#four sea interludes

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

✨niche opera poll time✨

[shellshocklove]

does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings/rating: 18+ explicit. extended warnings will be given for each part.

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from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

part one

part two

↳ interlude

part three

part four

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[draconic-desire]

your yan!neuvi series got me on a chokehold !! I feel so bad for darling but it got me thinking, would neuvillette ever allow them to i dont know, go visit mondt to look at their parents’ grave (?).

Neuvillette meets his (dead) in-laws edition 😂

Ok this idea is simultaneously kinda funny but also makes me cry a bit because I totally think Neuvillette would have ensured your family’s wellbeing in your absence. Despite his flaws, he still maintains his overwhelming sense of duty and justice.

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

(A Dance with the Dragon Interlude)

Talking about your life four centuries ago has become a bit of a taboo in the household you share with Neuvillette.

Mostly, it only serves to incite an argument, one you are always predestined to lose. The other times, it only reminds you of painful memories. So, you’ve learned to bite your tongue, to keep your past held tightly to your heart. Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, you believe he might prefer if your history were to be wiped from your mind completely, leaving a blank slate for him to carve his essence into.

Which is why you’re so shocked when, on a particularly storming evening, the Chief Justice himself requests, “Tell me about what your parents were like.”

Jolting, you nearly drop the book in your hands. He’s not looking at you—usually, having his gaze on you translates to irritation, concern, or lust. When he’s looking away from you, as he is now, irises trained on the waves battering the cliffs below your home, you know that means he is instead thinking, pondering.

But thinking about what? Your eyes narrow, and your heart accelerates. What is he getting at?

A hand clenches around your heart when you try to picture your mother and father in your head—and fail. Four hundred years without a visit or simple image…of course their features have faded over time. But you’ll never forget the warmth, the knowledge that they loved you until the end and supported your lifelong wish of pursuing marine biology, even when it took you away from them.

You only shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about that, Neuvillette.”

He turns to you, now, eyes filled with calculation. A judge presiding over his court. “I had no parents. I simply…came to exist. Born of the water, the waves, the sea foam, and bestowed with this primordial power.” He glances down at his gloved hand, palm squeezing into a fist. “So the idea of parents is…foreign to me. Though I have a sense of the kind of ceaseless, unconditional love that defines a family.” You know he’s talking about his feelings for you, and your tattoo burns. “Experiencing a loss of that magnitude would be incomprehensible.”

For the life of you, you cannot figure out his endgame here. Why acknowledge your loss? Why equate his adoration and obsession with you for parental love? Your eyes burn, your breath quickens, you feel the tattoo pulse with energy as you—

“Do you ever wonder about how they lived the rest of their lives?”

Yes. No. Everyday. Somehow, you find your voice, a quiet thing filled with warning. Your skin feels so hot, like your veins are laced with lightning. “And how would you know anything about that?”

Neuvillette’s sharp eyes cut to your frame. “I…made sure that they were fully provided for. They lived happy lives, believing you to be living out your dreams in Fontaine. They are now buried together, in the cathedral cemetery overlooking the Brightcrown Mountains.”

Your breath hitches, and that power in your blood begins to settle. Their favorite place. The Brightcrown Mountains, where your father proposed to your mother. The Favonius Cathedral, where they were married. And the cemetery behind the church, where your grandparents had been entombed, too.

Something falls onto your lap. It’s only when you touch your hands to your face that you realize you’re crying. Neuvillette watches you with concern, one hand raised and poised to reach out to you, but he keeps his distance as he lets you process.

You release a shaky sigh. Was it true? Did they pass with no fear for your safety, in ignorant bliss of your extended life? The thought, although morbid in some ways, actually brings you a sense of peace. Your parents never had to endure the loss of you in the same way you had for them.

You swallow thickly, your voice hoarse with emotion. “Can we…visit them?”

That sets Neuvillette’s back ramrod straight as he blinks. You’ve only been out of the house a handful of times, and he was the one to bring this topic to light, but to venture out of Fontaine entirely? His protective and possessive instincts flare immediately, screaming at him to shut this idea down, to grab you and sink his teeth into your neck, dominant, claiming. But as his silver eyes flick across your face, taking in your tears, the tremble in your hands, the pit of mixed despair and relief in your eyes, he relents.

Slowly, he blinks, taking in a deep breath. You’re expecting an excuse, a verbal slap on this wrist disguised as concern for your safety. Which is why, for the second time tonight, you’re stunned when Neuvillette, rising to his feet, extends his hand. “I’ll take you there.”

~*~

The trip is easy, thanks to the Hydro Dragon’s teleportation abilities. The two of you arrive at the large square in front of the cathedral, the statue of Barbados towering above you. Briefly, you wonder what the Archon of Freedom thinks about your situation, or if he even deigns to care.

Not much has changed about Mondstadt in four hundred years. The streets still possess an older feel, cobblestone streets and stone walls surrounding the city. After seeing the drastic change in Fontaine, the fact envelopes you in a sense of comfort, knowing that at least one aspect of the world has aged alongside you, long-lived but unchanged.

It’s long grown dark, and the heavy downpour persists. Neither of you brought an umbrella as you ascend the stairs and wrap around to the cemetery behind the church. The rain, however, seems to dissolve into your skin rather than chilling you or soaking your clothes, no doubt another consequence of Neuvillette’s magic coursing through your veins.

The Hydro Dragon leads you to a small plot towards the back. Two tombstones are erected side by side, and you fall to your knees as you read: (Mother’s name) and (Father’s name) (L/n). Lives entwined to their last breath, they soar high above the clouds.

You hear a rustle of fabric, and soon Neuvillette has joined you, kneeling by your side. He raises his arm, and tendrils of blue light pool from his palm, forming the shape of beautiful flowers. They surround the graves, a sea of blues to celebrate your loved ones.

The two of you sit there for what could have been minutes or hours. All you know is that this is the most at peace you’ve felt in four hundred years.

[3d-wifey]

INTERLUDE

| Interlude | | Finnick |

He doesn’t remember much from those early years. Finnick’s first, and last, memories of his mother come in flashes, like glimpses of the sun blinking on the ocean’s surface—fleeting, there and gone. Moments stitched together with threads he’s held onto for so long that some of them have frayed.

He was three, maybe four. 

There were summers by the water, his mother cheering him on as he splashed and kicked—learning to swim, her laugh loud enough to echo across the shore. He’d wade in, stumbling in the shallows, and she’d be there, not in the water with him but just close enough to watch. 

“Go on, Finnick,” she’d call out, laughing as he fought the gentle push of the waves, his little arms flailing in the sunlight. And she’d sit on the rocks and clap, calling out “Almost, Finn! Just a little farther!” as he tried to paddle back toward her, legs churning until he couldn’t keep his head above the water any longer. She was there, always there to scoop him up and lift him high, the salt drying on her freckled arms, her wet hair dark and wild as seaweed. She had big blue eyes, just like his, but they were always, always sad.

When he would make it himself, swim to and fro without her help, he’d turn to see her there, cheering him on, her smile so wide it made her cheeks dimple. He remembers being so sure then, remembers thinking that he was as powerful as the sea.

At home, there was her humming—a quiet song threading through the dusk-lit room as she sat in her chair by the window, knitting needles in her hands, moving as surely as waves. He’d rest beside her, wrapped in the sounds of thread slipping, her voice lulling him to sleep, her fingers brushing his curls when she thought he was already gone. Her hands were rough and calloused, familiar as the salt air. He’d watch her work until his eyes closed, the needles casting small, sharp shadows on her cheeks and the blue beneath her eyes. 

