#I’ve been plagued by the gravity falls old men ships that have been around

[erroryeswifi]

Woe old man yaoi be upon ye

They go on daily walks together :)

[kolbisneat]

MONTHLY MEDIA: May 2020

Well there’s another month come and gone. TV and books seems to be what I gravitate towards whilst in quarantine. Anyway here’s the month of May in a wordy nutshell!

……….FILM……….

Blockers (2018) I was mostly drawing while my partner watched this but from what I heard and occasionally saw, it was fun! Silly and gross and I’m not reeeeally sure who the target demo was, but it had a modern and more nuanced perspective on sexuality so that’s cool.

……….TELEVISION……….

Mad Men (Episode 1.11 to 3.03) WHO KNEW THIS SHOW WAS SO GOOD?!? The amount of screentime dedicated to advertising seems to be dwindling a bit, but oooooh there’s still so much juicy office drama (something I think I enjoy because of being self-employed and working from home). It looks like we’ll fail at our attempt to finish the series before it leaves Netflix in June but it was fun while it lasted.

Sex and the City (Episode 1.01 to 2.06) Returning to this for something when we don’t have time to watch Mad Men (or need something lighter) and it’s hitting the spot. We’re slowly getting past the era of randos talking to the camera (and mostly past Carrie breaking the fourth wall). I was in college when I first watched this and I’ve come to realize how much I’ve grown as a human as I only now have enough self-awareness to recognize I’m a Charlotte. 

Gravity Falls (Episode 1.09 to 1.15) We’ve since slowed down on this a bit but I’m really excited to get back into it as season 2 is just so good!

Disney Gallery: Star Wars: The Mandalorian (Episode 1.01 to 1.04) The first three eps didn’t really do much for me. The one on the directors was cool as I didn’t realize how many there were, but it would’ve been great if they talked a little more about what they brought to the table or why they took this on. Ep 4 on technology was more my speed but overall this still kinda just feels like surface level stuff. Loooots of time spent on actors and directors and professionals complimenting each other and I am not here for that.

……….READING……….

Illuminatus! Part 1: The Eye in the Pyramid by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson (Page 204/304) What a trip. It’s pretty much what I expected from an comedic book revolving around the illuminati/secret societies from the 1970s, though it took me ages to adjust to the writing style. I’m really enjoying it, but be warned that there’s no major break between narrators so it can jump between plots with each new paragraph. It feels, at times, like a tone poem, but maybe that’s me putting more of the generation into the text than was intended. Again, I think I like it, but am pretty sure I’m missing a lot. 

Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik (Complete) Such a stellar read. I loved Novik’s Uprooted and while you could read either in any order, they both feel of the same world. Both books are full of fairytale danger akin to the traditional stories. They’re beautiful and uncertain and familiar and new. I realize I’m being super vague and general but it’s because it’s so hard to pin down what’s excellent about this book. It’s just good and if you like fantasy and classic fairy tales with layered characters and a more nuanced approach to good and evil then read this AND Uprooted.

Umbrella Academy Volume 3: Hotel Oblivion by Gerard Way and Gabriel Ba  (Complete) It’s great to get back to this world but I think I need to give it another read. The first two volumes were frantic, but there was typically a clear drive or sense of what the big picture was. Volume 3 felt like a buildup or segue into the next story being told and that’s...not great.

Satania by Fabien Vehlmann and Kerascoet (Complete) I’ve rambled at length about how much I love past books by these two (particularly Beautiful Darkness) but this one didn’t connect quite the same. The story only scratched the surface of (admittedly really interesting) themes and I would’ve loved for it to get fleshed out further. The art is consistently incredible and their take on a subterranean world is breathtaking. I recommend if you want to read every book by these two, but wouldn’t suggest this as your first introduction (for that, Beautiful Darkness, or Beauty).

Hellboy Library Edition Vol 5 & 6 by Mike Mignola, Duncan Fegredo, Dave Stewart (vol.5 and 6), and others (vol. 6) (Complete) A return to form. Fegredo is such a great choice for taking over from Mignola for the main story. The final story in volume 6 is still a weird choice to me (especially since the penultimate one would’ve been much better) but I’m so excited to read the next volume. Such an cool chapter in comics history.

