#No bur seriously these conversation are just getting more and more awkward

[crispycrunchers]

Dipper and Mabel's parents divorce and they get a sick ass adventure with their sick ass Grunkles with a friendly helping of trauma, but when my parents divorce I only get awkward conversations from my bio dad and casual trauma??? I wanna trade!!

[archetypal-archivist]

My Beloved, Penis

Fuck it. I was infected by Penis SMP by @demonboyhalo reblogging a bunch of it and the lack of consistent lore bugged me, so I somehow banged out 2000+ words of fanfic about the Penis SMP and how it got started. Lots of internet humor and classic MInecraft shenanigans in this one folks. *slaps roof* This baby can fit so much crack treated seriously, lol. This is also up on my AO3, Zazibine, if you would prefer to read it there.

_-_-_-_

It was never supposed to get so big. It was just an SMP with a couple friends of his he had met from the Hypixel discord server, where he had logged on simply to trash talk the absolute asshole who had dared to kill him last minute in bedwars, only to stumble upon said asshole- going under the name shittyfartbaby69 of all things- complaining to his girlfriend(?) Milfboss in the voice chat. Thirty minutes later of awkward hellos and the manliest of bitching at each other (with Milf chiming in every once in a while to roast them both), and PenisUnavailable had perhaps his first Minecraft friend in, like, forever.

Then Admiral_Anus had entered chat, bitching about his competitor in ABBA Mining and his bullshit bad luck and the whole process repeated. By the end of the day, Penis had three new friends, a private discord server for the four of them, and a promise to meet up with them in Hypixel next Sunday for the ultimate round of bedwars.

The game went spectacularly. Somehow, Admiral had some of the best bridging skills any of them had ever seen, and between Milfboss' terrifying Scottish screaming and pvp and Shitty with his clutch TNT skills, the three of them almost made up for Penis' awful depth perception. They still lost around forty percent of their games, but that was certainly better than Penis' own abysmal record, not helped with his habit of walking off the edge at inconvenient times.

And it was... fun. Usually bedwars was just him playing in his bedroom alone for an hour before he rage-quit and went back to survival for a bit before he died to fall damage and rage quit that too. But shittyfartbaby69 would crack dirty jokes that he'd never even heard of before, and Milfboss would roast him for looking it up on reddit and Shitty would cuss her out as he tried to prove that no, he was being original- all while Admiral would comment of them as if they were a sideshow display. Then Admiral_Anus would turn around and knock an enemy player off their island with some clever pvp and they would all hoot and holler and swear for a while before going back to their conversation, joking about forgetting the topic and starting up a running gag about something new.

And their accents, mmm. PenisUnavailable would never say it, but he really was as American as white Wonder bread and Milfboss' Scottish brogue, Admiral's smooth British snark, and Shitty's shrieking in Australian, well. Ear candy, you know? Even if he teased them mercilessly for pronouncing shit wrong, like "buhguhr". Ppffttt, it still cracked him up how Milfboss had threatened to murder him after the dictionary app on his phone had proved him right that it was actually "Bur-gur", even if Admiral kept insisting it was pronounced "bruh-girl".

Four hours and twenty-eight wins later, they had agreed to meet up the next day to play again, preferably at an hour that wasn't two am for Shitty again. (It was two am for Shitty again, although that was because they played for six that time.) Eventually, it just became a regular thing, them playing bedwars and competing at ABBA Caving- the one game Penis was unnaturally good at, much to Admiral's annoyance- to the point where they ran out of funny jokes about their competitors and the game itself and started talking personal anecdotes.

Milfboss owned a motorcycle. Admiral, entirely independently, also owned a motorcycle, as that was the only vehicle of reasonable speed and style that could actually handle the London traffic. Shitty couldn't drive at all, something about never passing his driving test. Admiral ate cheese at breakfast. Shitty liked to burn his garbage in a metal oil drum in his backyard. Milfboss posted herself singing covers of shit over on Youtube. And it wasn't just real life stuff either- their minecraft skills were also on the table for them all to collectively roast.

Admiral had never seen a single Minecraft Championship. Milfboss thought a flat cobblestone roof was entirely acceptable. Shitty's favorite block was the flint and steel. (That's not a block, sixty-niner. Shut up, is too. OoOh, real clever, 'shut up'! Uh, how about no? How about I fuckin' make you, ever think 'a that? No nono nonono, I'm on two hearts! I'm on two hearts, stop!) It made him curious, honestly. He wanted to see Milf's builds for himself, get revenge on Shitty, see if Admiral really could beat the Ender Dragon with a knockback stick like he said he could.

So he made a minecraft server. And they all joined it. (And stuck PenisUnavailable with the bill, suckaaahhh~!)

Predictably, it all went to Hell in a hand basket pretty quick.

See, it's one thing to play with nutters like his friends in a structured set up like Hypixel games, it's quite another to try and keep a semblance of order in an open world survival server like the Penis SMP. The first five minutes had been him trying to explain the rules and teleporting everyone back to spawn over and over as they tried to "escape the cops," ie, him. The next five minutes was Shitty scream-laughing "scatter!" and other John Mulany references down the mic as everyone ran off to start their houses. Penis, as he was still "god" at that moment, used admin commands to find the closest flower field biome to settle into, hoping for some- ha- peace and quiet.