He remembers his father returning from sea every few weeks, how the house would fill with warmth and his father’s laughter. He remembers the way his mother’s face would light up, like the sun breaking through a storm. He’d throw Finnick up into the air, higher than anyone else, his big hands rough from working the boats but gentle as they caught him. Finnick’s arms flailing and legs kicking while he shrieked in delight. 

He’d always bring gifts from his trips. “Look what I brought back just for you,” his father would say, handing him something smooth and polished—a shell, a carved fish, the tail of a gull’s feather, a strange charm that he’d say was to protect him. 

He’d be half-swallowed in his hug, pressing his small face into his father's shirt as he asked him, “How’s my boy?” He doesn’t remember what he would answer, only the feeling of being whole again, and feeling, for a while, like everything was as it should be. The way he’d reach out a hand to Finnick’s mother and give her a smile that made her eyes look a little less sad.

But she slept so much, his mother. More on the days his father was home, when he’d take Finnick out on the boat or carry him to market, his little arms looped tight around his neck. She was always tired. The older he got, the more he noticed it, the way she’d linger in bed on the mornings his father was home, only stirring to pull Finnick close under the blankets, holding him like he might drift away if she let go. Sometimes she’d hum him back to sleep, and other times, she’d just lie there, arms around him, her breathing so soft he’d wonder if she was really there.

Sometimes, he'd snuggle close, whispering stories to keep her entertained while her gaze drifted somewhere far, far away. He’d tell her about the sandcastles he built on the shore or the strange shapes he saw in the clouds. She would smile, faintly, a ghost of a thing that flickered in and out of the room. “That’s wonderful, Finn,” she’d murmur, her voice soft as a lullaby, and he’d keep talking, filling the quiet between her breaths.

Then, one night, she woke him up. 

She woke him in the dark, her hand gentle on his shoulder, her eyes softer than he’d ever seen them—tugging him from his bed that he’d only just started sleeping in by himself, whispering his name, her voice gentle. So gentle, he can still hear it in the early morning tide if he listened for it. He never does.

The world was bathed in silver moonlight, shadows stretching long and thin, and she was there, holding his hand. 

The night air was cool as she led him barefoot down the path toward the old couple’s house at the edge of the village. He didn’t understand, not really, but did what he always did. He took her hand and followed, stepping through the sand with her. The rough grains pressing between his toes as he swung her hand, talking about nothing and everything. 

Chattering sleepily about the stars, the patterns he’d spotted, and how high his father had tossed him when he’d come home last. About the shells he found, the way the tide sounded like it’d tell him its secrets if he listened close enough. He doesn’t remember what he talked about exactly—he was always talking when she was quiet—but he remembers the sound of her breathing, steady and close, as they made their way to the old couple’s house. She listened, nodding, her smile barely visible in the moonlight, soft and no dimples in sight.

She knelt beside him on their neighbor’s front step, folding herself down until her blue eyes were level with his. She said something to him, her mouth moving around words he’s never been able to remember no matter how many times he tries, only that they made her eyes glassy with a sadness he didn’t understand. Then she pulled him close, hugging him, a long, quiet embrace that he tried to wriggle out of, impatient to go home. But she held on, her hands sliding down from his shoulders to his hands. It felt like it would go on for forever. He wishes it had.

He remembers her chin resting on his head, her fingers pressing into his back, holding him so close it was like she wanted to memorize him. She said something else to him, but the words are lost, fading into the sounds of the night and the rush of the ocean nearby. 

Then she let go, and he watched her walk away, her figure fading into the darkness, swallowed by the night.

The next morning, the old woman held him in her lap, murmuring to him words he didn’t understand about Poseidon and “the sea’s calling.” 

He stayed with them for days, maybe weeks, maybe even months. He’s not certain how long the old couple watched him for—doesn’t remember when he stopped expecting his mother to come back for him.

His father came back from sea not long after, though it, like everything, felt like forever, like he had spent years in that little house, waiting by the window, looking for her down by the shore. 

When his father came to get him, he didn’t look like himself. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow, and he held Finnick close—closer than he’d ever held him before. He asked his father where she’d gone, why she hadn’t come back. He pulled him into his arms, whispering against his hair, “The sea took her, Finnick.” That was all he said. All he would ever say.

For years, he believed him. He thought she must’ve gone to work on the water like his father did, her hands lifting nets from the ocean, pulling fish from the deep, going to places he’d see one day when he was older. He waited for her, so sure that she’d come back when the tides turned, arms open, eyes bright again. 

But she never did.

He told himself she’d be back, that maybe she’d gone far away but would return with gifts, with seashells or stories of strange fish and far-off places. She’d come back someday.

But when he turned seven, some kids at school told him the truth. They laughed as they said it, their voices sharp as coral, taunting as they whispered what they’d overheard from their parents. 

Your mother walked into the sea, they said. She left you behind.

They talked and talked about the night she’d walked into the water and kept going, farther and farther out, until the waves had taken her under.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t tell them they were wrong. He just felt something crack inside, a tiny fracture that spread through him, leaving an emptiness he had never known before.

He remembers the hot, sick feeling in his chest as he ran home, the words catching in his mind like shards of glass. He didn't want to believe them. He didn’t want to imagine the dark, icy pull of the water, the way it must have swallowed her whole. But that night, he looked into the mirror and saw his own eyes staring back, sad and blue as the sea, and he understood. He understood that this was the closest he’d get to seeing his mother again. 

And he never asked his father about her again. He kept it all inside, this hollow, gnawing grief, and learned to carry it the way she carried him—to keep it safe, to hold it close, a memory wrapped in silence.

He knows he looks like her.

Not from his own memory, not even from photos, but from the mouths of people who knew her. Finnick isn’t sure who he really is; he’s only ever known himself through her reflection. The way they’d tilt their heads, smiling softly, every time he laughed too easily or went quiet and lost himself in thought. “Your mother used to do that,” they’d say, watching him with sad eyes he learned to ignore.

But he knows he looks most like her when he cries. That’s how he remembers her best—those blue eyes heavy with something he was too young to name. He knows it in the way he sees strangers’ faces soften, how their pity shifts as they look into his sad, sad eyes and see not him, but the grief his mother left behind. 

He can feel her there, lingering in the corners of his gaze, as if her sadness seeped into him and stained him like a watermark he can never quite wash away. 

His walk, his laugh, the way he cocked his head—he wondered if any of it was his own or if it all belonged to her. He worked hard to make sure the rest of him was hers, too. He let the sun bleach his hair light, coaxing it toward the same dusky blond his mother’s used to be, the kind that hovered between brown and gold, and he’d walk along the shore until his skin took on the same sunburnt freckling that she had. He’d turn to the sea, hoping the waves would tell him how to hold himself like her, hoping the tide could bring her back even if only in the small ways he carried her.

People used to tell him this, too—how much he was like her, how he must carry so much of her inside. But what was he supposed to say to that? How was he supposed to feel? How much of me is her? he would think, feeling hollowed out by all the ways he could never quite tell where she ended and he began. She haunted him, and yet he clung to her memory, the way his father clung to the sea. He hated it—he hated how much of himself wasn’t his own, but what else did he have of her?

He loved her, yes, but sometimes it made him angry. He hated that his whole life had been spent waiting for a mother who had chosen to leave him, and for a father who drifted off whenever he felt the pull of the ocean. 

