#The Heartless Bastards

[dinosaursr66]

So last night I saw the Heartless Bastards again at the sublime Ardmore in Ardmore, PA. The Watson Twins opened. They were outstanding. It was a good night with great friends and my amazing wife.

SONG OF THE DAY - May 11. 2023

[stealthetrees]

I made too many jokes about Fox treating his pet tooka like a human child and now I want to give him a tabaxi child. Like the cat people from dungeons and dragons. Black cat that’s also his daughter. He also has the pet tooka, but would talk about them the same.

Anyone that doesn’t live with him thinks Fox has four kids, Jo (tabaxi), Chickenfoot (tooka), Message (mouse droid), and Grizzer (the hound he doesn’t even own). It will only get worse when he figures out how to smuggle clone cadets off Kamino. And yes, his batch is included in “everyone”.

[suckerforfluff]

ppl: discussing about which players should be shuffled for balance/self indulgence

me, holding on to the current teams for dear life: NO PLEASE DON'T TAKE THEM AWAY FROM ME i want red team to get worse. i want green team, full of lone wolves and natural leaders, to keep arguing with each other while still getting shit done. i want blue team to keep being stubborn menaces with the most tragically wholesome and efficient farming subteam LET ME KEEP THEM A LITTLE LONGER PLEASE I BEG

[wonder-worker]

I've been thinking about the tragedy of Elizabeth Woodville living to see the end of her family name.

I don't mean her family with her husband, which lived on through her daughter and grandson. I mean her own.

Her sisters died, one by one, many of them after 1485. When Elizabeth died, only Katherine was left, and she would die before the turn of the century as well.

All her brothers died, too. Lewis died in childhood. John was executed. Anthony was murdered. Lionel died suddenly in the peak of Richard's reign, unable to see his niece become queen. Edward perished at war. Richard died in grieving peace. For all the violence and judgement the family endured, it was "an accident of biology" that ended their line: none of the brothers left heirs, and the Woodville name was extinguished. We know the family was aware of this. We know they mourned it, too:

“Buy a bell to be a tenor at Grafton to the bells now there, for a remembrance of the last of my blood.”

Elizabeth lived through the deposition and death of her young sons, and lived to see the end of her own family name. It must have been such a haunting loss, on both sides.

[gayfandomblog]

Aang is like “why are my friends dead 👶” and iroh is like well there are several schools of thought on this 🧐

[dawnbreakersgaze]

Oh Zayne 🥺😭

Considering how absolutely fucked his fate is, I have so many feelings about this.

Every single ending on every timeline, fate finds a way to brutalize him. It makes me wonder if the Master choosing not to kill her was what set so much of it in motion, or if it came even before that.

Please PG let this sweet man just rest. Preferably with his head in my lap and my fingers in his hair while I hum him a tune. Just... let him rest 😩😔

[hannahssimblr]

I tap a knuckle against the study door. 

“Dad?”

There’s silence. 

I knock again. “Dad? Are you busy?” 

He’s moving around in there, I can hear him. Closing browser tabs, maybe. Shuffling around and rearranging things, in a blind panic trying to look like he’s doing something important. I huff out a tiny laugh at the thought of him hurrying to close the minesweeper window before someone can come in and catch him doing something unserious. I don’t really know what he does in his pokey little study all evening, but one of Jen’s crazy theories is that he’s chatting online to his twenty two year old YouTuber girlfriend, to which I need to remind her, once again, that my dad is too boring to have an affair. Mom says he’s writing reports and even that sounds too exciting for him.

“Come in,” he says eventually, and I let myself into his lair where he is sitting stoically at his computer, a stack of paper, no doubt with exceedingly dull information on them is right by his side, and his hand hovers over it so I'll know he’s especially busy, and whatever it is, I had better make it quick. 

I close the door behind me and approach him while his eyes settle curiously on the stack of soft cover books in my hands. “What are those?”

“I spoke to the guidance counsellor at school this week. She gave me some college prospectuses, and I thought we could... um, look through them together”

He heaves out a sigh and gestures to the second chair. The guest chair, I suppose, not that there’s ever guests in here to sit on it. It’s uncomfortable like a lot of furniture in this house, all style but no substance, and I perch on its edge, my knee doing that annoying anxious jerking thing while dad takes off his glasses and swaps them with another pair. “Show me what you have.”