Shitty, inevitably, ended up trying to settle in the fucking Nether. Like a mad lad, you know, as you do when you are apparently obsessed with all things lava. Milfboss ended up making an oak plank box of a "tree house" in a dark oak forest, while Admiral_Anus picked a nearby swamp for his starter base. Outside of that, they just kinda vibed in discord as they tried to fend off the mobs and get enough resources to try and build up houses that were a bit more than cobblestone towers and wood boxes- er, mostly. Milf kinda just fucked off to go mining, found a skeleton spawner by chance, and made a set of iron gear to stand in the dungeon room with to just chill and kill mobs for a while. She ended up with something like 45 levels and burned her only diamond on an enchanting table so she could buff the Hell out of her iron weapons and armor.

Penis, rather typically, he though to himself, put together a basic sheep farm and started work on a cute little cobblestone cave base. He managed to get a whole twenty by twenty block room done and fully furnished before he noticed the chat full of Shitty's death messages and went to go investigate. After nearly dying in lava twice, he managed to find Shitty's pile of items floating on a basalt pillar about a hundred blocks out from his... base?

It was a soccer ball. Shitty's base was a perfect fucking spherical soccer ball made up of quartz blocks and basalt. Just. What. The Fuck??? Then out popped shittyfartbaby69 and it was PenisUnavailable's turn to misjudge a jump and plummet right into lava. Fifteen minutes and much shrieking later about losing his diamond pick, and it turns out that Shitty didn't really care about his lost items, as he really only had four gold picks, a stack of dark oak, two furnaces, a bucket, and thirteen cooked mutton to his name. Not even a bed, the fucker. He just ran back to his portal from spawn every time he just burned to death, taking the chance to gather resources on the way back each time.

And no, he wasn't following a tutorial for his "football" base. Jerk. (Although Penis did have to admire his determination...)

The day ended on Milfboss, Shitty, and Penis reconvening back at spawn to try and hunt down Admiral_Anus, who they found later having built a thirty block tall castle of all things. Out of cobble stone and the windows weren't quite even, but still, it was pretty impressive. And of course, when presented with a castle, what can what do but siege it? So they lay siege to the castle and Milfboss curb-stomped Admiral in pvp and laid claim to the throne, crowning herself queen before summarily throwing the rest of them out. It was a good day.

And the day after was a good day. They played dodge ball crossed with hide and seek in forest around Penis' house with arrows supplied by Milfboss. And the day after that, too, where they had a building competition using nothing but cobble stone, specifically to spite Milfboss, who had kicked all of their asses the day before. In fact, three wonderful weeks passed of doing normal Minecraft shit and being friends passed by, and every bit of it was great fun.

And then came the fucking role play.

PenisUnavailable would have liked to preface that with he only participated under duress, but really, Milfboss had been queen for too long and nobody wanted to risk TNT cannoning any of Shitty's nice builds, so. Well, the castle was better than his drafty cave, alright? It was cold and wet and didn't have a proper door because aesthetic (and because it usually took him several tries to work an iron pressure plate door), so there were far too many mobs wandering in at night and spawn camping him. He and Shitty had almost the same number of deaths and Shitty lived in the fucking Nether.

So yeah. Castle time, baby! Daddy needs a new home! And Admiral obviously wasn't happy living out of Milf's awful tree house hot box where they all did drugs together on day fifteen and it still smelled of burnt wheat seeds, aka "weed." It was only obvious that they teamed up to try and take back the castle.

The battle itself didn't exactly go great, but it wasn't exactly horrible either. A lot of shouting shit at each other for fifteen minutes, the majority of which he wouldn't remember until it was too late- something about server unity?- only to find out that it wasn't two on one girl boss, it was two on a girl boss and her "baked out of his mind" henchman, also known as Shitty in a squirrel furry skin.

The ears man. Those stupid (cute) ears.

And then they were running for their lives because Milf had somehow gotten her hands on a flame bow with infinity enchants.

It all culminated in a dramatic stand-off in front of Shitty's Nether Soccer ball, Milf on one side, diamond axe in hand, not a bit of armor on because of an unfortunate run in with lava, Penis and Admiral on the other, picks in hand, threatening to tear down shittyfartbaby69's base. Shitty wasn't online just then to comment, but they could all hear him click-clacking away on his keyboard so he obviously hadn't gone to sleep just yet like he said he had. At an impasse, and unable to justify letting her teammate's home be used as collateral, Milfboss stood down and gave up her "crown," an enchanted golden Prot IV helmet she had gotten off a skeleton from her spawner.

Then the great betrayal, the beginning of the end. Shitty came back online. 96-Cam joined the game, not that they noticed in the chaos. Admiral-Anus cackled wildly and PMed Milfboss the message that Shitty had sent him, giving Team Gay Sex permission to tear down his base in the name of winning the war if it came down to it- making Milf's sacrifice worthless in the end. Penis gave another dramatic speech, circling around Shitty, who was acting weirdly apologetic to Milf about betraying her and still wearing that fucking squirrel furry skin.