Maybe his father was angry too. Maybe that’s why he kept leaving Finnick behind, alone in that little house with its cold, empty rooms—like something he’d left in the sand to be worn away by the waves. Maybe that’s why he left him to scrape together dinner on his tiptoes, left him to the elderly couple down the road who’d feed him soup and pat his head with hands too frail to lift him. 

Maybe that’s why he’d let him wait in the sand for hours, sitting on the shore with his small fists clutching the shells and stones his father used to bring back from sea, hoping he’d come home and bring his mother back with him. But the years went on, and Finnick stopped waiting for him, stopped waiting for anyone.

The comparisons—a fact of his life, a rhythm, as steady as the tides—they stopped, too. 

It all stopped once he won his Games.

After that, people stopped saying he was like her, stopped comparing him to the woman with the soft voice and the sad eyes. 

Sweet, poor Finnick, they’d whisper with pity, shaking their heads as if he were something fragile, something broken. That Odair boy, practically an orphan. And he understood because the person he became in those Games—that wasn’t his mother. 

People no longer told him he looked like her. No, they couldn’t see her in him any more—not in Finnick, who had lied. Finnick, who had cheated. Finnick, who killed to survive. And he understood why. His mother had never had a violent bone in her body, and would never have raised a weapon. She hadn’t survived, hadn’t done the things he had to in the arena. They couldn’t imagine her in his place, fighting and clawing her way back. And he wondered, sometimes, if that’s what kept her from surviving. If maybe she’d still be here if she’d been able to do what he did.

And sometimes he’d get so angry at her. He’d think, how could she leave her child? Her husband? They needed her. He needed her. And he hadn’t been enough to keep her here, not even her own son, her little boy with her blue eyes and her sad, sad smile. He hated her for it, sometimes, and other times, he just felt hollow, the way he’d felt when they told him he looked just like her. That she walked into the sea. That the ocean and its waves had more of a claim over Finnick’s mother than he did.

And sometimes, that thought makes him angry too. Angry at her. Because sometimes, he thought she was the one who was weak. That if she’d had it in her to fight, she might have stayed. Stayed for his father, for him. If she could have fought her own sadness, she might have been there to protect him. Sometimes, Finnick wonders if she would still be alive if she’d had that edge, that brutal instinct he learned in the arena. Maybe it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t enough to anchor her, maybe it was something in her that let her drift away, too light to stay.

And sometimes, when it was quiet, he’d wonder if he would have ended up like her if he hadn’t fought, if he hadn’t been forced to harden himself. Forced to tear out all those soft parts of him and leave them buried in that arena. He knows what it’s like to be carried away by something you can’t control, a force so much bigger than you. Sometimes, he thinks the Capitol is his ocean, dragging him into its depths, forcing him to fight for every breath. The Games hardened him in a way she never had the chance to be hardened, and in that way, they will never be the same. In those moments, when the anger faded and the silence settled over him, he’d think, maybe, just maybe, he could understand her.

As he grew older, his face changed, his shoulders grew broad and his jaw sharpened, his reflection growing more and more like his father’s. His voice deepened, his steps grew heavy and certain. He started tanning instead of freckling, and his eyes developed a green tint. 

No more being called that Odair boy. 

Instead, he’s just Finnick. Capitol Darling, Charming Career.

His mother only exists in faded memories, now, in the way he looked as a child—soft, sad, open to the world. His baby photos, where he’s her twin. 

But she lingers, too, in the way he looks after those he cares for, in the fierce way he defends them or softens his voice. She’s there in the way he hates being told what to do. He sees her hands in his own as he holds others tight in his arms, just like she used to hold him. He whispered stories to keep them safe, telling them everything and nothing, like he had with her all those years ago, her memory flickering at the edges of every word. She lives on in those small rebellions, in his quick temper, in the way he loathed authority.

She was there in the way he always felt the sea pulling at him, just out of reach.

She lived on in the curve of his lips, the strength of his hands, and in the depths of his sad, sad sea glass eyes—the ones that stared into the ocean like they could see something just beyond the horizon.

When he looked in the mirror, he sometimes saw her still. Not her face, but her spirit. And that was something no one could take from him.

| Interlude | | You |

You grew up in a place where life is as fragile as the cotton plants that grow on the outer reaches of the district—shrouded by the shadows cast by the Capitol. But life was tougher too, with roots that burrow deep into the soil of Eleven. 

Your earliest memories are filled with the scent of Earth, of wild herbs, and the way your mama's voice carried through your little shack as she cooked, singing songs she said her mama used to sing. You don’t have many memories untouched by death or hunger, but the ones you do have are stitched together by the voices of your people, by the warmth they’d create when the cold nights set in.

Life is hard, yes, but it is shared.

Death finds you early in Eleven. It’s woven into the air, in the soil you turn with calloused hands, in the empty spaces left by people who once sat beside you by the evening fire. But it comes down like a hammer for those who work the hardest.

Mr. Laramie is the first person you know to die, your friend’s daddy. You’re four or five, and it’s the first time death really takes hold in your mind. Mr. Laramie, a good, quiet man, his skin worn and cracked from the sun, his back bent with years in the fields. He tried to steal food for his family, just a couple of tomatoes, they said.

When they caught him in the act, they made a show of it, a warning for everyone watching. They dragged him into the rows, pressed a gun to his temple, and left him there in the dirt like a broken tool, his blood soaking the earth he spent his life tending. You’re there when they deliver the news to his son. You remember your friend’s face afterward, eyes empty, shoulders slumped, the wooden toy yall were playing with still clutched in his little hands. 

It was the first time you really understood what hunger could drive a person to do.

Death is everywhere in Eleven. You were born into it, welcomed by it like an old friend. Even on the day your mama brought you into the world, someone else was leaving it—a neighbor, an old woman a few doors down who finally slipped away after years of sickness and hunger. “She went quiet in her sleep,” they told your mama, as if slipping away in silence was the most anyone could hope for. 

You’re six the first time you see someone die, up close and too real. The girl is barely older than you, her hands blue from the cold, her breath shallow. It’s winter, the frost settles on everything, and the crops are stunted, thin, a poor harvest even for Eleven. She’s bundled in all the clothes she has, but it’s not enough. She collapses in the middle of the rows, and no one has the strength to lift her. They just leave her there, a thin frame curled among the plants, her mouth open, her eyes staring at nothing. You don’t cry. You barely feel it. Death is just another shadow here, another thing to step around. And you learn early on that tears don’t bring anyone back.

But the first time you do cry, the first time something in you breaks because of death, is the day they hang your daddy.

Your daddy was tall and strong. You remember him best as someone who held his head high, even when it wasn’t safe to do so. His voice calm and steady as he taught you how to slip through the shadows of the district’s boundaries to forage wild herbs and roots. He’d pick up a leaf and explain, “This one can ease a fever. Remember that.” Your small fingers would mimic his, brushing over the leaves and flowers as you learned how to heal wounds and ease hunger with the plants that grew wild in your corner of the world. But your daddy didn’t only know plants; he knew something deeper, a fire you couldn’t yet understand. 

He was part of the underground, something they called the Resistance—a quiet movement of whispers, songs sung in fields, messages passed under cover of night. He’d tell you stories about freedom, about how one day you’d all be able to live without the watchful eyes of the Peacekeepers. Whispering truths about the Capitol that most dared not say out loud, his words carried in secret meetings held late at night when you’d listen from your bed, holding your breath to catch each word. 