GRRL SCOUTS by Jim Mahfood (Complete) Very late 90s. Like soooooooo 90s. Some of the writing hasn’t aged well, but it’s interesting to see how much things have changed in...oh jeez 20 YEARS! 

……….AUDIO……….

Staying In with Emily & Kumail (Podcast) As a dedicated listener to their old podcast, The Indoor Kids, it’s great to listen to these two again. Also weirdly comforting that their dynamic and personalities (at least as far as podcasting is concerned) hasn’t changed over the years between then and now. It’s gotta be at least 4 or 5 years, right? Anyway, this is a good listen if you’re navigating the pandemic (jk, we’re all doing that).

Articles of Interest (Podcast) So I think this is technically a miniseries put out by 99% Invisible but I loved season 1 and season 2 is just as good. Every episode is concise and these latest episodes are really diving into new parts of the fashion industry. Very cool.

Unravel Season 4: Snowball (Podcast) I checked this out on a recommendation since our mutual friend went through a similar situation (getting romantically involved with a perpetual con artist) and it was so interesting to see the overlap. It’s just such a wild story of deception and habitual lying and theft and manipulation. Great listen.

Dedicated Side B by Carly Rae Jepsen Exactly the sort of pick-me-up we need right now. Good stuff. Always a treat. Very happy.

……….GAMING……….

Neverland: A Fantasy Role-Playing Setting (Andrews McMeel Publishing) The latest session had the group spending...maybe 25 minutes sorting out how they were going to approach the Jolly Roger (ship of the dreaded Captain Hook). Their plan is a mixture of stealth and impersonating what amounts to Pirate Ship Quality Control. We’ll see how that goes. Anyway I’m really excited by how the group is exploring the island and for this book to come out in October!

D&D Homebrew Adventure (Menace of Merlin) The group is sorting out a curse/illness plaguing one of the character’s hometown and...the timing of this plot is not ideal BUT everyone seems to be okay with it. They took out some orcs and hopefully will be able to find the hermit that can help with the slow petrification of the village.

Tyranny of Dragons /Gainfully Employed (Wizards of the Coast) I’m not sure I posted about this last month but the party has just sorted out the cause of a failing lighthouse (that’s magical) and brought the culprit to justice! Now to head out of Phlan and sort out some silly rumors that I’m sure are nonsense.

And that’s it! As always, hit me with your recommendations if you have something I should read/play/watch/or listen to!

Happy Sunday.

[tardis-sapphics]

so @doctorthasmin sent me a soft!prompt

@doctorthasmin: Okay, here’s the softest prompt I’ve got, proper detailed little head massage for the Doctor after a little whump. I want the description to give me a ASMR contact high it’s so tingly cute!

so, here, here’s a troubled navy ship crew from ~1700s and a well-deserved head massage, in ‘i wish you lived like you’re made of glass’ . the title is taken from 5am by amber run, which you might want to listen to whilst reading this piece. i’d personally suggest listening to hounds by ry x.

tw: mention of period-specific racism, period-specific sexism

Moments of violence are self-absorbed.

The present has no desire to listen to the quieter moments, unless they are already brimming with a horrible anticipation. Attention paid to these reminders of being alive become in some way detrimental to the very existence of them. Those reminders are refused agency, no longer allowed to exist as themselves. Everything must become a correlation, if not a cause, to the terrible tension; failing that, the present must attribute it to pathetic fallacy. Little things are no longer allowed to be themselves, but a whisper of what is to come. A warning, not in its intention, but prescribed to it, forbidden to anything else.

All of the quiet things, the little things: the creak of wood, fine wood from the docks of Liverpool but still pressured by the intensity of the sea. It forgot dryness as soon as it set off from land. The cough of a soldier, hurrying up to the imminent end of the moment; a hurrying up of the soldier’s moment. These are fake menances, ascribed by the desperation hanging in salty air as thick as the fog that stalks them.

Raindrops, in most other moments, arrive tender. Cool grace on cheeks; the splash perfectly round, perfectly crowned, in self-same puddles. The sound of it a sigh, a blessing on Mother Nature’s children. The clouds hum to them: we give you life. They have turned their backs on moderation, now, and their deluge is immovable and frightening. All fires blow out, all burning sensation eliminated – except for the one the moment needs. That terrible anticipation.