"You see Milf, there's one thing more powerful than a girl boss, and when it comes down to wars between kingdoms, there's something you need to remember!" Penis got out his golden ax, helpfully labeled 'Piss Off'.  "And that's a dilf with something to lose!" An enderpearl in his off hand and he teleported behind Milf, catching on fire from the lava but still landing the last hit needed to finish her off. She puffed into a cloud of EXP, swearing up a storm, and then Admiral and Penis turned their gaze to the cheering Shitty.

"AAAAAYYY, LET'S GO DADDY!" the squirrel man screeched, wild laughter shorting out the discord voice chat, making him go quiet in patches when the volume overloaded the client. Behind him, Admiral quietly started building a chair out of birch fence posts and slabs.

"Not so fast, shit-ty-fart-baaaaa-byyyyy~, this isn't quite over yet!" Penis fucking chirped, barely holding back his laughter. "You're still a fucking traitor and we can't have you backstabbing us too. Get in the chair for Daddy, okay baby?"

Admiral finished the chair just in time for Shitty to turn around and see the completed monstrosity, shrieking dying off immediately. "Oh screw you, that's just mean. The Hell man? That's not a chair, that's illegal. If you want an electric chair or some shit, just ask. That's just sad." Mentally shrugging, Admiral lit up his work with a flint and steel while Penis pillared up above where Shitty was building an electric chair out of iron bars and trap doors. Admiral nudged Shitty into the chair, Penis dumped a bucket of lava over the edge of the pillar so it flowed over him, and Shitty started giving a soliloquy about how betrayal and how his love for his "Daddy" still "burned strong".

Like his dick. Apparently.

By the time the lava finally hit the floor and burned Shitty to death, Penis was crying with laughter, shrieking down the mike and banging on the desk hard enough to make him forget that his was still on the mouse, making him mine the block under him with the bucket and sending him hurtling to his fiery death too.

It was a good day... almost.

Because, as it turned out, shittyfartbaby69 was actually a tiktokker of some renown and his cam account had record everything. And he had uploaded the bit to tiktok, as you do, where it went viral, where it wasn't supposed to. And Milfboss, who had recently been uploading covers of herself singing old classic Minecraft songs, had attracted the Minecraft fandom kids to her twitter, where she had gone to post her rage about the events of her dethroning and Shitty's execution.

Penis SMP had gotten on. Fucking. Trending. And now everyone was demanding the full clip, their names, their Twitch streamer handles, their characters' backstories.

The masses wanted lore.

Penis watched in disbelief, head in his hands and mouth agape as sugar crash played over a clip of him killing Milf on loop.

They were making memes.

...Oh god. They were screwed.

[criticalbread]

Oh man these are all such useful tips and super simply explained! Thoroughly and completely blown away by your comment on his language quirk being almost 2nd-lang coded. I did a few rewatches and wrote some character notes for writing him or describing him, popping them behind a read more because they are not, uh, succinct. (Some of them line up almost exactly with some of yours, which is validating haha.) Hope maybe one or two could be interesting!

“The Mandalorian” Din Djarin

-Has a surprisingly light voice with a husky, at times throaty timbre. Other descriptors that come to mind: mellow, hoarse, smoky, soothing, quiet, steady, unruffled, burring, flat, but also can be tight, winded, gravelly.

-In conversation, has the quirk that he prefers to answer physically when possible-- “where are the pucks? Did you finish the job?” puts the trackers on the table- jobs finished; “can only give you imperial credits” takes them away as if to go somewhere else with better pay. Never needs to say his intentions when he can make them clear physically. Speeds things along, gets it all done with efficiency and no unnecessary chatter.

-First and foremost relies on silence-- to intimidate, to get people talking, to cut through bullshit, to get what he wants, to put people off balance. Silence also helps maintain the self-imposed distance he tries to put between himself & his bounties. And all outsiders, really; he moves through the world perpetually watchful and aware of his status as other. Silence makes him intimidating and untouchable, both with bounties as well as with other hunters.

-Has a sense of humor in his job/life, mostly to amuse himself (a lonely man with no one to talk to who talks to himself when he feels safe in his own space and makes jokes mostly for his own enjoyment, not because anyone is around to hear it or respond)-- gets a quippy one-liner in before putting the Mythrol in carbonite. “That’s my line.” When the Child comes along, he ends up directing a lot of his internal dialogue to his new companion.

-Quick to annoyance when things aren’t working, a plan fails or becomes unviable, someone else trips up his plan, or when surprised/put on his back foot. Expresses frustration freely. But he’s not quick to real anger. More of a short flash-bang, annoyance there and gone just as quickly. Maybe you could call him grumpy, prickly, defensive.

-For someone not particularly interested in social niceties, he can be surprisingly polite. Sincere and immediate in how he says thank you to Kuiil for helping him with the blurg; perhaps because he does not generally expect compassion or help and is surprised enough that it pops out before his usual reticence/discomfort could clam him up. And later, “I really can’t thank you enough. Please let me [give you part of the reward].” when Kuiil has helped him further and the mission is complete. He is a man who takes seriously his debts to others, and this seems to include the necessity of offering thanks. 

-Comfortable making others uncomfortable. In fact, he’s good at it for his job! Wields it like any other tool; took what might have been a weakness (awkwardness, not knowing what to say, not being comfortable smooth-talking folks) and made it work for him.

