand had been to blow his brains out too. To stop himself from turning into a murdering Batman. Funny how things come full circle.)

And I just imagine, the misses the shimmer right in front of him because his eyes are full and no one is here to judge him, no one’s here to see him in his final moments, so he can be terrified, and grief-stricken, and be pissed off because how the fuck did things come to this?

It trembles in his hand for a second, but he finds the same spot by his temple where he can feel the cold of the steel, a spot that will make sure it’s fast and he doesn’t half-ass it, doesn’t suffer. He wants to make sure no one that might find him in the aftermath of a gunshot won’t be able to resuscitate him.

Closes his eyes even though his last logical thought is that closing his eyes won’t make all the bad things go away. The darkness won’t save him this time.

“Timmy,” is soft and close, right in the room with him. “Put the gun down.”

If his finger had been on the trigger instead of lined up with the trigger guard, that would have been it.

But, he’d know that voice anywhere.

He’s literally throwing himself away from Dick’s voice on the shitty full bed until his back hits the wall. The thing shakes in his hand, and somehow, Dick and Jason fucking Todd are in the room with him.

“What– How the utter fuck did you get in here?” Because no one knew where he was, no one gave a shit.

Jason Todd, however, is not fucking around, and takes every advantage of the momentary shock, and swipes the .45 right out of his hand, popping the clip out for good measure. A ca-chink as the slide draws back and ejects the shell.

Dick’s hands are out and he’s not in Nightwing or the Batsuit, he’s just in jeans, t-shirt, and hoodie. His eyes are shiny but intent, not answering a very simple fucking question.

“I’m going to hug you now, and you’re not going to try getting away,” which is absolutely a threat. Being trapped right now on what those two just walked into is very, very bad. 

But he’s wrestled down when octopus hold is engaged. 

He only calms it down when they explain how they aren’t really this time line’s Dick and Jay, how it’s about ten years in the future, and their Tim finally came clean about this moment. This weakness, this fuck-up. If the gun had cycled right the first time, Kon wouldn’t have heard and come at full speed to stop him. 

Jay’s got on of his hands in those big palms, thumbs running along his wrist like he knows where the trouble spots are, the start of carpal tunnel, and talks in a low, rumbly voice, tells him how someday the Bats are going to be family again, and they care enough to want to be here for the aftermath of the attempt. They wanted to be one of the reasons he wouldn’t ever try this again.

“You can’t take yourself out of our lives yet, Tim. We need you.” Dick says it starkly, warm against his side.  “One a’ these days, it’s gonna be different, Baby Bird, and it’s gonna be worth kicking around longer, you feel me?”

It’s insanely surreal to be held between these two men while the shakes finally ease down, and his brain stops spitting out worst case scenario that drove him here. How he didn’t think he could just pick another random goal and fucking run toward it with whirlybirds at the ready. He’d been running for two years, and fuck was he desperate for home. 

He doesn’t know how much of this he babbles to these figments of his imagination, this crazy comfort cooked up by his subconscious– (no, no. he found Bruce in time, so he’s already proved he isn’t crazy. Right?) –but damn if he doesn’t feel like he can actually breathe by the time it all comes spilling out, when he gets soft noises and assurances during the hard parts. When he thought he and Pru were going to bleed out slowly in the middle of the desert, right up to doing final checks, making sure all vigilante gear was kept in one place for someone in the Bats to find after he was gone. 

He’s raw and exhausted by the time he’s done, somehow sitting in Jay’s lap now, a fuzzy blanket over his head, warm cup of fresh coffee in his hands (only after he drank a full bottle of water and ate). They’ve moved to the bed, Jay against the head board with Dick beside them, fingers wrapped around Tim’s bare ankle.

They’ve been here for hours already. The sun is starting to rise, and he’s desperately clinging to them.

He’s barely aware the empty mug is gone from his fingers. He’s so tired, but he just wants to hang on a little longer.

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #5: Will Slater.

Talking mullets and other manes with the man behind the internet’s definitive ‘exploding helicopters in movies’ catalog.

“Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment.”

A London-based PR man by day, by night Will Slater has a thing (and a podcast, blog and Twitter account) for movies that feature exploding helicopters. According to his Letterboxd bio, it’s “the world’s only podcast and blog dedicated to celebrating the art of exploding helicopters in films… as well as shaming those directors who dishonor the helicopter explosion genre”. As Will tells Jack Moulton, he also loves film noir, Wakaliwood, masala movies and much more. Just don’t get him started on the one action movie cliché that never fails to disappoint.

Sylvester Stallone takes aim in ‘Rambo III’ (1988).

First things first, have you ever had a ride in a helicopter? Will Slater: What, do you think I’m mad? Of course I’ve never flown in a helicopter! If I’ve learned anything from watching hundreds of films where helicopters spectacularly explode, it’s that they are a singularly dangerous form of transport. You never know when Sylvester Stallone is going to pop up with an explosive-tipped arrow and blow you out of the sky.

I’m going to say the words ‘the definitive action hero/heroine’. Who pops into your head first? No runners-up. Go. Snake Plissken, no question, for a number of good reasons. First, there’s the look: that eye-patch, the beaten-to-hell leather jacket and Kurt Russell’s lustrous mane of hair. Second, there’s the attitude: his contempt for authority, the drawled sarcasm and all-round bad-assery. And I also like that he doesn’t have any special abilities. Action heroes generally tend to be either musclebound slabs of beef—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Stallone—or martial arts specialists—Jean-Claude van Damme, Jackie Chan—Plissken is just a pissed-off, angry dude who’s trying to stay alive. He’s very relatable. Plus, I’d argue he pretty much invented the whole anti-hero formula that rules our screens today.

Kurt Russell as Snake Plissken in John Carpenter’s ‘Escape from New York’ (1981).

When did you start your podcast and which film got you into looking deeper into the topic? It was while watching the cheesily bad Cyborg Cop that I first had an epiphany about the weird and wonderful ways in which helicopters seemed to continually explode in movies. But the film that convinced me to start documenting the phenomenon was Stone Cold. If you’re not familiar with the film, it was an attempt to turn former gridiron star and mullet-king Brian Bosworth into the next big action star. It goes without saying that Stone Cold did not transform ‘The Boz’ into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the film wasn’t a total failure as it features a helicopter explosion that is as brilliant as it is gloriously stupid.

And that was the prompt to start the Exploding Helicopter. I launched the website in 2009, and the podcast followed 2015. Since we started, our aim has been a simple one: to celebrate the strange and inventive ways that helicopters explode in films.

Motorcycle crashes into helicopter in mid-air, ‘Stone Cold’ (1991).

When did you join Letterboxd? What are your favorite features here? I’ve been around since 2013. As for the features, the stats are very cool. When you dig into your viewing history, you can learn some very revealing things about yourself. For example, I generally like to think I have a commendably broad taste in film, and watch only the most important and influential works from every decade, genre and country. But then you look at the data and find you’ve watched Thunderball nine times in the last five years, so maybe you’re not as cool as you thought.