You’re young—freshly eight—when they take him. Peacekeepers came to your shack, their white uniforms gleaming in the midday sun, their faces hidden behind visors that caught your reflection like a mirror. They dragged your daddy out into the square, forced him up on the platform, and made the whole district watch. It wasn’t just him. They had a whole line of people you recognized all lined up at the steps of the gallows with guns at their backs. Friends and neighbors, faces you’ve seen in the fields, neighboring Shacktowns, or in your own home passing around laughter and mason jars of moonshine.

You were afraid to move, afraid to breathe, because you knew this would be the last time you'd see him, and part of you didn’t want to see at all. They slipped the rope over his head, and you were forced to stand there, held tight by your mama as you tried to look away. But your daddy’s eyes found you in the crowd and you couldn't move, couldn't look away as his eyes held yours for one last time. He gave you a look you’ll never forget, steady and sad, like he wanted to tell you something that the words couldn't hold. A look that said so much without words, holding all the things he never got to teach you. And then he was gone, his life snapped away in a moment, and you felt your own breath turn ragged as you stood there.

You cried then, in a way you’ve never cried before, not even realizing the tears were yours until you felt them burning your cheeks. Standing still in the newfound silence of a world without his voice.

“Remember, baby,” he’d say, voice low but certain. “The land gives, and we survive. One day, it’ll be ours again.” But they took him from you, took him from everyone, and after that, life grew even harder. 

After that, something in you changed. You learned to hold your heart close, like a seed buried in deep soil, protected from the harshness of the world. From then on, death became a part of you, a constant presence that shaped the way you saw—it was everywhere, as familiar to you as hunger, as certain as the morning light. It was in the fields where the workers toiled without end, in the eyes of the children who grew up knowing they might not live. You learned the value of life through its fragility, understanding that every kindness, every shared meal, was an act of defiance. Eleven is a place of suffering, but it’s also a place of quiet resilience.

By the time you were ten, you knew almost every plant that grew in the fields, every root and leaf that could heal a wound or ease a fever. Your daddy had taught you a bit before he was taken, and the rest you learned from the women in the fields, the ones who knew how to draw life from the land when there was nothing else. You’d spend hours with your hands in the dirt, learning to listen to the plants, to coax medicine from the earth itself.

But the brightest memories in your mind aren’t the lessons or the plants—they’re the people. You remember the way you’d come together after a long day in the fields, your mama’s voice blending with the others as they sang old songs, songs older than Panem, full of voices and harmonies that filled up the night like the stars.

They were the same voices that filled your daddy’s old stories—the kind of tales that made you believe in things, even when believing felt dangerous. “One day, baby, we’ll be free. That’s the promise of this land.” You didn’t know if it was true, but you carried those words in your heart, a flame that wouldn’t die.

Life went on after your daddy died. It had to. You buried your grief as best you could, learned to carry the emptiness inside you like something precious, because survival in your district demanded strength. You became good at it, at finding ways to keep going even when the world felt like it was pressing down on you. The people around you were good at it too. You learned to find strength in your neighbors, your cousins, the elders who shared stories and knowledge when the day’s work was done. There was an understanding: you took care of your people, no matter what. 

Your mama would make big pots of gumbo from whatever she could scrape together—okra, wild greens you foraged, a handful of beans. “We got somethin’ to share, y’all come on by,” she’d call to the neighbors, the kindness in her voice as warm as the meal itself. 

Each person would bring a bowl and what little they could spare—a handful of berries, a sprig of rosemary, a single ear of corn. It wasn’t much, but together, it was enough. Sharing was survival. The people were bound together by blood, by hardship, and by the quiet defiance of simply helping each other stay alive.

And that’s how you learned the real rules of Eleven: you survive because of each other. 

But the people in power—well, they understood that too, and they twist that knowledge into something ugly. Giving favors, they call it, but everyone knows it’s just a way to keep you in their debt. If you’re useful enough, polite enough, if you play along, you might earn a little extra, a small mercy that can mean the difference between going hungry and getting by. Favors from those in power are never given freely. There’s always a cost, a debt owed, and often, that debt is paid in the currency of the body. The overseers—the landowners, Peacekeepers, and government workers—carry a thin veneer of friendliness, but it’s a kindness that feels more like a trap. There’s an unsettling familiarity to the way they touch young farmhands, resting hands too long on shoulders, fingers lingering at the nape of a neck.

You’re one of the lucky few to learn early on that Eleven is ruled by people who wield authority like a twisted kindness. The “friendly” ones in power carry themselves like they’re doing the district a favor just by noticing someone.

They walk through the fields, through the classrooms, the streets, offering advice or singling out a worker for a nod or a rare word of encouragement. The attention feels like a gift to those who receive it, a rare touch of warmth in a place so starved of mercy. But everyone knows the truth beneath it. The slightest offense, the wrong word or a moment’s defiance, and that smile would vanish in an instant, leaving only the hollow threat of punishment behind.

It’s a careful game of give and take. They’ll do favors, as long as you do something in return. The doctor might “forget” to write down an illness if you keep his family supplied with extra rations, or maybe the mayor’s wife will spare you a blanket during the winter in exchange for a few hours of free labor. The mayor himself often shows up to gatherings, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s one of you, his tone full of practiced empathy. “You’re my people,” he’d say, with an indulgent smile, watching your faces for a response, always a little too invested in your gratitude. For some, it’s easy to fall into the trap. To believe that these scraps of attention mean something, that the people in power have a genuine care for them.

But favors in Eleven come with invisible chains. Those who agree find themselves indebted, their lives bound by unspoken rules they’re expected to follow. It’s a kind of currency that binds families to one another, legacies of obligation passed down like heirlooms. Certain businesses—a tailor’s shop, a mill, a farm—stay within families because they’ve earned the protection of those above. If there’s no heir, the district’s lawyer, a ratty little bastard with slick hair and an even slicker voice, might suggest adopting one of the orphans running barefoot through the fields, a child who can work the land and keep the family name alive. In return, loyalty is expected, unquestioning and constant.

The landowners are masters of the game and you learned to fear the ones with the friendly smiles more than the ones that kick you down. They walk through, inspecting their crops, watching their workers, always with an eye on the young ones. They’re friendly, too friendly, letting their hands linger on bare skin, giving out compliments that stick to you like the greasy film that humidity leaves behind. “Good job, sweetheart,” they’ll say, or “You’re a fine worker, just like your mama.” Sometimes, if you laugh at the right moments or smile in just the right way, they might give you an extra ration or an afternoon off to rest, a rare “privilege” dangled as if it were something earned, rather than something extracted.

Sometimes it’s subtle: a landowner complimenting the way a girl ties her kerchief, calling her “pretty” or “sweetheart” while his gaze drags over her in ways that make her skin crawl. Other times, it’s more direct, with a hand sliding over a back or squeezing an arm, testing the boundaries of what they can take. These people, they hold power over your livelihoods, your rations, your families. A farmhand might go along with it, hoping that a coy smile or a quiet “thank you” will keep the landowner’s eyes off his younger siblings, off the others who work the fields. But the really unlucky ones—the ones who catch too much attention—don’t come back with stories. They come back silent, eyes empty, like they’ve left a part of themselves behind.