-Very physically controlled; no extraneous movements or fidgeting generally, which in turn makes those fidgets that do show up (his hands & fingers when unsure) and all extraneous unnecessary touches (picking up the shifter knob to examine as he thinks about the Child and reaches a decision) more telling. His usual uncommunicative and watchful stillness also highlights the fluently demonstrative aspects of his body language. When he shifts his weight in annoyance, rolls his gaze around, sighs, props a lean. It’s a fun conundrum of the character; unreadable, emotionless armor and visor, a blank slate enhanced by his stillness-- save for when it’s broken by a head tilt or a shrug like a shout. He emotes loudly, and more often when surprised or caught off guard.

-Cont.: Extremely committed to paying his debts (to Kuiil turning down payment: “Please. You deserve this.”) because he has come to view relationships as transactional. He considers his relationships to people by what he can give them— what he can give the Tribe, what reward he can give for assistance. It removes compassion as well as cruelty from the mix and simplifies things into something very practical. (And Din is nothing if not practical.) People don’t generally help others for nothing; people don’t generally hurt others for nothing. (Look at him. He hurts others for pay, though he can at least often say they aren’t often good people. Look at his life. No one helps him without something to gain from it.) It is for this reason that altruism and kindness can take him by surprise and shake him. He has to pay it back; he can’t understand a world where he doesn’t have to, and can’t stand not fulfilling his side. The world doesn’t make sense if someone wants to help him when he can’t give them anything. (Raises the question: Does he think his only value to others is what he can bring them?)

-Bossy.

-Thinks outside the box. His solution to a problem might not be pretty, but it’ll be expedient (and unsubtle.) A hammer who keeps finding screws as well as nails and still smacks both, to varying results. Bounty hunters don’t need a lot of subtlety, not once they’ve been clocked. Getting the job done and surviving are what matter after that point. Which means this man goes from 0 to 60 in a heartbeat. Hits hard and fast to get what he needs and get gone.

-Bullheaded and often rash. Think his trying to take on the Jawas’ sand crawler; getting frustrated with trying to negotiate with the Jawas and using his flamethrower to try and intimidate. If he can’t jerryrig a fix or a plan on the fly, he will bullrush in and try to overcome an obstacle or situation by sheer force of stubbornness and willingness to do absolutely buck-wild shit. If his plan only addresses the first part of the problem and will cause it’s own obstacle, well, he’ll think of what to do when it gets to that. It’s similar to his fighting style when things get desperate. His armor makes him largely untouchable in battle; when in doubt, strut right up the middle and shove some explosives up the butt. He probably won’t die. (So like a man used to being a mostly indestructible juggernaut during fire fights...)

-The other side of the coin to this: he has experienced so much and gotten through so many situations that he can approach many dangerous situations (a droid ambush; a dogfight with a fighter in deep space) with an unflinching competence. His experience makes him dangerous. He is highly skilled at what he does because he has been doing this alone for so long. His talent often shines in his hand-to-hand against groups; his marksmanship; his capability with a wide range of weapons; his tracking skills; his piloting-- including off-the-wall and dangerous maneuvers that most pilots wouldn’t attempt but he can pull off because he knows the Razor Crest like a man knows his own hands.

-Awkward but not bashful; blunt but not often mean. (“Bad news. Can’t live here anymore.”) Straightforward when he actually decides to respond and not just silently glower his way through a situation. He doesn’t pad his responses, not even for people who have something he wants (Gor with his information; Din doesn’t pretend to be interested in the fights, in gambling. He doesn’t try to butter him up or get on his good side.)

-Used to using intimidation in difficult straits, especially against people who have wronged him (Jawas) or have otherwise proven they’re not there by good intentions/simple bad luck. Mando is used to shoving morally corrupt assholes around, even when they are not his bounties. And he’s used to being treated as a misunderstood and misrepresented outsider for whom everyone is suspect, considering the extremely valuable nature of his beskar. Comes out swinging right from the start rather than give people the chance to do the inevitable-- trick him, use him, steal from him, trap him, or try to kill him, among other things.

-Has a soft spot for children, for the elderly, and for gentle, kind, compassionate people. (The Child, Kuiil, Omera.) People whose lives are not made through harming others. Honest working folks. Even if he doesn’t seem to know how to interact with these people who live outside of his world— see his awkwardness with Omera’s casual kindness.

-At his core, he is compassionate and capable of great altruism and selflessness because his first, most basic instinct is to help. The distance, the coldness, the cynicism, his hand-to-mouth mechanical living as a bounty hunter whose only thought is for the job and returning to the tribe with resources-- all those things have been trained into him. They are things he had to work at and learn the hard way. Even where these habits have worn smooth and seemingly natural, his true character fights to come out. (His compassionate approach to calming Davin in the New Republic prison transport, to connect to him and get him to stand down. His insistence that he won’t stand for him to be killed just for being there and doing his job.) He has smothered much of who he is in order to be the remorseless hunter he believes his tribe needs him to be and which he feels he owes them. His life has become survival, like everyone else's’ in the covert. He smothers his feelings and morals down by putting all of his time and energy into work.