I pass the stack to him and he drops it onto his desk with a thud, picks up the first and immediately flips the front cover towards me with a completely uncalled for attitude. “What’s this?”

“A prospectus.”

“Rhode Island School of Design?”

“Yes.”

He tosses it aside without so much as a glance inside it and grabs the next, “School of the Art Institute, Chicago,” Then reads the blurb incredulously “‘Art and design change the world.’ Alright…” He raises his eyebrows and puffs out a breath as he chucks it into the discard pile. “CalArts, nope.”

My face gets hot. 

He snatches another and flips over to the back, “‘Studying here is different,’” He reads, “‘It is about making a better world, about becoming a creative force and learning to change the world through bold and curious thinking…’” He mumbles the rest and then scoffs at it as if it’s some political argument he disagrees with inside the Sunday Times, and he goes on and on in this manner while the rejection pile builds and builds and so does the feeling inside me. 

“What is this?” He says eventually. “These are all American schools. American art schools.”

“Yes.”

He scrutinises me like he believes I have gone mad yet says nothing because he doesn’t need to. I already know what he’s asking. 

The words come out of me in a rush. I rehearsed this in the hall for five minutes before having the nerve to knock, “Because I think I would get a chance at a really great education there. It’d be good for me to be away and independent and to learn a lot of new things, not just education and art, but also travel and culture. I’d really like to go to college somewhere that’s exciting and dynamic and… and…” Damn, I forgot the other adjective I’d chosen, “...Um, fun, I guess. It’s just that whenever I think about college I imagine myself in the US. I really think that’s where I should be.”

“That’s because that’s what you see in those movies.” He says movies like one might say hardcore pornography, because Christopher doesn’t waste his time with such things as movies. Christopher works, and studies, and reads endless, endless books about World War II. “You’re not going to college in the states.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a waste of time and it’s a waste of money. Do you know what it costs to attend just a year of college in the US? Before your living expenses?”

“I know, but I spoke to the counsellor about it, and she explained that there are scholarships.”

He laughs, “You’re not going to get a scholarship,” and switches back to his other glasses and shakes his mouse to wake up his PC, which has some kind of thrilling spreadsheet open on it. This 2009 financial report must be rapturously exciting if he’s more interested in it than the future of his only son and firstborn child. 

I inhale sharply, “But why couldn’t I get a scholarship?���

“Because,” He types some numbers into the sheet, “You’d have to have a pristine academic record, a long list of extracurriculars and a very persuasive personal statement,” he peers briefly at me over the rim of his specs, “I’ve been through the US education system, and I know the standard that these colleges expect of their scholarship students. You’re just not up to it.”

“I could be, if I worked hard. I’m already doing pretty well in all of my classes, like, I get Bs in most things-” I stop myself before unhelpfully adding, without even trying, “And I have extracurriculars, like, I play rugby and help out Jen with her maths work…”

“You have to understand that the kinds of people who earn these scholarships do a lot more than that.”

“Well I would do more things if I had more time to myself in the mornings, or in the evenings, or after school, or at any other point in my day when I have to ferry Ivy back and forth from-”

Dad barrels on as though he hasn’t registered that I am speaking, “And you know, as well as the extracurriculars, all of these scholarship students have exemplary records. They're well mannered, well behaved, they never get into trouble, never get detention, never mind suspension. Twice.”

I snap my mouth shut. 

“Honestly, if I was the dean of one of these,” he plucks at the limp corner of one of the prospectuses, “Art college places, and I saw an application from someone with your record, I would simply toss it out. There’s not a chance, and before you ask, I am not paying for art school when you could easily do that here. For free.”

“Okay, I understand that, but I don’t really want to go to college here if I can avoid it.”

He doesn’t ask me why. He already knows but doesn't want to acknowledge it, and it’s easier, as it always is, just not to discuss feelings. Any feelings, especially mine, which are the most irritating and irrational feelings of all. “Why art school?” He hums, idly poking around with something on screen. “Couldn’t you choose a more academic course?”