We noticed that your profile faves are low-key and explosion-free, given your theme of choice. Why these four and not Die Hard four times? Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment, between watching whirlybird conflagrations. There’s a little bit of nostalgia tied up in The Ipcress File. I first saw it as a kid, and it made a big impression on me. It’s very stylishly directed, has a great John Barry score and a star-making turn from Michael Caine. I’m a big film noir fan and Sweet Smell Of Success is a beautifully sour tale of cynicism and manipulation. To borrow the words of Burt Lancaster in the film, it’s a “cookie full of arsenic”.

Jean-Pierre Melville is my favorite director and Le Samouraï was the first of his films that I saw. What Melville does so masterfully in this, and his other crime films, is distil the elements of film noir. Basically, he takes the genre’s iconography—the gun, the trenchcoat, the fedora—and familiar plot tropes—the betrayed assassin, the heist gone wrong, the criminal doing one last job—then elevates them above cliché into something almost mythic. And what do I really need to say about Taxi Driver, other than it’s a masterpiece?

Now you say you shame directors who dishonor the art of helicopter explosions? Which directors did you dirty? Well, one of the biggest names in our hall of shame is Tony Scott. For a man who specialized in hyper-stylized, pyrotechnic-filled action movies, he flunked every helicopter explosion he filmed. In our eyes, one of the most egregious offences you can commit is failing to show the helicopter explosion. And in both Spy Game and Domino, old Tony cheats the viewer by having the chopper fly out of sight before it explodes. Now, I can accept such visual chicanery in a low-budget film, where they presumably don’t have the money to stage the scene, but what’s Tony’s excuse? If you look at his filmography, at one time or another he’s wrecked trains, planes and automobiles in spectacular fashion. But for some reason, he repeatedly couldn’t be bothered to give us a satisfying chopper conflagration. At a certain point, it starts to feel like a personal slight. Tony, what did I ever do to you?

In your immortal words, “a film is always improved by a helicopter explosion.” When has this been especially true? When you see lists of worst-ever directors, Uwe Boll is a name that always seems to turn up. And, according to the internet, one of his worst-ever films is the video game adaptation, Far Cry. Now, I’m not going to try [to] convince you that the film is a neglected classic, but it does have a very imaginatively staged exploding helicopter scene. It’s too convoluted to explain here, but take my word that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Fast and Furious movie.

What about the unsung heroes; the stunt artists, the pilots, the pyrotechnicians, the VFX wizards who have worked on numerous iconic action moments, all of whom deserve a shoutout? Personally, I don’t understand why the Academy doesn’t have a stunts category. But if they did, I’d be lobbying hard for Spiro Razatos to get the first award. These days, he works as a stunt coordinator on the Fast and Furious and Marvel films, but I’d like to draw people’s attention to some of his early work. Back in the nineties, he did a lot of work with PM Entertainment films, an independent company that made low-budget action films for the home video market.

They might not have had much money, but they put every cent on the screen with glorious, raucously inventive set pieces that were often more spectacular than big-budget Hollywood offerings. And remember: this was in pre-CGI times, so every death-defying detail was absolutely ‘real’. Go back and watch films like The Sweeper or Rage, and you’ll can see why Super Spiro has now graduated to these more prestigious gigs.

Narrow this list down for us: which is the ultimate most spine-tingly epic “we got company” movie moment? As you may have gathered, I do like an action movie cliché. When you encounter one in a film, it’s like meeting an old friend. And one of my favorites is when someone uses this classic line of dialog to signal that a car chase or a gun battle is about to start. I’ve heard people deliver the line in all sorts of ways–funny, scared, angrily and often just badly. But if you want spine-tingly, then you can’t beat Harrison Ford in Star Wars. He drops the line during the detention-block scene after failing to bluff an imperial officer. As soon as he says it, John Williams’ iconic score kicks in. It gives you the ‘feels’ every time.

“Boring conversation anyway.” Han Solo and Chewbacca in ‘Star Wars’ (1977).

And which action movie cliché can you simply not stand? Stop it: my hackles are raising just thinking about it. For me, the trope that never fails to disappoint is the ‘reluctant’ hero being convinced to take up arms and join the fight. You know the scene. Invariably, the hero has hung up their spurs and is living a bucolic existence ‘off the grid’, when a gruff buddy shows up asking them to risk almost certain death by taking on ‘one last job’. Now, dialog is rarely an action film’s greatest strength, and these beefcake actors generally are not cast for their dramatic chops. Which means we get subjected to the same perfunctory and uninteresting scene over and over again: “I told you, I’m out the game”, “Goddamnit, we need you”, “OK, I’ll do it”. These scenes just never work and are never less than painful to watch.

Which up-and-coming action director are you most excited about? In terms of up-and-coming action talent, I’d pick the director Stefano Sollima. I first noticed his work on a couple of TV series: the fantastic Italian crime dramas, Romanzo Criminale and Gomorrah. The way he composed shots really stood out, and it was clear he had a very cinematic eye. He rather reminds me of Michael Mann. He’s now on Hollywood’s radar and got to direct Sicario: Day of the Soldado the other year. And he’s lined up to make a Tom Clancy adaptation with Michael B. Jordan. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

Have you witnessed the glory that is Wakaliwood—Ugandan DIY action filmmaking—three of which make Letterboxd’s official top ten films by black directors? Which international films do you feel out-match Hollywood? I love the Wakaliwood films I’ve seen. It’s fascinating to watch action films from around the world and see their different styles and flavors. Recently, I’ve been trying to investigate Indian cinema and, in particular, what are known as ‘masala movies’. These mix action, comedy, drama, romance and dance numbers into one big, crazy, entertaining mess. They’re a unique experience. If you want to check one out, I’d suggest Dhoom 2. It’s bananas.

Can you believe there are only two female directors represented in your exploding helicopter list? Do you believe that’s due to systemic or thematic reasons? You have to say it’s systemic. Men have dominated filmmaking for more than a century. Until women have the same opportunities to direct and make films as men, it’s impossible to know what their interest may or may not be in blowing up helicopters. [Will has previously written about the search for “true gender equality in the world of exploding helicopters”.]

To address the elephant in the room, how has Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate death earlier this year changed the way you look at these scenes? Obviously, I appreciate that Kobe Bryant’s death was very shocking and a tragedy for his family and fans. But basketball really is not a thing on these grim shores, so it didn’t register with us unenlightened Brits other than [as] a sad headline about a US sports star.

What was your most anticipated movie event of 2020 before Covid-19 pushed every tentpole back? That’s easy: No Time To Die. I’m a huge Bond fan and as soon as tickets were available, I booked myself in to see it on opening day at an IMAX. But if the Daniel Craig era is synonymous with anything, it’s lengthy delays between films.

Freerunner Sébastien Foucan in the opening scene from ‘Casino Royale’ (2006).