-There isn’t a luxurious bone in this man’s body. He doesn’t put any credits or effort into his own personal comfort or wellbeing. He lives an extremely spartan life. He has very little in the way of self preservation or selfishness. In the end, if he has to throw his body into the grinder just for the possibility of completing the job, he will without hesitation or second thought. 

-When he brought in the bounty on the Child, it came down to a struggle between his purpose in life (providing for the tribe) vs. his own morals (what he could and could not live with). The situation involved an inherent contradiction that he had to find a way to negotiate in order to preserve his sense of self. His role vs. his most basic self. Bounty hunter Din Djarin vs. Mandalorian Din Djarin. His honor as a Guild bounty hunter and Mandalorian (his word as his honor, his commitment to the Guild Code) vs. what was right. The Code vs. The Way (“Foundlings are the future.”) He pushed through his own feelings as he always has when necessary in order to finish the job and get the pay; only to come out the other side and realize that this time he couldn’t. Compassion and morality won, his identity and personal mores as a Mandalorian won, even if it meant failing his tribe in a way by not being able to continue on as he has been. 

-When he decided to go back for the Child, what began was this character’s destruction of Self as he knew himself -- which would continue as he grew connections outside the tribe; was tempted by his more selfish desires (to stay in Sorgan with Omera); broke down his enforced distance from others and denial of his emotions; re-inherited his name and became more than just Mandalorian, Mando; allowed for the loophole in his Creed to be taken advantage of by IG-11-- to live as a man rather than die a warrior, a Mandalorian, Creed untouched and unbroken; forgave trespasses against his strict Mandalorian culture which he otherwise was honor-bound to protect(Cobb); learned of his place in a larger Mandalorian society and tradition (Bo-Katan and the Nite Owls); removed his helmet in front of Migs to save the Child then put it back on; then removed it again on the bridge to say goodbye to Grogu, even when it meant allowing others to see his face. A complete destruction of Self that will lead to him building a new self. How difficult that will be, and who he will become, remains to be seen.

-Din’s isn’t completely ignorant to history and the galaxy! He might not know what a Jedi is or much about them, but isn’t it meant to be that much of the galaxy doesn’t? Even those who have heard of them think they are a myth. Din does have a base of knowledge; he knew about the Siege of Mandalore, the Great Purge, the Night of a Thousand Tears. He’s old enough to remember these things for himself, even if he wasn’t on Mandalore for them. He was able to figure out Moff Gideon’s identity based off of his time as an ISB officer during the Siege of Mandalore, the only place where his name would have been recorded. He can spot a Rebel drop trooper by her stripes, knows a New Republic prison ship on sight, speaks multiple languages. To be so good at avoiding detection in different areas of space under different law, he has to know them well enough to be able to dodge them, like how he doesn’t run a ping on his pre-Empire ship and has his entire excuse lined up for the off chance he is accosted. A lot of history and knowledge on Mandalorians (esp the old culture that his sect abandoned) has been kept from him, and he like most of the galaxy doesn’t know all the secrets and realities of the Empire and how it was ended (Jedi, force lightning, surprise dads and siblings, etc.) but he’s not a complete ignorant. He has the knowledge base a hunter from the Rim needs to do his job well and survive. He didn’t exactly have a Core education with history lessons and social studies. He has practical and culturally specific knowledge.

-Cross the wrong line with him and he will have no compunctions with killing you. See Gor in episode 9’s intro. He revealed that he has been hunting down Mandalorians to kill them for their beskar, and has lured Mando there for the same. After getting the info that he wants from him, Din leaves him to die in a gruesome manner. Core of compassion and selflessness or not, Din is a practiced and experienced killer. Threaten the helpless in front of him, threaten his Creed and his people, attack him, threaten the Child-- pay for it with your life.

If you're a fanfiction writer who can write Din Djarin in character, please just know that I am in absolute awe of you

[thesinglesjukebox]

WAXAHATCHEE - FIRE

[7.14]

When there's nothing left to burn...

Juana Giaimo: I've been listening to "Fire" ever since it came out. Sometimes, it hurts while other it feels liberating. It's all already present in the instant her high-pitched voice suddenly cuts through the quiet keyboard. The rest of the song flows naturally -- more instruments start appearing, the beat suddenly becoming like an encouraging caress and the guitar lines soothing her voice. "For some of us it ain't enough", she sings as her tone lowers and I can't avoid thinking in all the times I realized how much pressure I put in myself -- and in others, because as she sings, "If I could love you unconditionally"... but can she? And that's the thing: it's liberating when you think you can do it, and it hurts when you think you'll be like this forever. [10]

Vikram Joseph: Katie Crutchfield has seemed to be on the brink of an imperial phase for years now, and this might just be the dawn of it. I enjoyed Out in the Storm a lot, but "Fire" strips everything back and puts the focus squarely on Crutchfield's songwriting again, and the result is a thing of ephemeral beauty and heartwrenching dignity. Her songs have a way of getting to me, of piercing through the early hours of the day and honing in on my quietest thoughts. The crux of "Fire" is the line "For some of us, it ain't enough." It often feels like a lot of people sail through life with desires and dreams that are straightforward, tangible and easily fulfilled within the structures of our society. Waxahatchee is for those of us who fear we might never not be in search of something more. [9]