And the Peacekeepers—they’re worse. They’ll flirt with you, lay on the charm thick, calling you “darling” or “pretty thing,” like they’re doing you a kindness by noticing you. They know how to play the part of the protector, watching over you with a smile, their hands heavy on your back, their voices so smooth once they’re free of those helmets. They’ve got pretty faces to match those pretty words. Their faces aren’t gaunt from too many missed meals, skin undamaged from the sun, hailing from either District Two or the shiny Capitol itself—far too used to getting what they want. But that pretty exterior, much like their kindness, is a trap, and it can turn on you in an instant. The same Peacekeeper who laughs with you one day, who praises the way you work, or how precious you are might sneer at you the next, calling you “filthy” or “an animal,” worse than an insect, something that crawled out of the mud. 

And you’ve seen them snarl with disgust, heard them mutter that they “wouldn’t touch you with the muzzle of their gun.” And yet he’s the same Peacekeeper who swore to “look after” you the day before if only you’d give him a little something to make it worth his while. You’ve heard them ask for a hand behind the barn, seen them lead friends to where the hay stands tall—tall enough to hide away from view—only to return five, maybe ten minutes later as if nothing happened. 

You learn to play along, to laugh when they laugh, to duck your head when they get too close, but you never forget what they think of you.

And when someone tries to resist, to deny the favor being demanded, the backlash is swift and brutal. Rations are withheld, assignments become harsher, and public humiliation is wielded like a weapon, a warning to anyone else thinking of defiance.

Even those in good standing know that every privilege is fragile. And every month, they hold court in the square, a grim spectacle of justice for all to see. They’d line up the “criminals” in a single row like animals on display—workers who’d dared to defy orders, or simply hadn’t shown the right respect—pulling them to their knees for the crowd. Sometimes it’s a whipping, the crack of the lash sharp as glass, and everyone is forced to watch as their bodies flinch under the blows. Other times, it's hard labor with no rations, a punishment that meant starving while you worked to the edge of collapse. 

And for the worst offenses, there was the gallows. 

They're a show of power, the hangings. Each time, you feel the weight of the rope like it’s wrapped around your own neck, a reminder that in Eleven, survival is conditional, a privilege granted only to the obedient. 

In the quiet moments, you remember your father’s voice, the steady way he’d speak of freedom, of the day when life wouldn’t be dictated by hunger or fear. It’s a dream you tuck away, safe in the hollow place you carry inside. And you keep going, your spirit rooted in the land beneath your feet, in the warmth of your mama's soup pot, in the unbreakable bonds between those who understand that survival here is something you share. 

They tell you kindness is a gift, something you should be thankful for, even when it’s twisted, tainted by the intentions of those who hold the power. But you know the truth. You learned it the day they took your daddy from you. Kindness here is a fragile thing, a small fire shared in the darkness. The warmth of a neighbor passing a ration, a mother’s soup pot stretched to feed three families. You take those small gifts and hold onto them, because they’re yours, unbought, untaken, given without cost. Because kindness isn’t theirs to twist or take away. 

You learned to stay quiet, to avoid their notice, to keep your head down even when their eyes lingered on you. You thanked them for things you didn’t want, laughed politely when you wanted to scream, forced yourself to smile when every muscle in your body was tense with fear. You learned that survival was a balance, that sometimes it meant swallowing your pride, and sometimes it meant helping others do the same. It's a constant negotiation between dignity and survival, because standing up for oneself could mean risking the safety of everyone else.

And when punishment day comes in the square, it’s often those who didn’t “play along” who are lined up first. Those who refused the touches, who rejected the offers, who dared to assert their humanity in the face of their oppressors’ twisted intimacy. The community knows this, but they’ve learned not to speak of it directly. Instead, y'all share your strength in quieter ways—an extra ration snuck to a defiant farmhand, a shared blanket or whispered words of reassurance to a young worker who caught the Peacekeeper’s eye that day. Whispers of hope or survival plans exchanged when no one is looking.

You share what little you have, gather around the evening fires, sing the old songs that tell stories of endurance, of hardship, of quiet defiance. Because you’ve learned that kindness isn’t something they can take. No matter how they twist it, no matter what they do, the small acts of care that you give to each other are yours. You hold onto them with both hands, because kindness is a rebellion all on its own.

[rosehipandroots]

if the links had YouTube channels what kind of content would they make

oh i can so get behind this

time: he’s too cryptid lol he appears in the background of Malon’s ranch vlogs. he makes his appearances stranger and stranger to mess with people bc he’s Like That 

warriors: all the beauty. makeup, skin routine, fashion, etiquette. this is however staggered by him and artemis’ impromptu sparring matches bc she likes to ambush him while he’s streaming 

twi: he’s just a little guy doin his farm things. he mostly talks about fishing and his goats and posts tutorials on how to properly herd and wrestle em. his audience is routinely shocked that he can haul 300 pound rams around. his most popular video is of illia roasting the shit out of him while talo and malo cheer her on (he left epona out overnight at the ranch on accident) 

sky: he knows all the birds. all of em. he’s like the rainbow macaw guy that was just walkin his birds lol. he does volunteer work at a zoo and vlogs about days in the life of a zoology student. he also skydives with his girlfriend all the time and he and wind happily talk about seagulls, and he often introduces his sword at the beginning of his videos. he’s got all the sunshine energy 

wild: he’s just Insane on social media. just a total gremlin. wind shows up in his videos a lot & they do crazy shit followed by a cooking tutorial from wild like nothing even happened 

legend: he’s a nerd. such a nerd lol. he didn’t post often but when he does it’s always an infodump on the most random of topics, esp things he shouldn’t really have the right to know/vaguely concerning bc he knows Everything (with an occasional jewelry interlude with wars) 

four: you never know what he’s going to post. smithing, pranking, breaking and entering; he gets away with the weirdest shit and no one knows how. wildcard fr

hyrule: he does those lil soft aesthetic videos with a lot of travelling, landscapes and rain. throughout the course of his videos he somehow becomes friends with increasingly more concerning animals until he’s just taking innocent selfies with a wolf pack in the middle of nowhere (which may or may not include twi) 

wind: had to think about this one for a minute! i think he’d do a lot of out-to-sea videos and chaotic boat manning stuff with tetra. plus bombs! aryll often steals the show bc of how cute she is and often steals the actual camera itself. she talks about seagulls and fencing. wind also does cartography occasionally with legend bc they’re all about maps 

this was really fun!! i think the tl;dr is that they're simply all too chaotic to not be entertaining XD twi and sky are the only vaguely normal ones

[quickfixinator]

Hiii!!! You mentioned in your reblog "jersey boy", while talking about fanfics including mullet Stan and old ford. Can I PLEASE get a link? I need fanfics with them. please. You'll save a life if you do, or if you have any other interesting reccomendaitons [excited][excited][excited]

HOLY shit I have waited for this day for my entire life YES absolutely here are a few I love with my heart and soul, the first one is mullet stan & old ford, the rest are mostly just good fic recs with brief descriptions, title, author, & word count guestimations.