But then, all moments of violence are self-absorbed that way.

Cruelty thrives in atmospheres tended to by the cold of heart. Drowned by rain they no longer know the meaning of it, their uniforms ratty and falling apart, they have deserted human kindness for its inability to turn up. Decorum has been long hammered out of these men – but for the fear drilled into them by their officers, they would mutiny. All that exists to them now is the destination, to be reached across miles and miles of heavy emptiness.

Seagulls cry. Rats squeal in corridors and bite on gangrenous toes. Light stays elusive. Trapped in the roar of the storm, the exotic lands of tomorrow seems to never arrive. A dream faded, life narrows down to maintaining the functions of the ship; the groan and creak of every man and his job; the paltry, soggy food; and the persistent smell of dead shipmates. Every man is sick to death of sailing. Every man is sick to death of men. Every man is sick to death, eventually. For some, it cannot come quick enough.

The intrusion is welcome at first. Four people, arriving in the middle of a storm! Two men, one old – and sure to die quick – and one sturdy young black man. A good servant to the Captain, perhaps, and a boost of energy for the soldiers. But the bigger surprise – two women! An exotic delight, the headstrong nature of the woman untamed; and a strange, eccentric lady – a devil to catch. The challenge breathes new life into the boys, tired of themselves and each other; some of the soldiers thank God for the appearance of these beautiful creatures.

The runaways are strange, from distant lands with improper clothes yet recognisably English; out of place and out of time, and decidedly out of manners. Whatever their reason for boarding so impossibly, they are not at all what the Navy soldiers require.

Novelty wears off easily, like drying paint caught out in the rain. Obscure explanations and fiery tempers unbefitting to custom strike matches in the minds of despairing men plagued by tedium. Neither transience nor return are an option, not in such stormy waters – at least, by the strangers’ directive. On a strange ship in stormy seas, there is nowhere to go but down.

The last strike that ignites the bonfire is the devil-woman’s trespass into the Captain’s quarters. Charm and mystery are not enough to save her. Fire spreads in the hearts of angry men. These are traitors to the Crown, with the audacity to steal from the British Navy’s finest ships.

A standard punishment for a runaway thief would be too slow. But the men have not had fun in so long. What are a few kicks to a woman sentenced to die? Power soothes and satisfies more than the sharp lick of alcohol; it dizzies a man more soundly too. The others, to be afterwards put to work, must watch their friend plunge to the freezing below.

The rain soaks their foreign clothes to a limpness, rubbing at the rusty shackles clamped over their wrists. Their captors cough over the strangers’ shoulders – mouths open, rattling in rib cages where hearts once warmed their chests. The weak hacking becomes a drumbeat for the execution. No peace is given to the silence.

Everything devoured by a greedy anticipation. Hearts in throats, they watch on in terror – refusing to acknowledge finality. At the same time, they are scared of it. They are alive, but at what cost? Desperation and fear swirl in the wet fog, the lock of eyes wide, pleading with God not to murder the Doctor like this – not by the hand of heartless soldiers no better than pirates.

She goes under.

Too many moments later, the pulsing manifestation of the TARDIS around them. Soldiers scream witchcraft and desert their captives in order to escape, their footprints landing alternately on metal floor and sodden wooden planks. Safe in their world, they must watch on as the TARDIS retreats to the safety of the Time Vortex.

Horror and rage subside like calm waters at the sight of the Doctor propped up at the console, her sonic screwdriver in one hand and the treasure in another. She is beaten, a patchwork of blood colours, dripping wet – but faithfully alive.

She has preserved the last of her energy only to free them of their shackles. Then consciousness abandons her. She is taken to bed in Yaz’s arms.

Rain returns to itself, on planets far away, and the deep breaths of quiet moments do not tremble with the knowledge of inevitability. In amongst the knick-knacks of the Doctor’s bedroom, her coat hung up to dry on the back of the door, Yaz has situated herself at the foot of the bed. She is the sole overseer, having been the first to shower and warm up. Now she sits alone, watching the Doctor rest.