Leah Isobel: The in medias res opening, with Katie Crutchfield singing at the highest edge of her voice and then sliding down her range, sets the tone - after the emotional extremes of her last two projects, "Fire" acts as a comedown into something decidedly less volatile. It's well-deserved. But its ragged contentment probably works better in the context of a full-length record; taken on its own terms, "Fire" only expresses the warm glow of its title, not its destructive, cleansing power. [6]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: "Fire" ends with an ache, with unresolve; it needs another minute, another verse, another anything. But such incompleteness is key: Crutchfield knows the disbelief of hard-fought love reaching its end, of flames left to wither -- emptiness is there, always. As keys open the song in homespun, numinous splendor, her voice irrupts the space before gradually sinking (in intensity, melodically): a coming-to-terms in real time. "Give me something/It ain't enough" becomes a moment of unwanted, unforgiving clarity. Loping guitars provide some semblance of comfort, but it's the bumbling drums -- reminiscent of half-garbled confessions and thumping hearts -- that echo her hurt. Heartbreak is anything but Lethean; that pain sits with you when it's over: as absence, as numbness, as void. [8]

Kayla Beardslee: "Fire" is, I think, about the inability to commit, and I feel similarly about the song itself. Combing through the lyrics felt unrewarding on first listen, especially with the raw vocals, but it's all unfolded a bit with further repetitions. The lyrics do need the swelling music behind them to convince, but the thesis is there ("Give me something... It ain't enough"), the melody is pleasant, and the music is warm. Though the track still isn't quite hitting me in the right emotions (to be fair, they're a small and moving target), I've been oddly compelled to keep listening. Fire is complicated: it can create or destroy. [6]

Jonathan Bradley: Katie Crutchfield's voice flickers in strange and volatile formations, a flame licking around the melody looking for fuel. Her arrangement, however, is steady and certain: keys with stately chords and a heart that pumps warm blood. Such a relief, that arrangement, with its rolling drum beat, such comfort in the feeling that a blaze might be contained, that it might be a source of life rather than something grown wild and destructive. Crutchfield invokes the river and the sky, the liminal places in cars and on bridges and between the burred parts of tainted towns at the edges of the city. "For some of us it ain't enough," she murmurs, and she doesn't say what isn't enough, because the sense is that maybe nothing could be: perhaps it is the same unknown Lucinda Williams saw by the side of the road. [9]

Brad Shoup: "I'm a bird in the trees/I can learn to see with a partial view" is not only a sneaky-good internal rhyme, it's tapping a find-coziness/accept-mortality combo. Her vocal leaps in, barely contained, and gets settled by a crisply recorded slow lope of a backbeat. Because of the pace, maybe, it ends up like church music. [7]

Tim de Reuse: You've got the instrumental: rickety, skeletal, sparse enough that each note of the plucky guitar line barely leads into the next one. You've got the voice: dynamically expressive, sans vibrato, with circular harmonies and unpredictable syncopation in the middle verses. This is a tune about the difficulty of being vulnerable that's exactly as uncomfortable and awkward as its subject matter deserves, and it's all the more believable for it. [8]

Alfred Soto: She has a sound: a guitar picking that sketches tracks as skeletal as elm branches in winter. "Fire" combines song and sound, foregoing some of her identity too. Her melodies aren't as indelible as Mitski's, who shares this approach. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: A looping, synth build climbs, then pauses as pebble drums drop and Katie's piercing, cutting voice wafts up a running riff of bass and flattened guitar, which opens out for a slow snare pattern. The harmonies lurk alongside each other uneasily, with toms scattered down and piling on the right side of the mix. Allison drifts into the shadows, the bass loops once more and it fades into the morning fog. [6]

Kylo Nocom: The initial starkness is a fault, highlighting the obnoxiousness of the folk-y vocals; given some time, however, the song's central warmth slips out of every word she sings. [6]

Thomas Inskeep: I'm down with the low-key, lo-fi keyboards and the production in general, but why is she singing like that? That is one seriously off-putting voice. [3]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Fire" is gradual and well-crafted (the electric piano tone alone sounds so good that it made me look at the producer credits) and a little boring. It stretches out over its three and a half minutes like a cat in a sunbeam, never hitting any particular emotional high. I'm not so sure it needs to -- Katie Crutchfield sounds relaxed here in a sort of stasis, letting rolling drums and intricate guitar lines surround her. [6]

Julian Axelrod: Katie Crutchfield makes music for miscommunication. Her songs are deeply intimate and interior, but her lyrics are littered with lines from arguments and words left unsaid. Yet "Fire" is clear and uncluttered, honest and direct. It's an adult conversation with eye contact and mutual respect. And while it's still directed inward, it's informed by a lifetime of compromises and missed opportunities. Of course, communication never come without complications; Crutchfield is haunted by heartbreak and vice and the thoughts that keep her up at night. But the refrain -- "That's what I wanted" -- nods at the bravery of recognizing your true desires. It's an affirmation of the self after years of neglect, one of those rare beautiful moments when you can actually hear yourself think. The song stretches and unfurls like an endless highway, and the keys ripple like sun through the windshield. "Fire" is Waxahatchee's best song yet, and it feels like a promise: If you spend enough time chipping away at yourself, you can create something beautiful. [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[bellamyisinlovewithclarke]

Color Me Happy As Long As You’re Mine

(I can write apparently. Thanks to @sherlockvowsontheriverstyx and @clarkeisinlovewithbellamy

@bloggingbellarke @queencas @somethingmorecreative1 you might wanna see this?)