I typically read longer, multi chapter works, but there are a few on here that are one shots, or are so close to being one shots that I consider them that in my head. for the most part (in this fandom at least) I don't read anything that's below 5k unless someone really twists my arm into it, so these are mostly going to be decently large time commitments but very, very good stories.

this is mullet stan & old ford, but also old stan & nearly-paranoid ford pines: (Stan Overboard, itS_JuSt_a_thought, approaching 100k I think?) https://archiveofourown.org/works/59722483/chapters/152329459

sea grunks, absolutely gut wrenching. I've gone back and reread the end a minimum of four times: (Fisherman's Knot, scribefindegil, just over 100k) https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179098/chapters/14157307

gravity falls retelling but the best version of it I've ever seen. this fic is a commitment, but this fic is worth it. it will take up more space in your head than you're likely going to want to give it: (Knowing Me, Knowing You, f_imaginings, hit 1,000,000+ words the day after christmas. I would know, I was there. wonderful little (Big) christmas gift.) https://archiveofourown.org/works/9529949/chapters/21548483

paranoid ford & mullet stan. what could go wrong? (so, so much.): (Monster Hearts, gen_is_gone, 50k~ & there's another part when you finish getting destroyed by this one) https://archiveofourown.org/works/61267219/chapters/156583162

am obligatory jersey boy by fordtato mention: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6885211/chapters/15708244

mullet stan & paranoid ford battling the devil (their communication issuses) this is also the best time loop fic I've ever read, and I read Knowing Me, Knowing You, in a week. that is to say I read a lot and I read often. so to be the best time loop fic I've ever read, is really, really hard feat to accomplish. that being said, this fic did do that so: (Déjà Vu, interlude, I don't remember this one being very long, but it is a gut punch) https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586903/chapters/67484779

actually destructive I'll just let you know that now: (Bait & Switch, underwater_owl, multi chapter, there's a series for it on AO3 with NSFW sections that aren't in the work & an additional part that is in progress) https://archiveofourown.org/works/58728250/chapters/149654767

baby stan twins. they make me want to bawl so hard: (The Effigy and the Inferno, Pokimoko, multi chapter, not super long) https://archiveofourown.org/works/60958624/chapters/155724274

have you ever considered the ship of theseus. what if the ship of theseus was a man. does that idea make you want to hurl? I'm a big fan of when people drive a stake right through the heart of stanford pines. really big fan of that: (To Make This Man of Me, mikripetra, one shot) https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754457

what if the stan twins met in the multiverse and shared a drink? surely that wouldn't hurt. surely not: (What's Almost Familiar, Fangirlwriting, one shot) https://archiveofourown.org/works/58904062

I know a lot of these are not mullet stan & old ford (there's one! please don't kill me! if you know of any others PLEASE let me know I would love to see them.) but these are some of my personal favourites. I'm a sucker for a story with a good sibling dynamic in it, so buckle up, grab your tissues and settle in for probably over a weeks worth of fic recs, if you read anything like I do.

also I am so sorry if I've managed to screw up the formating on this, I am on my phone OR if the captions contain a level of inaccuracy to them, this is a collection I have curated since the start of august and I've never compiled them like this before so I am working on some moderately old memories. forgive me in advance for any errors.

anyway, please take these, share them with your friends, leave the authors a whole hell of a lot of love because they are fantastic and I don't think they'll ever know just how much time I spend thinking about their fics.

[tavolgisvist]

We didn’t think of Merseyside as special in those days, and didn’t really appreciate the emerging talents of the Beatles, we were just too busy getting on with our lives, I suppose. Actually, the London groups playing in the Cavern were much more appealing, and had super accents!! I was visiting one at the Cavern one night when the Beatles passed by in their break. The room was only 10 feet by 10 feet, so they graciously moved me aside while they had a ciggie on their break.

I was dating a disc jockey, Clem Crabtree of the Iron Door Club, which was located next to the Cavern. This was where we met one grey rainy day, for coffee. Alone, we envisioned a peaceful and romantic interlude in the tiny, empty ballroom. However within five minutes we were rudely interrupted by four belligerent lads, complete with sets of drums, wires and microphones they set up their ‘gear’ amid exaggerated noise and laughter.

Clem loudly shouted as we departed, "give them a job and they get big headed!" The Beatles were unfazed.

Another incident at the club, involved a loud pounding at the door one evening, Clem as night manager excused himself, in order to investigate. Upon returning, he explained that a lad named Ringo was frantically trying to gain entry in order to join his ‘band,’ but obviously was in the wrong club. He raced next door to the Cavern, albeit late for his ‘gig!’ Clem just shook his head in disbelief. <…> During one of Clem’s work nights at the Tower Ballroom where he was a disc jockey, we spotted the Beatles arriving for their ‘gig.’ Four little black headed figures in black leather jackets were coming to the stage to ‘set up.’

They owed Clem money, three pounds to be exact. The conversation became heated, so out of curiosity I joined them.

My boyfriend demanded repayment, and did all the talking as they humbly bowed their heads, barely saying a word. Paul suddenly pulled out the lining of his pockets and said “sorry we don’t have it mate. Honest!"

The Cavern became a Mecca for the local students. It was a small underground cellar of an old warehouse, in a dark dismal alley. At night it became a sea of faces and bright lights. Our front, folding metal seats often vibrated with the pounding music.

Groups from London often played the Cavern and seemed more prestigious than our local lads, at this time.

The floor literally shook as we sat dangerously close. It seemed that Ringo and his drums would bounce from this tiny stage, and land in our laps at any given moment.

Ringo’s musical talents were impressive, although his silly vacant expression was hilarious. He spent many an evening ‘making eyes’ and pursing his huge lips in my direction as my friend and I danced the twist!

My sister Jean admonished, "if you ever bring HIM home, your mother will choke you!"

As an art student, I worked part time at the Tower Ballroom café as a cashier. The lads often brought their trays laden with cellophane packaged goodies through the check out. Ringo’s attempts at flirtation were more amusing than annoying!

Remembering my sister’s warning, I remained aloof!

Manning the Tower spotlight one evening was John, the manager’s son. He fell for every girl who showed him attention, and was smitten with me for around two weeks. On this particular night, he ‘spotlighted’ myself and a friend several minutes at a time while we danced, leaving the "Fab Four" in total darkness.

The language and yelling, which emanated from the dark and gloomy stage was unprintable!

Paul especially, reacted angrily when the swooning teenage girls excitedly grabbed his ankles in an almost successful attempt to extricate him from the stage. He became ‘heated’ quickly, and his language was crude leaving no doubt as to his intentions.

John was more patient but prone to being quick tempered and very sarcastic.

Ringo the ‘clown’ was dopey, adorable, and silly.

George was painfully shy and kept quietly to himself, barely raising his head to ‘view’ his surroundings.

I was a sensitive sixteen year old. My best friend Diane and I enjoyed a rum and blackcurrant in the Tower bar one evening. We were seated in the almost empty room next to the Beatles. Shortly an ex boyfriend entered. He was a bouncer for the Tower, we were not on speaking terms, so he loudly stated that at sixteen I was underage and had to leave.

The group of four at the next table snickered, giggled and nudged each other as I made a hasty albeit humiliated retreat, glass in hand.

(Rag Days, Beatles & the Tower by Glen Vollmecke for Mersey Beat)

[chaos-burst]

"Healing is over."

Euripides, from Grief Lessons: Four Plays; translated by Anne Carson // paramore, “interlude: i’m not angry anymore” // Langston Hughes, from ‘Tired’ featured in Selected Poems // Fyodor Dostoyevsky // @shorthalt // Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

[ID: a litstack comprised of various quotes on white background.

Gods are stubborn. So am I.

People speak sometimes about the “bestial” cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.

i'm not angry anymore well, sometimes i am

i am i am i am furious

I am so tired of waiting. Aren’t you, For the world to become good And beautiful and kind? Let us take a knife And cut the world in two— And see what worms are eating At the rind.

i often hear how humans talk of crossroads how they look the devil dead in the eye and dare him to move forward. i stand alone on ground which kills and look the devil in the eye and dare you to move forward.