I’m surprised he thinks I’m capable based on all the things he just said about me.

“You could apply for something in Trinity. Math, maybe?”

“Maths.”

“Or if you want something more artistic you could try English. Literature. That would be interesting, don't you think?”

“Or I could just… do art.”

“I would just hate to see you become one of those arty types. One of that NCAD crowd loitering around Thomas Street with their facial piercings and crazy haircuts.”

Oh no, a haircut. I sigh, “I’m not going to NCAD. I was kind of hoping you’d be more enthusiastic about my choices, but if you don’t think they’re right, I mean… what can I do.” I loathe the laugh that comes out of me, this strange, nervous titter that I didn’t even realise I was capable of.

I get up and begin to gather the stack of prospectuses laying forlornly on my father’s desk, my hopes and dreams bound for the recycling bin. “I’ll speak to the guidance counsellor again about my options, I suppose, and then I’ll try and choose something that’s more realistic for me.”

Before I let myself out I force myself to pause and turn to him one last time, “Do you… um, if I come up with more choices for colleges, do you think you’d want to sit down with me some evening and go through them? Like, I mean, really look over all of the options and help me decide what the best thing is?”

There is a lengthy pause. 

“You know, Jude, I’m really busy, and-”

“Okay.” I leave the room and shut the door with a gentle click.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[hella1975]

god should go wow girl ur tits are so big and ur problems are so extensive i hereby decree you will never feel poorly ever again

[nic-coughlan]

halloween barely in her grave and there's christmas adverts........

[fishyartist]

Please cut the “vote to Stop fascism!’‘ shit. it’s so exhausting. You’re not fucking helping anyone by wasting your breath on defending a status quo that has been grinding people to dust for millennia. The fascism has fucking Been Here. Care about that more!

[dinosaursr66]

The Heartless Bastards are not heartless or bastards. The are golden gods. Just watch.

SONG OF THE DAY - February 10, 2023

[kanohivolitakk]

*slides this here*

*runs*

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

Have a heartless bastards AU draft

There's a path in the woods.

And at the end of that path, there is home.

Its windows, glowing with firelight, serve as a beacon in the cold night. Shuuichi, in his haste, trips over a root, hidden by the snow. Before he manages to get himself back up, some of the ice melts into the gaps of his gloves, his boots. The cool, wet stains leave him numb.

He has to hurry. Mother is waiting.

Shuuichi's more careful, now, keeping to the middle of the path. In barely any time at all, he's at the garden gate. This is bad. The numbness is spreading through his arms. His frigid fingers won't cooperate, can't hold onto the keys. They fall and sink into the icy shadows before the gate. It looms above him as he kneels down and tries to dig. He must have been at it for minutes, but they're nowhere to be found. Fear siezes his heart - it took years for mother to give him the keys, and now he's lost them, just like that.

She'll never forgive him.

Cold seeps in through his pants, bites into his skin. He's forced to give up his search, if he doesn't want to freeze to death. He drags himself up, bangs and screams against the impossibly tall door, but of course, in the storm, no one hears a thing.

He's all alone.

Shuuichi slams himself against the door, but still it won't budge.

There's one last option.

His father's hunting rifle has never failed him before. He slings it off his shoulder, lines up the shot, and pulls the trigger. The bullet pierces the lock, shatters it.

Shuuichi hugs the rifle to his chest, the warmth of its barrel comforting against his cheek, and slams himself against the door. This time it gives. He falls face-first into the snow on the other side, but there's no time to waste. He pushes himself off the ground, scurries up the stairs to the house, and breaks through the living room's glass doors.

Where did mother go? She was supposed to guide him.

As he crosses the threshhold, he's hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. He clutches his chest, all of it too achingly familiar. The Christmas tree, the fireplace. Shukichi's stocking hanging right in front of, illuminated by the fire's glow. The warmth it's radiating draws him in, like a moth to the flame. Fire and warmth and comfort and home.

He doesn't belong here, doesn't deserve this, not anymore.

The flames hiss at his rejection, singe his frostbitten skin, dry his eyes. A spark snaps onto his chest, sets his clothes ablaze like tinder. He's forced to stumble back, drop and roll to try and extinguish the flames that cook his flesh. Searing pain cuts through all thought, through the pleasant numbness that had kept it at bay before. He's left heaving, breath too short, his heart burning in his chest.