The gang goes back to the house once they saved the world. Bellamy and Clarke finally have a moment for themselves.

OR

Oops guess we have to share a bed?

(AO3)

They returned to the house three months after leaving it. They figured they deserved taking a break away from camp after saving the world again. Some people were against it. Complaining that everyone should be working on building back Arkadia and that a new war could start any time. “We need to be ready, we can’t just have half the kids running off on a vacation. And we all deserve time off!” Thankfully, Kane and Abby had defended them saying that they had fought more wars than any of them and that they could manage without nine pairs of hands for a couple of weeks.

So, they took a rover, some supplies and made their way back to the island. For fun. For once, they were together for fun and no another suicide mission. It made Bellamy smile, feeling truly happy for the first time in a while.

They had celebrated when nightblood had work and their bodies rejected radiations of course but immediately the pressure of building back a society had fell on his shoulders. Making countless of lists to try and organise everything. What they needed. Which buildings would be built first. People’s competences and how they could help. Schedules. It didn’t stop for weeks. Bellamy saw the stress eating away his friends for one too many time. Clarke barely slept, Raven spent all her time in makeshift cabin trying to figure out how to make basic needs more accessible. He saw the stress ruining relationships; Brian and Miller stopped talking after they had a terrible fight about not understanding each other in the middle of what they called the cafeteria. Harper and Monty decided they were better off as friends and that maybe war and the end of the world had pushed them together.

But right in this moment, driving to a peaceful house with nothing chasing or hurrying them, his friends chatting excitedly around him, he thought to himself that nothing could clouded this day.  

The house only had 4 bedrooms but sharing wasn’t so bad, especially when the other options were some cots and furs in a place that offered no guaranty of keeping you dry if it started raining. Murphy and Emori were an obvious match and they quickly claimed the room they had the first time around.

After that, it got trickier. In another life, Monty and Jasper might have share a room but even if their friendship had gained back most of its life, Jasper still had trouble with people and nightmares. He offered to take the couch, joking about being noble and saving everyone’s back.

Raven’s eyes had a wicked gleam in them when she announced loudly that she was gonna room with Luna. Grabbing Luna’s hand, Raven turned to face Miller, giving him a pointed look and raising her chin a little toward Bellamy and Clarke. The two girls left the room, eager to get to bed.

“Well. I’m not sharing with Bellamy, he snores.”

Monty let out a snort before dragging Miller to last empty room on that floor. Bellamy could still hear Miller warning teasingly Monty to turn off any weird sleep habit he might have when the bedroom’s door closed, leaving Bellamy and Clarke standing alone in the silence.

Bellamy shifted from feet to feet, an awkward dance, to try and calm his nerves. He could sleep in a bed with Clarke. Totally normal.

“Hey, I can take the other couch if you want.”

“No, no, it’s good. We can share, right?”

“I thought we could, yes. Come on, we even get to have the room I had last time. It’s upstairs.”

The atmosphere changed when they got to the room. Something about the pillows and heavy blankets on the bed, the darker colors on the walls and the softer lightning made Bellamy feel sleepy. More than he was back in the kitchen.

He turned to watch Clarke, opening his mouth to say something but the words die in his throat. In front of him was Clarke. Not wearing a shirt. Or a bra. Thankfully, she was facing away from him, her hands already unfastening her pants to let them fall on the floor.

Bellamy watched her bare back for only a couple of seconds before turning around to give her privacy. Just long enough that he could admire how her skin was free of bruise and scratch. Only scars covered the smooth surface. Reminders of what she had done, the good and the bad, but nothing that hurt her anymore.

Bellamy heard Clarke’s steps walking toward him and he turned back in time to see her in only an oversized t-shirt making herself comfortable between the pillows.

He carefully let himself slide in next to her. He settled a couple of inches away from her, protecting the privacy the size of the bed allowed.

But Clarke had other plans. She reached around sleepily for him. The girl finally got a grip of Bellamy’s hand and pulled him closer to her. Once he got close enough to feel her breath on his skin, Bellamy let their tangled hands rest on his hip.

“You can touch me, Bell. I won’t break.”

He carefully put let go of Clarke’s fingers before placing his on her ribs. Stroking her softly through the cotton of the shirt until her eyelids closed.

Of course, she wouldn’t break. Clarke was so strong, had endure so much for her young age, it made Bellamy’s head spin. His heart squeezed thinking about the version of Clarke who didn’t have her childhood ripped from her so quickly. A version of Clarke he wouldn’t have known. A selfish part of hi, was glad the world had ended around them. What had almost killed him had also gave him a family. And the possibility of starting one on his own. With Clarke.

He forced himself to think about something else. He was pretty sure Clarke shared his feelings even if they had never gotten the chance to talk about it. Like they were scared acknowledging them out loud would jinx it.

Exactly what Clarke was afraid of.