What’s a fond memory you have in theaters related to the Bond franchise? I remember going to see Casino Royale. I was excited, but also nervous to see it. The Brosnan era had ended with the risible Die Another Day: invisible cars, kitesurfing and, worst of all, John Cleese’s awful Q. Since that had come out, we’d had Mission: Impossible, Bourne and the Triple X films, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Bond might be finished. Then the first ten minutes of Casino Royale happened. And while that outstanding parkour-inspired chase was terrifically exciting, it also hit me like cinematic Valium. I suddenly realised I could sit back and relax, safe in the knowledge that 007 was going to be just fine.

Are you planning on returning to theaters as soon as you can? When would you feel comfortable? I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. I’d love to see films back on the big screen again, but I want to know more about how cinemas are going to maintain social distancing inside.

Finally, what three Letterboxd accounts should we all be following? Why not give Todd Gaines, Jayson Kennedy or Fred Andersson a follow? If you’re interested in genre films that are a little off the beaten trail, they’ll likely all steer you towards some hidden gems.

[twistednuns]

October 2020

To buttress - increase the strength of or justification for; reinforce / to mollycoddle - to give someone too much care or protection. 

A letter from Nina. One of those weird internet connections. Not my first one, certainly not my last one.

Frank’s DnD backstory reads quite insightful/poetic to me as he has taken so much from his life. He might have done it without intent but it’s quite obvious to me. I’ve agreed to make a character sketch for him. I’m looking forward to the challenge but I’m also afraid of starting the project because obviously I want it to be perfect. Anyway so the other night I sat at his kitchen table and started drawing a facial composite for his goliath. Lots of sketches actually with him giving me some prompts and ideas. I think he loved watching me do my magic. What a peaceful moment.

Applause from some students. Simply for entering the room. They must really hate their English teacher, eh?

I’ve started forming the habit of drawing tarot cards on a full moon and new moon night. It helps me set an intention for the following two weeks. So on the first of October I drew the Queen of Wands to represent me and I’m loving it. It’s the perfect choice.

The fabric dyeing process for the Plot exhibition at Haus der Kunst

Inviting warmth into my life. Wearing appropriately warm clothing. Even hats. Drinking tea all the time. Turning the heating on even though it’s only September. Warm breakfast. Ayurveda inspiration. Hot baths. Thinking about buying an electric heating blanket for my bed.So far I’ve been taking a hot water bottle to bed with me pretty much every night.

Finding one of those Barts woolly animal hats online. This one came with tigers. And the seller sent me a cherry marzipan teabag. I enjoyed it on a cold and rainy Saturday morning.

FAQ: The Status of the Shits Women Have Left to Give

Reading the final scenes of Leigh Bardugo’s Shadow and Bone trilogy. I actually took the wrong bus one evening and ended up in front of one of the Pinakotheken instead of Villa Stuck. I must have been quite immersed. I’m very happy with the ending. I mean, the main character is walking around the house barefoot with the smell of fresh paint following her, her hair loose. What a wonderful image.

The wind blowing through the maple trees outside my living room window. I’m just going to quote a Wikipedia article to explain what happened next: The distinctive fruits are called samaras, “maple keys”, “helicopters”, “whirlybirds” or “polynoses”. These seeds occur in distinctive pairs each containing one seed enclosed in a “nutlet” attached to a flattened wing of fibrous, papery tissue. They are shaped to spin as they fall and to carry the seeds a considerable distance on the wind. People often call them “helicopters” due to the way that they spin as they fall. During World War II, the US Army developed a special airdrop supply carrier that could carry up to 65 pounds (29 kg) of supplies and was based on the maple seed.

Monsieur Wiener - I’ve paid him a visit when I had problems with my analogue Pentax camera!

I don’t know why but one dark Friday evening I slipped into the empty church at Odeonsplatz. I loved the peaceful atmosphere, the specific smell and the red church candles flickering.

I loved meeting Flo. We had such a great time, constantly joking, talking about this and that. Sailor Mercury, Hades, our family. His wink. He said that I had been exactly right but in the end apparently I wasn’t. It stung because he had been one of the rare guys in the last months (years, actually) I actually liked. Oh well. I guess it wasn’t meant to be after all. This is what the Universe had to say about it the other day: There are no accidents. If it’s appeared on your life’s radar, this is why: to teach you that dreams come true; to reveal that you have the power to fix what’s broken and heal what hurts; to catapult you beyond seeing with just your physical senses; and to lift the veils that have kept you from seeing that you’re already the person you dreamed you’d become.

Videos of Marno and Erin together. Also: she is so freakin’ beautiful as a marauder.

A surprise call from Ann-Katrin.

Sweet chai tea with milk.

The bright moonlight making the neighbours’ roof look like fish scales.

Forensic linguistics. I listened to a podcast episode about the Unabomber who was only discovered after his brother had noticed some stylistic irregularities in his manifesto. You can’t eat your cake and have it too.

Autumn leaves. Especially when it’s just the outer leaves turning red or yellow while the rest of the foliage is still green.

Sitting next to my ten-year-old student Ella on the bus on our way home on a Friday afternoon. She’s a very chatty Gemini and even though her self-importance and constant talking can be quite annoying I’ve kinda taken a liking to her.

A bunch of Alstroemeria in my dark green glass vase on the desk. A pretty image.

I still appreciate how beautiful my LuLuLemon thermos bottle is after all this time.

I should probably mention my new hair (extensions). Well, it looks absolutely gorgeous from the front. But I already know that I won’t get them again because you can see the glue in a few places, it’s quite hard, often painful and feels unnatural. And of course it’s much too expensive.

Baby carrots with King hummus.

My lunch dates with Becky.

Making my favourite sour thai curry. With rice noodles. And peanuts and cilantro. Yum.

Starting to work on a big soapstone sculpture. It’s going to be a hand! I love it when I have a group of calm students. It allows me to work on a project with them.

Making delicious pumpkin lasagna.

Visiting Manu’s mum. Making plum dumplings together. A fun afternoon in their kitchen.

A very cosy Sunday. Waking up at 5:30am. Watching Practical Magic in bed. Having a slice of pumpkin lasagna for breakfast. A sudden urge to get out, dressing up to keep out the cold, going out, early, streetlights still on. A walk through the woods. I loved how calm everything was. Being out before all the others had a chance to disturb the stillness with their kids and dogs and bicycles. Making lebkuchen. Lots of pecans. Having a nap. Writing a letter. Drawing weird mushrooms and bugs.

Autumnal smells. The moist smell of the forest ground, mushrooms, the smell of chimneys on a cold Sunday morning. Incense, gingerbread spices. Facial oil with lavender and iris. Roasted pecans.

A crafty day. I made a haunted house, some ghosts, spiders, bats, skulls and pumpkins out of paper.

Schlurp.

Meeting Frank in front of Residenztheater. The whole square was empty, he was the only person there. Waiting for me. Looking up to the opera roof. What an impressive building.