“There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.” End ID]

[jaynovz]

Madi Fic Rec List

Well hello again! I’ve been compiling this list for quite awhile, but I finally sat down to finish it. 

To me, Madi is characterized by this strict balance between her fiery spirit and the poise she must display as someone raised from birth to be a leader, to be royalty. She’s wicked smart, but also desperately young and inexperienced. She’s thoughtful and conscientious, but with an underlying desire to just go, explore the world, be part of something big, and effect change for her people.

Anyway I just love Madi a lot, and these are some of my favorite stories featuring her in the fandom. They’ve been helpfully categorized into sub-sections! 

Enjoy~~

--

Madi-centric:

Burial at sea by le_mru:

Summary: Two years after Skeleton Island, Madi sets out to find Flint and recover the treasure for the Maroon community, Flint is adjusting to a life after death, and Silver interferes as usual.

in a vault of starlight by whimsicalimages:

Summary: The distance between Nassau and Savannah can be measured as: six hundred and thirteen nautical miles, five thousand pounds’ worth of pearls, or four extraordinary lifetimes.

Alternatively: in the aftermath, Madi writes her own story.

Lightbringer Verse by ElDiablito_SF:

Summary: After failing to fix her relationship with Silver, Madi sets off to find Captain Flint again.

i’m a black ocean leaping and wide by loosedindecember:

Summary: “I am going to Jamaica,” she tells Long John Silver, pirate-killer and pirate king, “and I will have my war after all. And you are going to help me.”

Madi gets her war, and a life beyond war, too.

Quid Pro Quo by annbonny:

Summary: "Trust is a strong word, particularly pertaining to pirates.

She trusts John Silver, but with every day that passes, she is gradually realising that he may not always be around. If Flint ends up killing him- or more likely, she suspects, they kill each other- who will guarantee that the alliance will hold? What is to keep Teach from wiping out her and her people when he feels they inconvenience him?”

OR: Madi adjusts to her role as queen. It is a steep learning curve.

armed with the past and the will by whimsicalimages:

Summary: The language of winning and losing, this language that men favor – Madi can speak this language, though she disagrees with its precepts. Success takes different forms, and failing once does not mean failing forever. It does not even mean failing the next time.

lacuna by doomcountry:

Summary: Madi loves him, and that is her misery. She hates him, too, and the two are at war without ceasing in her breast; the torment, now, after sixteen years together all told, is that it has all dulled, all settled out like water undisturbed.

SilverMadi:

Where There Is Great Love by stele3:

Summary: A brief interlude in the Tether series that jumps back in time to...establish certain things.

“Do you not have a comb?”

Twitching with surprise, Silver turns. The princess—Madi—stands on the shoreline, only a few feet away. Silver quickly glances around and finds her bodyguard standing back near the treeline. Kofi, that’s his name. (Stoic man, much taller than Silver, always has a knife and knows how to use it. Silver would need the captain or Billy with him to survive an encounter.)

He smiles for the princess. “I fear that would only make the problem worse. We had little to eat in the doldrums, and that made all of this quite breakable.” He gestures to his hair but lets his hand trail longer through the air. Better that she think them weak and easily overcome. If his own body is to be a metaphor, well, at least he finds it apt.

Love and Kindness by Wildehack:

Summary: “This is insulting,” John complains, as Madi fastens the shackles around his wrists, looping a chain through to the hook in the bulwark above his bed. “I’m not rabid.”

(Or: the inevitable sex-pollen AU.)

anything for your queen by urca:

Summary: the Silvermadi pegging fic, as promised!

lover please do not fall to your knees by lucystonersix:

Summary: Despite themselves, despite everything, Madi and Silver fall in love. Missing scenes, with spoilers only through the end of season 3.

Into the Blue Blue Sea by Magnetism_bind:

Summary: Madi slowly realizes she's drawn to the pirate with the blue eyes.

FlintMadi:

Maybe in Another Life by samedifference61:

Summary: At the rail of a ship James doesn’t command, they stand shoulder to shoulder.

"John still thinks you’re dead,” James states, because it’s something that needs to be said aloud before they continue.

With eyes unblinking toward the rolling sea, Madi says, “And he still thinks you should be dead.”

James’ lip curls in anger. The wounds of betrayal are too fresh for either to say anymore.

your legs are the north star by jaynovz:

Summary: Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through his shirt. He peers up into deep solemn eyes. Madi. They've struggled, side by side, ruling in concert, for weeks. Through the toil of retaking Nassau, hardening themselves from this feeling which weakens his knees in its intensity, the sheer hopelessness swamping him like dark waves.

Flint cannot let himself fall away into the abyss, he cannot fade and forget. There is at least one thing left, standing strong and entrenched as a mangrove tree, even as she mirrors his own sorrow.

"Come, Captain, it is late. Let us rest."

taking orders by le_mru:

Summary: Written for the Black Sails Rare Pair Week:

“To be entirely frank,” Madi says, her voice loud and clear in the silence of the evening, “I am concerned if you can take orders, Captain.”

“Orders?” He scoffs. “From whom? Blackbeard?”

There has been some discussion around making Teach Admiral of the fleet, which Flint was, of course, firmly against.

“No.” Madi takes a step to the side and turns graciously, facing him fully. “From me.”

she hangs upon the cheek of night by ElDiablito_SF:

Summary: Madi won't let Flint sleep, but he secretly doesn't mind.

(Set after 4x05)

Line of Sight by samedifference61:

Summary: Flint leans in close so the others won’t hear him. “She wants me to teach her how to use a blade.”

Or, Flint finds it difficult to refuse Madi, and Silver has insecurities.

On Gossamer Wings by khazadspoon:

Summary: It was the first time he had seen a woman naked since Miranda.

Miranda had been slender. Her skin was pale and soft, her hands lightly calloused but still delicate when they touched him. She had been commanding in her sexuality and he had loved her because of it. She had taken control from him, taken the reins and lead their lovemaking with confident and caring hands.

But Madi… Madi was not Miranda.

stitched with its color by x_etoile_x:

Summary: He is my friend too.

She’d reached out to him for the first time after he’d said those damning words, slipping her small hand into his and leaning against his side. Had duty not pulled them back into the world, he thinks they might yet be standing on that beach, like silent watchers in some myth, fading away to nothing with their eyes fixed on the sea.

-

The scene where Madi tells Flint that Silver is alive.

let it rain, cuz you and I remain the same by jaynovz:

Summary: “We have some time yet to wait,” Madi says, taking note of the sun’s position. Their contact isn’t due at the tavern until after dark.

James strides over to the bookshelf. "What would you suggest?" he asks, humming. He strokes a finger along the spines. "I bought a new book in the last port. If you wish, I could read it aloud." James casts her a hopeful smile over his shoulder, standing at a loose parade rest, eyes crinkled and warm.

Madi is so helplessly fond of him in this moment, the way he brims with excitement at the thought of such a simple pleasure. It is appealing, she admits, the thought of settling against James’ sturdy chest as he reads to her, feeling his voice rumble against her back while Madi is charged with turning the pages. Madi stretches languidly and rises from her seat. As much as she enjoys that type of quiet domesticity, she has a more adventurous suggestion for how to pass the time. In truth, it’s something that she's been considering for a while.

Madi cuts James a sly glance as she approaches. "Do you remember the time I caught you in here with John?"

something beyond by eleutherya:

Summary: "The bay isn’t visible from the rebel encampment, but he faces it as surely as a compass points north. Up on the fort, Flint stands with his back straight and his shoulders set, his hands folded neatly behind him. He stands there as though, if he simply waits long enough, if he hopes hard enough, the sea will return John Silver to him."