The memory of her coming back home from the island after making the nightblood was still fresh in Bellamy’s mind. How he had try to finish the conversation he had started on the beach. How she had looked up from the ground and he had seen the tears in her eyes. Telling him she couldn’t do it. Because the chances of loosing him were still too high and that everyone seemed to die around her.

“Wanheda.” She had bitterly said as an explanation.

“You’re not the commander of death, Clarke.” Bellamy had refused to repeat the dirty nickname again. “The Grounders made that up.”

“Because they feared me.”

“Because they know you’d do anything to protect your people. We made that called in Mount Weather but anyone would’ve do it.”

Bellamy had than reached for her face. His large hands covering her cheeks and burring themselves in her hair. He had smiled down at her and had let his forehead fell against hers.

Clarke had managed a small watery smile but had stayed silent.

But maybe now, now that they were at peace, Clarke could rethink about it. Maybe she’d allowed herself to be happy for once. And if everything went right, in a couple years, Bellamy could tell her about wanting to be a father. To be her children’s father.

Clarke wiggled a little, burying herself closer into Bellamy’s side.

“I can hear you thinking,” she whispered.

He smiled a little.

“I thought you were asleep. I told you to sleep.”

“Turns out I don’t get orders from you, Blake,” she joked. More seriously, she added. “You should sleep too, you know.”

“I will”

Clarke murmured a sleepy “now” before shutting her eyes and letting her head drop into Bellamy’s chest. He looked at her peaceful form and he felt like he died for a second. He could get use to her body getting lost near his every night when they went to bed. He wanted that for longer than just the trip.

He needed to tell her. She knew how he felt about her, he was sure of it but. But Bellamy couldn’t spend the rest of his life without Clarke hearing it from his mouth.

“Clarke?”

“Mmm.”

“I need- You need to- I- I-…”

Bellamy’s breath caught into his throat, chocking him. He panicked for a second before Clarke raised her head to look at him. Her arms moved from their places between their bodied to reached up his back and around his neck. Bellamy felt her small fingers made their ways into his curls.

“I know, Bell. I know. Shhhh. It’s okay. Me too.”

He closed his eyes. Frustrated that he couldn’t tell her exactly wanted but glad that she understood. He felt Clarke’s fingers moved on him, trying to calm him down.

Bellamy fell asleep not long after, listening to Clarke murmuring “tomorrow” repeatedly either as a prayer or as a promise, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if one was better than the other because, in the moment, he had hope tomorrow would be good.

And, God, was he right.

Waking up from the sun piercing through the blinds instead of the long list of chores was something Bellamy could get used to even if it’d only last until they went back to Arkadia. Waking up to Clarke basically on top of him, though, was something he could both get used to and hope to see continue at home.

He didn’t care his arm was asleep because of Clarke’s weight on it, or that her blonde hair was getting everywhere or that his bladder would make him have to get up soon. He only cared about the sleeping form resting on his stomach.

He didn’t think he had see her being so peaceful before. Even in her sleep, Clarke would toss and turn never fully relaxing. But here she was, half on top of him, her legs tangled in his, her eyelids completely free of twitching.

Bellamy slowly raised his free arm to caress Clarke’s back. His fingers danced on her moving the locks of blonde hair in their way. Clarke stirred a when he started twisting one of her curls around a digit. He froze for a moment, watching her eyes open and turning up to look at him.

A month ago, Bellamy would have turn his gaze away, he would’ve tried to remove his hand from her hair or even tried to pretend he was still asleep. But he didn’t. He continued to stare at the girl in his arms and dared to pull a little at her hair, just enough that it made her head tilted up toward him, a little noise escaping from Clarke’s throat.

“You’re okay?”

“Mm. Are you?”

“I am, Princess.”

“Good. Didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

Bellamy didn’t have time to answer before Clarke’s weight shifted on him and he felt her lips pressed against his. He kissed her back tentatively, soft and slow, like he had always wanted to do.  Clarke’s hands moved over his body greedily, tangling into his shirt and bringing him impossibility closer. Bellamy reciprocated the best he could with one of his arms still stuck between them.

After a moment, he pulled away from her, gasping for air. Clarke, as breathless, pushed her forehead on his. The two of them were smiling and laughing a little, too happy to do anything else.

“You could never take advantage of me. I will always want you, Clarke Griffin,” he whispered.

Clarke let out a watery laugh before giving Bellamy a quick peck. He would’ve been worried at the sight of the tears falling on her cheeks if he wasn’t sure they were there because she was happy. Bellamy couldn’t help but be proud he was the reason Clarke was content.

“I love you, Bellamy Blake. Always will. I don’t know-,” Clarke stopped. “I don’t want to know what I would’ve do without you.”

“You would have done great.” Clarke gave him a look. He laughed a little before continuing. “I love you too.”

Clarke bit her lips, still smiling. She bent down to kiss him again, tens of little pecks that quickly turned into a long slow kiss and Bellamy’s mind went blank.

He could definitely get used to mornings surrounded by Clarke Griffin. Maybe they had tons of work left in Arkadia, maybe the sky would fall on them but, in the moment, Bellamy had hopes that, if Clarke was by his side, he’d be good.

And, God, was he right.