Talking about living life in story mode and action mode. I feel so stuck in action mode at the moment and desperately want to switch to story mode. Fantasy, magic, coincidences and meaning.

Spicy pumpkin recipes in the current issue of Schrot und Korn.

Rice and hazelnut milk as a bedtime treat.

Collecting autumn leaves. Chestnuts, acorns, feathers, beechnuts. Making a little autumnal alter with some crystals.

Thursday mornings. So much time for myself. Lots of tea, warm breakfast.

Treating myself to massages and nice facial creams and serums. Ya Yah is such a gifted person. I love her massages the most. The other day I also got a facial for the first time in many many years. It was nice to be wrapped in an extremely fluffy blanket. When the bright lights were on I could see different colours after closing my eyes and imagined being at a tropical beach. Unintentional ASMR sounds from the rubber gloves. Cosy.

Spicy winter tea in my new thermos bottle. The steam swirling up from my favourite mug (the moon phase mug I bough in Canada).

Buying cheap sparkly stickers, washi tape and stamps. Just because.

Pecan nuts are the BEST. Crazy delicious.

Porridge with coconut milk and mango for breakfast. Persimmons. Candles in the morning.

Gloomy twilight. The dark hour right before sunset/sunrise. Spooky black silhouettes against the ink blue or greyish white sky. Fairy lights. Memories of spending Halloween at Greyfriar’s Kirkyard in Edinburgh.

Finding yet another woolly hat for my collection. This time with pheasants.

Deltavenus’ Instagram feed.

Cutting open a fresh lime.

Happily singing along to my two favourite mantras (Jai Mata Kali / Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha) while making apple galette. Trying to harmonise in different ways.

A very surprising call from Claudia. She ended up in my kitchen, drinking half a bottle of wine.

A lovely Sunday with Sash. A walk through the English garden.   Watching the waterfall, falling leaves, backlit by the afternoon sunlight. Haus der Kunst. Getting in for free (art teacher bonus). I really liked the Michael Armitage exhibition and the enormous dyed curtains in the hall. Franz Erhard Walther’s Dust of Stars autobiography was impressive as well. I just ordered the book online; I’m looking forward to reading it. We also had a drink at Goldene Bar and enjoyed a late lunch at Baoz Bar.

Becky leaving me a lovely note and an English magazine on my desk.

Fink’s Knödelstube with Lena and Sash. We had 13 different kinds of dumplings. Heavenly delicious.

I came to realise that mornings are my favourite time of the day. I love gloomy, dark sunrises and my usual productivity highs.

Writing limericks with the kids.

Getting lost in the woods after dark which might not look like a good think at first glance but I uncovered a little secret - some bee hives I had never seen before!

A mild obsession with The Corrs’ song Old Town. I didn’t even know where it came from. It’s not a song I’ve ever actively listened to.

Learning about sesame plants. Another one of those plants I expected to look completely different.

I can smell mushrooms. On Saturday morning I went to the forest again early in the morning and whenever I would get a whiff of mushrooms and look down there they were.

Dog owners wishing me a good morning on my walk. Interestingly only men, the women tend to ignore me.

Wicked! - Modern Art’s Interest in the Occult. Learning about Leonora Carrington.

James’ chameleons in art class. He drew one representing each of his family members. He was the one licking a bat. Bold.

Buying far too many books. But I found out that Naomi Novik just published a new novel about a school of magic. And within two days I came across the writer Ursula K. Le Guin three times so I took it as a sign and got one of her books as well.

Prepare for the Roaring Twenties - The human desire to socialize will survive the pandemic.

A deep talk session with Jonathan about getting old, having children, self-worth, dating, obeying rules.

Finding my favourite pair of jeans on Kleiderkreisel for a fraction of the original price. And a baseball jacket with a Strange Ladies Society print on the back.

A walk in the forest before work. Something I’ve never done before I think. So good for my nerves, really.

The art of decision-making.

Joy praising me for my authoritative voice (effectively making the fifth-graders do what I want).

Decorating the classroom with the fifth-graders. I love my haunted house on the window pane, their lovely spiders, ghosts and bats. I should probably mention that our class mascot is a cute spider named Crawley so we’re all quite into spooky stuff. On the last day before the holidays we all showed up in costumes, played a Halloween quiz, listened to creepy music and I brought some candy, too. Fun!

Meeting the gang on Halloween. Japanese-inspired dinner and a board game.

[sopwithwhump]

The Storm

Another @badthingshappenbingo​ fic, which also introduces my new Character, Scott “Lucky” Keenan, a daring pilot. The trope for this one was “Concussion.” TW for plane crash, emeto, concussion, and stormy weather. Lucky gets caught in a storm and crashes his plane.

“I’m heading up to Abbotsford for the air show this weekend!” said Scott Keenan as he loaded his bag into his Cessna 172, “I’m excited. Didn’t get to go last year!”

           “Lucky, I don’t think you should be flying,” said his friend Will, “the weather said there would be rain over the mountains as you approach the lower mainland! Perhaps you should just stay home in Kelowna? Or drive? There’s still two full days before the event begins.”

           Lucky was Scott’s nickname, and he preferred that people called him that. “Oh, Will, I’ve flown in rain before. It’s a little like night flying, just wetter. You know I have that night rating.”

           “Yes, I’m fully aware…”

           “Then what is there to be worried about? You can trust the flying skills of ol’ Lucky. Plus, the weather says it’s just a chance of showers. Using my pilot’s judgement, I believe I can make this trip safely. Also, I’m prepared like a smart pilot. I’ve got a list of suitable aerodromes for landing along the route. Though I’m going to make it in a direct flight.”

           “Alright, Lucky. Fly safe. I’ll be there on Saturday,” said Will as Lucky brought his plane to the taxiway. He set his instruments and quickly looked at a map. After getting permission and waiting for a jet plane first, Lucky taxied to the end of the runway, and then took off. It was a beautiful clear day in Kelowna as he began to head west.

           As he continued to fly, he definitely saw the grey clouds, but it didn’t worry him too much. Lucky was quite the fearless pilot. So much so that he sometimes he did either daring or stupid things with his plane, but never ended up with any damage. A little bit of rain wasn’t going to bother him.

           Unfortunately, even the most precise of weather equipment could be wrong. Lucky gripped the controls as his plane was hit with a sudden updraft as the small plane flew through the rain. He was able to continue on after straightening out and making sure he was going west again. Then, out of nowhere, the flash of a lightning strike went off in the distance, followed by a loud thunderclap. “Dang it, Will was right,” he said, turning to his navigation system. The next aerodrome was a little ways away from where he was.