Her sight makes journeys on the Doctor’s physicality, coming back to the same cuts and bruises scattered along her body to see the tender skin lighter, stronger. The healing process happening in real time, right before Yaz’s eyes. With so much work happening, peaceful sleep must be an illusion. Yet the drama of the day is not marked by restlessness, either. It manifests in the image of her; and in the slight creases between the brows.

Yaz has moved closer to the Doctor’s head. Her palms have rested on the curve of her face for so long she has forgotten time itself. Her fingers have deigned to smooth the frown lines away, without success. But it doesn’t matter. The Doctor is here. Alive and healing and successful.

She wonders what they’re going to do with the alien quad-photon fuse-reactor.

An hour more, and the Doctor wakes. She looks gaunt; still, she has vastly improved. But for the yellow and deep pinks smattered across the canvas of her body, there would be no other evidence of their near-miss. It does not seep through in her countenance, though in Yaz’s it does; the hug she gives the Doctor is rushed into, and deep – but not tight.

‘We thought you’d drowned!’ Yaz gasps.

The Doctor chuckles. ‘Me? Nah, never.’

The moment manifests. A suppressed yawn and a reluctance to let go entirely are the first clues. Then there is the hum of air around them, no longer only itself. Breaths amplify themselves. Soft cotton moves against itself and hints its depths, warmed by the sleeping Doctor.

‘I should get the others,’ Yaz murmurs.

The Doctor keeps a grip on Yaz’s arm. The moment is a sweet comfort. ‘Not yet,’ she pleads. ‘Just for now, Yaz. It’s – it’s nice to have you alone.’

‘Okay,’ Yaz says, because it is nice to be alone with her.

The moment has manifested as a them moment, a time they glimpse only in snatches, and its prolonging brings their gravities to fold onto another, to situate and settle. The conversation starts calmly, and drifts between currents with no landing in mind. The air is warm and the flying slow. They wrap themselves up in it, the soaring known to them after their first conversation, the first tumble out of the nest. How smooth it sails now, on the streams of familiarity.

Mentions of the fuse-reactor are interspersed throughout, but never examined, never prodded. It is contentment enough to breathe the same spaces, occupy few worries. They can come later. They always come later.

Wrapped up in it, Yaz barely notices her arms move, doesn’t register the decision. But they move, despite no expressed permission. All she goes on is the imprint of a feeling, a possibility of existence formed in the same way a footprint is pressed into sand.

Words continue. Yaz’s fingers thread through fine blonde strands falling away from the back of the Doctor’s skull. Reaching further, where she knows blonde will fade into brown at the roots, they push forward until the soft round ends of her fingertips bump into solid scalp. A low sound emanates from somewhere in the Doctor’s throat. An amalgamation of instinctive emotions.

Yaz never once falters in the point she is trying to articulate out loud, even as she continues comforting the Doctor, slowly, slowly, with the head massage. Her fingertips are soft and flat on the Doctor’s head as they stretch out. The spaces between them widen, curling around the ears, then traverse to the dip of her slender neck. A shiver. Heat trapped amongst hair strands dissipates as her fingertips push forward, leaving trails of cool comfort in their wake.

Up close to the top of the Doctor’s skull, Yaz’s fingers bend in on themselves, scratching lightly in lieu of massaging. The Doctor hums again, and her head lolls back. She is melting under it, the remnant tension easing out of lightly bruised shoulders. Yaz smiles.

Her hands move round, reaching the temples and massaging there. If she looks close enough, she can see the minute hairs on the back of the Doctor’s neck stand up to attention. In synchronised circles, she brings her hands to the middle and round, working the same pattern, to the back of her head. They trail down to the slope of her neck once more, and the Doctor breaks out into a shiver again.

Yaz wants to laugh at that, but sound got lost in the descended quiet. She believes it best to leave it there. Her hands slide down from the back of the Doctor’s neck to her shoulders, then down again until they are close enough to her own body to return.

Deprived of touch, the Doctor mewls. But she is half-asleep already, her eyes closed, and still healing. So she settles back down onto her pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Without thought, she grabs onto Yaz’s hand. In slumber, she slackens, and tender pink skin lashed on her cheek lightens into cream.

Yaz watches her, and thinks of sunbeams amongst thick clouds. Neither holy nor a sign, just beautiful in themselves.

And she is absorbed by it.