It hurts. Why won't it stop hurting?

No matter what he does, he can't seem to douse the flames. Shuuichi can't stay; the blaze is spreading through the room. Already, the tree is set alight in scintillating red.

Charred and blackened, embers lurking beneath his skin, he creeps across the floor, a trail of ash and dust dancing behind him.

The only way out is down. He just has to endure the heat for a little while longer...

With a deafening crack, the floor gives, the structural integrity damaged beyond salvation, and he falls, face first, into the basement.

Shuuichi blinks his eyes open.

"You're late", mother chides, but her smile is one of pride, still. She gently lifts his useless body, no longer able to move by itself, and puts it in a cushioned chair. The ritual circle carved into the stone flares a brilliant crimson.

"I got lost on the way."

She hugs him - he presumes, without the accompanying physical touch. The only sensation left in his body is the nuisance in his chest, pumpinh liquid fire in his veins.

"I'm sorry. You had to forge the path yourself, or the anchor would be worthless."

His head lolls, can't manage the nod.

"It's fine."

He does his best to smile, hopes mother sees and knows it's meant for her.

For just a moment, hesitation washes across her features.

"Are you certain you want to go through with the ritual? You won't be able to go back."

His heart burns in incandescent agony.

He'd do anything to make it stop.

"Yes."

She straightens, and before his eyes, his mother disappears. In her place stands Mary Sera, arch witch of Blackpool, a statue hewn from glass and steel.

"Akai Shuuichi, blood of my blood. In accordance with the edicts passed down to us by the progenitor, do you surrender your anchor to us, so it may become the instrument of your unbinding?"

Weakly, he nods.

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

Thrice it's said, and done.

The woman wearing his mother's face squats down in front of him, and pries the hunting rifle from his grip.

"No-", whispers a tiny, weak voice in the back of his mind. "That's father's rifle, I was supposed to give it back when he returns-"

But even if he wanted to, Shuuichi doesn't have the strength to resist. It's ripped away like a band-aid, leaving his skin too raw, too exposed. He shivers.

At the witch's word, the rifle starts glowing red, orange, white, and Shuuichi's world explodes in searing pain. This shouldn't be possible. He's gone through fire, but it didn't burn this deep within his bones, didn't melt who he was, who he could be, into a single focus of possibility.

The woman bends the rifle, agonizingly slowly, compresses it into a bar of metal, the wood burnt away. From it, she forges a blade. Each strike of her hammer reverberates through Shuuichi, shatters his bones, his mind, until there's nothing left but fire.

Blessed is the moment she drops the blade into ice water; the breath stops in Shuuichi's lungs as he's sumberged with it, a brilliant clarity of mind to stare at his impending death.

The witch is upon him momentarily, knife in hand. She kisses his forehead, cold radiating from her lips throughout his body. He freezes.

Then she plunges the blade into his chest.

It hurts just once, on the way in, overwhelmingly sharp and cold. She carves a circle in his chest, and as she goes, the link between his searing, beating heart, and the rest of him, is severed.

When the witch tugs, something gives within his chest.

A mess of blood and crystal, connected to his body by wet, red strands, pulsates weakly in her hand.

Ah. So that's the tumor that was causing all his pain.

With one last cut, the witch rends his heart from his chest.

Good riddance.

Sweet relief washes over Shuuichi, and he blacks out.

It's over.

.

When he comes to, his mother leads him through the basement to the family vault.

He has no use for his heart, would've liked to toss it away. But after that whole procedure, it still must be kept safe. How annoying.

Shuuichi places the heart in a bed of crushed ice, and slams the door of Pandora's box shut.

He's got a plane to catch.

[bananonbinary]

today my heartless bastard man of a cat took food from weak and infirm people who were too sick and miserable to stop him (stole the spoon that was used to make mac and cheese when we werent looking, because he knows we all have covid and aren't keeping a close eye on him)

[anglerflsh]

neurodivergency moment on my part

[izunias-meme-hole]

Ansem/Terra-Xehanort Appreciation Post