           Without warning, something made a noise against the aluminum of the plane, much like a pebble. These noises suddenly started to multiply. Lucky was flying right into a hailstorm. “Oh no…” he whimpered, wincing as the hailstones fell onto his plane, denting the delicate aluminum body, “we’re turning around… lemme get on the Merritt station…” He tried to stay calm, trying to execute a coordinated turn as best he could as his plane was bombarded with hail. As he started to turn the yoke, another updraft grabbed the wing. He yelped as he tried to straighten it out, but it was no use- the plane began to spiral downward. He quickly pressed the emergency transponder switch as he tried to recover from the spin. He finally did so, but at that point he was at the tree line. The plane’s wing hit the top of a tall pine tree, and Lucky and his poor plane plummeted to the ground, causing him to black out.

           When he came to his senses, all he could smell was smoke from the engine. He coughed and shook his head, trying to clear the double vision. How hard did he hit it? He quickly reached in the back and grabbed his things, then forced the bent-up door open and threw it out onto the ground, before realizing that yes, it was still stormy and wet out there. He then laid back as a wave of dizziness overcame him. His vision went blurry and there was a ringing in his ears. I hope my emergency transponder was heard, he said as he moved the mixture pull to starve the plane of fuel.

He closed his eyes, and suddenly the whole situation hit him. Here he was, in the middle of the mountains, injured with his plane beyond repair. Fear started to kick in, and he felt himself start to hyperventilate. No, no, he thought to himself, remember air cadets? Fear is one of the seven enemies of survival. Stay calm. Although it was hard to stay calm in a hailstorm in the forest.

He rolled out of the plane onto the ground, then felt a terrible wave of nausea and threw up. His head hurt. He brought his hand to his forehead, then pulled it away as he felt some pain. There was blood on his hand. Hit my head quite hard there…

The headache, nausea and dizziness, as well as the ringing in his ears was bothersome, but he tried to ignore that and figure out what to do. The heavy rain and hail chilled him as it quickly soaked through his light windbreaker and hoodie. He started to get really worried, quickly going back into the plane to see if his radio was still working. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said, hoping someone could hear, “Skyhawk Charlie-Hotel-Echo-India, crashed and grounded in mountainous area between Kelowna and Abbotsford. 1 Soul onboard, navigation systems broken. Does anyone hear? Anyone?” His voice cracked with desperation near the end of the distress call. He listened. He played with the dial and repeated the message. Tears came to his eyes.

“Stupid piece of junk!” He shouted, throwing the headset and kicking the wrecked plane. Another wave of intense dizziness and nausea accompanied by blurry double vision then came over him. He stumbled over and sat down on the cold ground, trying to overcome it. He then threw up for a second time. “Where’s that first aid kit…” he groaned.

Opening the tough canvas bag that held his survival supplies, he got out his signalling mirror and looked at his forehead. Yep, there was a jagged gash on it. He quickly got out some gauze from his first aid kit and held it against the wound, then frantically started to dig through the survival bag, trying to find things that would help him. He found a foil blanket and wrapped himself in it, knowing that it would be nearly impossible to start a fire in this weather. Will was right… why is he always right? Lucky thought to himself as he shivered. The icky feelings in his head were terribly persistent.

Lucky sat there, defeated. The normally fearless pilot felt terribly afraid. He started to tear up, worried about if anyone knew where he was. Out here, freezing and wet, possibly suffering from a concussion. He laid on his stomach wrapped up in the blanket, taking deep breaths, shutting his eyes tightly as he started shivering. The storm had to be passing soon, that or someone would somehow come to his rescue.

An hour had passed as he laid there shivering, the headache pain and dizziness gradually intensifying, to the point where he didn’t want to move. He might have lost consciousness, it was hard to keep track as he laid there. After throwing up again, he now was worried about dehydration. But he was too tired to get water. In too much pain. Lucky wasn’t holding on very well. The hail had stopped, but the heavy rain, high winds, and thunder persisted.

Out in the distance, he heard a noise. The sound of a rotor. A helicopter rotor. Lucky rolled over onto his back, suddenly very awake, even though he felt absolutely awful. He was holding his signal mirror in his hands. Even though the sun wasn’t out, he held it to the sky, desperate to get the attention of whoever was flying. He smiled as he saw a big yellow whirlybird flying overhead.

The sound got closer. He felt too weak to move, but he wanted to crawl toward it. It got even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the huge rescue helicopter land in a nearby clearing. The red stripe on it, the blue ring with a maple leaf inside, this was a Cormorant. They must have gotten the Air Force because of the storm. They have the skills.

“I’m over here!” He called, rather weakly, “Help! I’m here!” I can’t believe my transponder was heard… maybe even the distress call… I guess I live up to my nickname. A small team of rescuers in bright orange raincoats ran over to him. “Don’t worry,” said a young female rescue tech, kneeling beside him, “we’ve got you.”

“Thank God…” he whimpered softly, the relief flowing over him. Two rescuers gently moved him onto a stretcher and wrapped him in a soft blanket, while another quickly got his things from the plane and where they were scattered on the ground. He looked at the wreckage of his plane, and felt a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. His plane! It was gone! This forest was its grave… all because he decided he could fly in rain. Yes, no one saw the storm coming it seemed, but nevertheless he felt it was his fault.

As he was carried toward the big yellow helicopter, he could no longer hold in his emotions. He felt his lip quiver as he laid there, warm tears falling down his face. He silently cried as the rescue personnel put him on some monitors and tried to dry him off a bit.

“What’s your name?” One of them asked.

“Lucky,” he replied, whimpering. No one really called him Scott. Someone was taking care of the wound on his forehead, another was listening to his breathing. His headache pounded as the chopper took off. The dizziness and nausea came in in another wave. Suddenly, he felt it happen for the fourth time. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna puke…”

He threw up in a bucket. Lucky’s consciousnesses was fading… someone gave him an IV, another tried to reassure him. “Hey… we’re here. You’re in good hands. What’s bothering you?”

“I think I hit my head…” Lucky whimpered, “my head hurts bad… I’m so dizzy… and sick…”

Another rescuer got out his penlight and shined it in his eyes. “Possible concussion…”

“Lucky, how many fingers am I holding up?” said the female medic.

“Double vision… I know it’s three but I see six…” lucky replied, “I think I’m going to pass out… I feel so awful…”

“It’s okay, buddy. Just sleep. We’ll take care of you. Just relax, okay?” Her voice faded out as he closed his eyes.

The next time he woke up he was in an ambulance on the ground. Someone was shining a light in his eyes. “There you are…” said a young man’s voice, “it’s okay, we’ve got you. You’re being taken to a hospital in Abbotsford… don’t try to move.” The lights in the ambulance were blindingly bright and seemed to aggravate his headache. “The lights… they… I’m going to throw up…”

Lucky dry heaved but didn’t end up vomiting. The headache then overpowered him, and he let out a loud groan. “Help… my head…” he sputtered out. The lights were turned down, and he found himself drifting out of consciousness again.

Again, he found himself awake. But this time, the fatigue just remained. He winced at the brightness of the fluorescent lights, but as he woke up more he actually felt some comfort. He was nice and dry in a hospital gown, under some warm blankets, laying on a soft pillow. The IV was probably delivering some amazing painkillers.

“Hello? Can someone tell me where I am?” Lucky called out. A nurse spotted him, and he quickly came over.

“Scott, you’re awake,” he said, “you’re in a hospital in Abbotsford. Do you remember what happened?”

“I… crashed in the forest… it was awful. My poor Cessna… she’s toast,” said Lucky, tearing up again. He turned on his side. “There’s nothing I can do. By the way… did I hit my head too hard? I was so dizzy… my head still hurts. Just faintly. You obviously put me on something good.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely the morphine. You did suffer a concussion, but it was rather mild. You just need to rest, it’s ok if you do,” the nurse said, “that whole thing about slipping into a coma from sleeping with a concussion is a myth.”

“I sure am tired for some reason. Can I call my friend first?”

“Sure, your phone survived, actually.” Lucky was handed his phone, and he quickly called Will.

“Dude! You alright? I heard about the storm in the mountains and lower mainland, and then I thought of you… did you make it? You alright?”

“I could be better,” said Lucky, “I crashed my skyhawk in the mountains. CAF rescue found me over an hour later. I’m happy the emergency transponder worked… but my plane, man. That’s a loss and a half right there.”

“Hey, a pilot shouldn’t go down with his plane. Yes, it’s terrible that your 172 is no more. But… you’re alive. I mean.. planes are expensive. But… maybe we can figure something out. I can help you. I don’t know what insurance will do, but I will at least try to help. I’m gonna miss your old girl.”

“Yeah. Man, I was in sad shape. I puked like… five times, the headache and dizziness were phenomenal, it was not a good time. Hopefully this weather passes before the big show. Although I might have to miss it. Depends on what the doc says.”

“Alright. I’m still heading down. I’m glad you’re okay. So sorry about the plane.”

“Thanks Will. Oh, I think that’s the doctor. Gotta go,” he hung up as the woman in a white coat came over to him. “Hello… Scott? Is that right?”

“I prefer Lucky,” he replied.

“Well, you definitely are! I’m glad those rescuers were able to come to your aid!”

“Yeah, I guess so…” he said with a smile.

“I’m just going to look at your pupil response again… can you just look forward for me? Just going to shine this light in your eyes…” he sat still as she moved the light around.

“Well, the concussion isn’t too severe… you’ll just need to rest for a few days. No watching TV or anything like that.”

“I was planning on going to the air show…”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Lucky. But that wouldn’t be good.”

“Alright… thanks doc.” Lucky then rolled over, closed his eyes, and fell asleep again. When he was discharged, Will had made it to Abbotsford.

“Hey, buddy. Let’s go to the hotel. You can rest there. No air show?” said Will as Lucky dragged his stuff to the car.

“No air show,” Lucky sighed.

“Well, friend, I’ll stay at the hotel with you. I’m willing to sacrifice that.”

“Really? Aw, Will… you know, I only have to rest for about three days… I can be alone.”

“No, Lucky, I’m staying with you.” Once Will and Lucky got to the hotel, Lucky laid in bed and slept for twelve whole hours. The three days went by fast, and soon enough the headaches and dizziness were completely gone.

“Well, Lucky, you can always go for a joyride in my plane anytime,” said Will as he drove him home to Kelowna, “as long as you don’t take it out in the rain!”

“Aw, Will. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

[likenothingnameable]

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.   

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.  

[heckamech]

Hello! Hope your blog does well! Can I have Whirl, Swerve, and Rodimus reacting to small human buddy giving them a really sincere pep talk, like, "You're awesome and you can do all the things!"? Please?

nYENLO f.RA ND WELCO ME

Okay, but what I can say for sure is that…

- At first Rodimus is like, “yeah, duh,” because he has a history of being an egotistical dweeb face. Of course he’s awesome. He’s the captain! 

- But really though, this is kind of super radical to him, okay, and Rodders is really stoked to be getting this kind of encouragement from his tiny human friend. He doesn’t get encouraged nearly as much as he should on this ship, so he’s soaking up every drop of this. 

- The fact that his human buddy really believes in him will make him try harder to be a better leader. (This means about five dozen more ‘Til All Are One speeches and everyone is getting kind of sick of it, but his intentions are good.)

- Did he cry? Maybe. Did he interrupt you because he urgently needed to grab Rewind so he could record your speech to keep his morale up for the next thousand years? Yep. Did your great friendship skills win you another Rodimus Star? Oh yeah.

- Brace yourself, because he’s going to return the favor with a speech of his own, and this one will have balloons and a mandatory an audience of everyone on the Lost Light.

- It’s going to be several lifetimes before he forgets this, buddy. You made this matchstick’s day.

- Swerve is arguably one of the most underappreciated members of the Lost Light, so a You Can Do It speech from his smol squish friend is a big deal.

- Rodimus might have cried a little, but Swerve d e f i n i t e l y cried. Honestly, he’s so touched. Oh, man, what a great friend. He’s gotta sit down for a while. The size of the grin on his face is a little concerning and it doesn’t leave him for a long, long time.

- If you decided to spring this inspirational speech on him while he’s tending the bar, he’s going to put everyone else on hold so that he can pay full attention to you. Naturally, this irritates some of the others, but you know what, he’s busy and this is important! 

- Swerve devotes every single bit of your speech to memory and he can quote it verbatim. In his sleep. So, uh, if you mixed up your words or anything like that, be prepared to suffer, because everyone onboard the Lost Light is going to hear it before the week is out. (Whirl won’t stop laughing at you.)

- That gesture of kindness is going to mean that from now on, if he didn’t already, Swerve is never going to leave you alone. You proved that you are his official Second Best Friend after Skids (but hey, you can still be the Number One Squishy Friend). 

- … I’m not sure that telling Whirl he could do all the things is wise, per se, but it’s the thought that counts!

- Whirlybird is a really erratic sort of fellow, so his reaction to a human buddy being all mushy and nice really depends on his mood at the moment.

- If he’s having an off day, you’re not getting any warm fuzzies, period. He’ll get sullen. He’ll get bitter. Pfft, he can do anything? Yeah, right, squirt. You obviously haven’t seen him around doors. You’re being naive and that ticks him off like you can’t even believe. You have no idea what you’re saying and the sentiment is gross, so stop. 

- But let’s say your sense of timing is a lot better, buddy. Whirl is feeling slightly more even-tempered when you decide to tell him how much you believe in him. 

- Expect lots of snickers, because he’s still not going to take you 100% seriously. You’re nuts! Don’t expect much of a reaction from him, especially if you’re at Swerve’s, because he has a reputation to uphold and he’s gonna brush you off. 

- He’s still not entirely immune to your cheery encouragement, though. “Chyeheheh! You’re not so bad yourself, squishy.” It really does mean something to him, deep down and in a way you can’t really understand.

- Thanks for endorsing everything he does, though! Now he has an excuse for all the weird and destructive junk he tries to pull. “The human said I could” is his justification for picking a fight with every single mech on the ship, and Ultra Magnus is Not Happy™. You have created a monster.

[flameo-hotman-blog1]

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[iphoenixrising]

Have you ever thought of doing a random "accidentally married" thing with Tim? Say, he has a good day and helps two complete. Only those two people aren't actually human, and by helping them he accidentally married them by their traditions? I was reading a fanfiction about an accidental marriage and thought about your Tim.

Hi babe.

Ah, the only one I’ve done is here: https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/176647509047/from-that-writing-thing-you-reblogged-in-your. 

It’s a little bit of TimDami for your day ;)

But, I’m thinking like Red Robin just chilling out and taking down some awful alien bad guys hiding out on Earth with these two Barrilion detectives. The team is on a break for two weeks, so Red has found something to keep him occupied.

Barlot and Salsdan are good detectives. They’ve studied enough of Earth’s customs on their way chasing the gang of intergalactic baddies to get most of his terrible references. 

So, really. Score.

It’s even better when they finally track a shady link to the underground selling very advanced weaponry. His usual Whirlybirds are super effective and the small throwing discs Salsdan gave him before they made their way into the abandoned installation.

Since he would be a bad planetary host if the visitors got injured during an operation, he takes a few more hits than necessary to throw both of them out of the way one time or another. 

Still, it doesn’t take much more effort than a usual brawl between the team and H.I.V.E, so after the thugs are tied up and the aliens cuffed with special manacles, Red Robin is prepared to call it a good night.  

He ends up on their ship, patching himself up, talking to an ambassador on the wave comm to give his statement as “local law enforcement” (they don’t need to know differently), and rides to the Watch Tower with them to transfer the baddies to a holding cell and wait for a prison ship to swing by this sector.

Red Robin gives them a good-bye wave, and goes to the room he still has on the Watch Tower. One inside the Titan’s main set of rooms, a place he can get out of the suit and take a shower. 

He doesn’t expect the two detectives to be following him, and slip inside the main room with him until there are suddenly hands all over his body.

“This is lovely,” Barlot is at his throat, teeth moving over the tendon, drawing a gasp out of the pinned vigilante. “Perfect place for the first mating. Agree, partner?”

Salsdan moans in his mouth, eats his noises right down.

“Come, come, let him at least breathe. Stop being greedy!”

That shakes him out of being very pliant with the attention (it’s been a while, don’t judge, okay?), and the vigilante senses kick in automatically.

He flips over Barlot’s smaller figure, puts his back to the door, hands up for a possible strike. “What the utter fuck–”

“You saved our lives,” Salsdan blinks at him, hands up, “that’s the best courting gift I’ve ever got, even from this blort.”

“I gave your a perfectly acceptable gift!” Barlot snipes back, eyes all for the beautiful, intelligent Earthling he is fairly salivating to have.

“Stop. Right. There.” Red only straightens slightly, “I did not give anyone a courting gift. At. All.”

“Husband,” Barlot chances a step closer, his unusual eyes softly fond, “aiding us in our quest is absolutely a courting gesture. But saving us? Both of us? At great risk to yourself? What else could that be except proof you like us enough to be– um, to be…joined? Ah, no, something else? Um…”

Salsdan is beside him, subtly getting even closer to the shocked vigilante. “Married, Bar. It is termed differently in our language, but the premise is the same.��� And the hand suddenly on his jaw is just slightly cooler, softer than a normal human hand, turning him to look in those eyes. “When you spilled blood for us, you claimed us as yours, Husband.”

“I’m sorry…I what now?”

He flinches a little, but Barlot has him by one wrist, both of them closing in, “now, we can either accept by completing the ritual with copious mating and make vows.”

Copious. Mating.

What the hell has he gotten himself into?!

“This is a huge misunderstanding,” he deadpan even though the hand working itself to the back of his neck is rubbing out the knots there. “I am way too young to get married, and I saved you because it would be totally shitty of me to let any visitors on my planet get killed by bad guys.”

With his free hand, he grips Salsdan’s wrist, stopping the motion. His other hand turns in Barlot’s, holding both aliens still. 

The two detectives exchange a glance, something that vaguely reminds him of how Nightwing and Hood exchange those couple-y looks. 

“We definitely misunderstood,” Barlot turns back to meet his whiteouts with a small smile. “Our apologies.”

“If you would be open to it, we would still enjoy mating with you?” Salsdan finishes hopefully. “Without the joining, I promise. But you are quite a lovely creature, Red Robin. Bar and I would very much enjoy taking you to bed.”

Well, this is better than expected.

“…Tim. I… My name is Tim.”

Both aliens step up into him again, taking the statement for what it was.

Permission.

This time he can fall back into their hands, peel away layers of the suit, and drunkenly walk them through the communal room to his own. His mouth and body are kept busy with their attention and his own exploration. 

The make soft clicking noises against him, longer, rougher tongues on the sensitive parts of his body, and it feels fucking amazing to be touched.

It’s even better to be bracketed in by two bodies in between rounds for the next 48 hours, to be bare and held in a tangle of limbs, for lazy kisses against the back of his neck, the soft nips, and lithe tongue sliding back in his mouth when he’s awake enough to moan. 

But he doesn’t feel terrible when the fun is ended with a wave from home world. The next case is coming up, so it’s time to go home. And their last time trying out his shower is the absolute best way to diplomatically say come back any time.

He sees them to their ship suited up and masked, hair still slightly wet from the shower.

They shake his hand with soft smiles and a promise to try coming back one day. He grins back without believing a word, gives best of luck on the next move in the fight against the baddies, and goes back to his regularly schedule crime fighting time.

It’s a few months later, maybe when Tim’s working something close with the Batfamily in Gotham when the Barrilions show up again, and greet him with a little too much PDA for Hood and N not to notice. 

(Who zzat fucker nuzzlin’ my Timmy?)(If I’m going to cause an intergalactic incident, it’s going to be tonight.)

“Whoa! Nice to see you guys too,” while Red is literally lightheaded with how hot his face is, “right in the middle of a case here. This is Nightwing and the Red Hood. My…colleagues.” 

He doesn’t even see it when both vigilantes whip right the hell around to give him intense stares from behind whiteouts.

“Oh! More Earth law enforcements!” Barlot keeps an arm around his waist, above the utility belt. “How nice to meet you. Did our almost-Husband tell you of our adventures here on your planet?”

Salsdan slides up on his other side, and Red Robin pauses when he really, really thinks about how the aliens are both taller than him, lean muscle with dark-hair, strong jawlines and Barlot has a blue stripe in the fluff of hair above his eyes while Salsadan moves like a dancer…

(Oh. Fuck.)

“Almost-Husband, Red? Wanna ‘splain that ta us?”“Your…friends need to follow planetary protocol for all aliens, Red Robin,” and Nightwing is standing with back straight and an impressive loom going on there. “They have to check-in with the JLA at the Watch Tower before coming on-world.”

“Oh! Our mistake,” Barlot flutters his eyes at them with a smirk, “perhaps Tim could come with us to check in so we will know proper procedure for next time.”

Which is absolutely a crock of shit.

And the Bats seem to pick-up on it, Hood taking him by the wrist, pulling him away in a move that is terribly possessive for someone he just, you know, fights crime with and shit. 

“Ya already been visiting, asshole,” is low with the synths, “n’ we gotta date with our boy here. Earth business, s’ do me a solid an’ fuck off.”

Which will probably end with Hood and N trailing Red Robin back to his Perch when the sun is riding the sky in Gotham. The whole almost married thing will come out and probably spurn some terribly sweet scene with Jason and Dick pinning him down and demanding he say he’s theirs, not some alien fuckers, Timmers. We gotcha first.

Totally had dibs, Timmy.  So. Much. Dibs.

And something utterly insane is going to pop out of his kiss-swollen mouth, something he’s wanted for so fucking long–

“Prove it.”

**

WOW. That ah…that got long huh babe?

[iphoenixrising]

jaytimdick abo anon here, wondering if you'll do a part exploring the fallout after Tim's heat? Even a short bit exploring his feelings once he's conscious and aware of himself would be interesting!

Hi babe. Between you and @satire-please​,I will never stop this AOB thing, lol. Ah, your Ask finally got me motivated(every time I checked my messages, I would just STARE at it, so I finally gavein). As for the aftermath? Welp, I thought about making it an add-on to thelast (maybe) chapter, but since you asked *cracks knuckles*

**

Dammit.

The last hit was a good one.Better than he obviously fucking anticipated(the guy usually with all the plans? Well, sometimes, he might get just alittle overwhelmed when he’s beenducking and dodging a slew of crazy Bats.You know, self-preservation and such) because the owfuck? That shit is real.

But if there’s one thing heknows about crazy guys with guns? If they’re seriously out of options, they tend to make very stupid command decisions.

The jewel thief yells out andliterally takes his sweet damn time to fist pumps when he catches the spray ofblood arching from the Red Robin suit; the whirlybird to the face andsubsequent TKO is pretty much the result of not watching out. Red doesn’t evenfeel bad. He even takes theunnecessary ten minutes to string the guy up from a lamp post with a sign forthe police. He cleans up any spilled blood he can spot before it’s time to be out. The tourney would only keep the flesh wound achy until he could actuallydo something about it.

He ducks down the side alleyof a nice little Italian place in New Jersey, making his way through a gapbetween slats before he fires the grapple instead of taking the rickety ironworks (New York is the worst forupkeep, you know) to the roof, landing at a crouch, holding the spot on hisside under the ribcage that is just thumping a pulsing red in the back of hisbrain pan.

A few swings, and he’ll be athis maintained safe house here in the Big Apple and can realistically dosomething about it.

The vibrating against his harnessis just a nice little alert he may ormay not have set up approximately 91 hours ago after he left two exhaustedAlphas in his Perch, and he actually groans outloud, slumping in on himself a little even as his eyes dart to hisimmediate surroundings behind the whiteouts.

The device he cobbledtogether pings when it hits Bat-tech, looking for familiar signatures onlysomeone with an inside peek could have calibrated; thus he’s been able to staya step or two ahead of the game, keeping out of Bat reach long enough to gethis head together after a veryprolonged Heat that probably should have killed him outright.

If not for some people who are just want to helpout an O in need—because Alphas have that instinct the second they pick out thescent.

Revealing himself to thefamily with a big surprise, I’m a male Omega that hasn’t had a Heat inover two years was really not how he’d wanted them to know. When the needs of his body finally overcame the scentblockers he’s worn the large majority of his life and the suppressants finallyfiltering out, the oh shit, panicbutton is why Dick Grayson met him at the Tower and refused to leave. When itbecame apparent Heat Mania was probably still going to kill him, Jason Toddrode in to his rescue.

Because, you know, Alphas do that shit for dying Omegas.

And the span of 91 hours he’dcome to that comfortable conclusion. Just Alphas trying to get him back to thefamily making sure he lives long enough to do so. It didn’t make him any morehappy about the situation, didn’t make it any better because there were some lectures and who knows what else waiting for him when (if) any one of them finally catches up to him.

Or, he could be worrying fornothing, really. Once they found out, once he got through Heat with the stampof that guy’s alive approval, theymight just have decided he could fuck off after all (who wants a defective Omega anyway?)

(“—strong, brave, and fuckingbeautiful—“)

(“—want it all, Pretty Bird. Gonna keep ya rightwhere ya belong, where ya always shoulda been—“)

(gentle hands washing him,feeding him, holding him, taking him)

Don’t be a dumb ass. Alpha. Instincts.

So…he may have just left Dick and Jason to sleep it off inhis Perch once he was lucid enough to realize what the fuck he’d let happen. And since there’s always crimetime going down somewhere, it had been easy enough keeping himself out of rangeand pretty much in Black-Out mode from everyone. It gave him enough time tomoan about the whole ordeal, get his head right about it, and be able to faceany one of them without backing down.

Not giving up the cape

Not getting a desk job with O

Don’t need your pity or “care”

The spleen is still gone but thanks for looking out

Because the little reveal hehadn’t planned on could be the quintessential game-changer—months of gettingbetter with the Bats could just mean fuckall if they really were just placating him the night his Heat hit and theslow, subtle push toward the “less dangerous” end of crime fighting wouldstart. If B had a special system set-up in the Batcave with more and more I need you coordinating instead of in the field—if that shitstarted happening, it would be time to run.

(How is that any different than what you’re doing right now?)

…

There’s that, isn’t there?

All of it just meant heneeded to get back out there and step back into the Mission, to keep his headoccupied with taking down evil baddies while still proving he’s good, he’s had his own back for a while(remember?) and suddenly being an O isn’t going to change that shit.

He’d been over in Honduras, tosearch out some drug smugglers and kept moving on the down-low to end up backin New York City—a little too closeto Gotham for his peace of mind.

But, hey, that’s what theBat-tech radar is for.

And still holding his injuredside, he pats himself on the back for the foresight before he’s on his feetagain, moving to the next rooftop.

While he runs, leaps, flies,he listens for the subtle noises: a grapple re-firing, the pad of booted feet,the groan of ironwork when weight is introduced, any kind of lull in the normalnight sounds of the city, anything to give him clues.

The building where his safehouse is located gives the final one:

Through the window he seesshadows moving, a flash of blue (fingerstripes in his mouth) and the glint off red metal (those hands taking him apart). His heart slams painfully againsthis chest, his body automatically reeling back from the two Alphas he hadfully, totally submitted to. TheAlphas that were the only ones capable of making him bend. He’d spent amajority of his life fighting his inner instincts to go soft and pliant underthe attention of an Alpha, but since he’d submitted to them willingly,completely…he had no idea what they could realistically do.

The fear of not knowing, thefear of finding out the hard waymakes his adrenaline kick up a notch, and he turns to run.