Madi and Flint have a discussion about grief after losing John Silver. Set directly after 4x01.

By Faith of My Body by x_etoile_x

Summary: Flint is unmoored in the aftermath of the battle on Maroon Island, struggling with grief and his troubled relationship with Silver. Discovering an unexpected bond with Madi prompts a difficult conversation, and perhaps the start of a new friendship. But what evolves between them quickly becomes more complicated, and Flint is forced to confront parts of himself he'd thought buried.

This fic started as a response to a prompt asking for more FlintMadi content, with a special request for non-sexual BDSM, building on the special deference he shows her and the beliefs they share. However, the dynamics between all three characters are explored and it's building toward OT3.

Written for the Built On Sand Black Sails Event 2023

OT3, MadiSilverFlint:

I’m getting tired, and i need somewhere to begin by lacecat:

Summary: Madi watches him steadily as he approaches her. “Perhaps one day,” she begins, but cuts herself off with a swallow, blinking back tears. They won’t be able to fill the hole between them, but maybe they can try to build around it, accommodate it.

He lays a rough palm on her cheek, gentle. He loves her so much. “Perhaps,” Silver says, even though they both know it’s the furthest from a promise. They have survived on far less, after all.

how we could be brought here by love by mapped:

Summary: A 4x03 AU where Flint receives a minor injury in the battle of Nassau Town and Silver is very shaken by it.

I wish for once we could stay gold by jaynovz:

Summary: Madi has discovered that pirates truly are a grimy bunch, but her two have managed to keep fairly clean the last few months when they had access to fresh water.

The governor’s mansion is filled with bustle, men scurrying about, seeking answers from both Captain Flint and their new King, but there is time enough to steal them away. Time enough this evening for some respite, to cleanse the grief and violence from the last few days alongside the dirt.

Good Morning by bana05:

Summary: As Madi prepares to take care of her lovers, they instead decide to take care of her first.

the only way out is the way back in by samedifference61:

Summary: And Silver obviously means to further agitate Flint’s state when he says, “Do you know what she said to me this morning? She said, ‘I cannot understand why the two of you have not been intimate yet.’”

a shared bath, a conversation about death, and a promise

a three way knot by jauneclair:

Summary: Flint knits; Silver pries; and Madi secretly doesn't mind at all.

your heart is the only place I call home by vowelinthug:

Summary: Madi learns the secret of John Silver's past: he used to be the worst.

pass on your way, then, with a smiling face by youremyqueen:

Summary: Flint sleeps in the spare room until he doesn't.

join your hands to your hearts by jauneclair:

Summary: Madi's approach to diplomacy in negotiating relationships is not what Flint expected.

Two Points In Space by illgiveyouallofme:

Summary: Since Silver returned from the dead, Madi has watched him and Flint dance around each other. She decides to take matters into her own hands.

And then everyone takes some things into their own hands.

--

As always, if you have a potential inclusion, feel free to DM me and I will check it out! Thanks.

[unrealistic-ideas-for-writers]

Wuthering Waves Interlude: Beneath the Sands

Prelude. Midnight on the Dunes

Quick A/N: This is a test run for this project with some world building, some practice for me writing Caladin, and for others! If you’d like your OC to participate, feel free to tack on their thoughts and what they may be doing prior to the quest. Another Author’s note will be at the bottom with specifics to help maintain a good flow.

Ether. Noun. The regions of space beyond the earth's atmosphere; the heavens.

Etheric. Adjective. Of or pertaining to the ether (an all-pervading medium.)

Caladin thumbed over the worn and yellowed cards. A remnant. Of what was, what has been, and what will be. He didn’t know how many days he’d been here. It should’ve been at least a month- that was according the Squad’s day keeping at least. It was hard to tell. Caladin had been charged with leading his squad to handle a strange occurrence just South of the frontlines- a site of worship for the Dusk Father. The desert had been welcoming, clouds casting shadows over her sands for once.

Though perhaps that’d been a warning.

The Etheric Sea had appeared shortly after, an odd barrier had fallen. It ripples like water, but too dense to pass through. It stretched for miles- they had walked to try and find a work around.

Eventually, exhaustion caught up to them, leading them to take refuge in the Dusk Father’s embrace. For a bit, everything was alright.

The next morning, in Mother Dawn’s early light, they saw the barrier drop. Only for a moment. And then began the game of time.

For three days, they watched. And waited. And noted.

Food consumed would reappear everyday at Dawn. Water was the same. And the barrier would flicker.

The Etheric sea loomed above them.

Day Four.

Something changed. Moisture extracted itself from deep within the sand, rising up, and up, and up.

Retroact Rain.

The fighting began shortly after. Wave after wave of Tacet Discords until Dusk.

And when Dawn came? It would reset.

Caladin was loosing track of time. The Dead didn’t stay dead.

Aslan and Parshati had both recieved fatal wounds, and yet they were now running around camp, joking and laughing.

It felt like he was the only one still watching, waiting. It was concerning to see how quick his fellow knights fell comfortably into the pattern.

There was no comfort here.

None at all.

-

According to the camp calendar, it was still the very day they arrived. The day the barrier dropped. But the Squad had tallied otherwise.

They’d been in here for two weeks.

Caladin was fed up with their complacency. Their lack of concern at their undying state. The fact that the only changes had been negative.

And so he let them be, and delved deep into the temple on his own.

His Tacet mark burned white hot as he followed the tingling feeling in his veins. This grew to a searing pain and vibration strong enough to rattle his armor as he found a passage behind the Dusk Father’s statue leading down.

Down into the dark.

Caladin whispered a quiet prayer, asking the Dusk Father for a pinch more luck as he stepped in.

This was his mistake.

Deep with in the bowels of the temple lay an echo chamber, partially submerged in water.

Caladin paused from his place on the stairs, cautiously eyeing the moonlight streaming in from a skylight, perfectly on the center of the room.

It was eerie. The carvings on the walls, usually depicting the cycles of Dawn and Dusk had been sanded away, cleanly and purposefully. Even with his minimal knowledge of architecture, Caladin could say that much.

He hesitated, unwilling to step on the sand stone leading to the moonlit center. The water in here wasn’t still, but there was in clear entry point. The vibrations under his skin grew stronger and his own Spectro resonance burned.

Whatever was warping their time was in this room. Caladin let a flicking of Spectro energy disperse throughout the room, feeling it circle back to him with a bit of information. Light was neat that way, capable of being sent out and bouncing back off object to give him a mental picture of his surroundings. Like a sharper pair of eyes, finding things his mortal body could not.

There seemed to be a plaque buried under the sand in the moonlit circle. It was hollow as well.

The knight sighed quietly to himself, fighting back the instinct to flee as he stepped down into the sand. His boots, designed to leave no traces on desert ground where wind blew, sunk slightly into the grainy path. The man’s gold gaze flickered across the room, carefully measuring each step. As far he could tell, there were no traps- no obvious ones. But.

He stopped just outside the moonlit circle, staring at the faint outline of the plaque in the sand covered floor. It was slightly raised, and his Spectro had indicated the source of that nasty reverberation was coming from underneath.

Dusk Father forgive him.

Caladin kneeled, sand fluttering around him as he slowly slid the plaque to the side.

The moment the space below was revealed, there was a massive, borderline painful uptick in resonance energy.

It surged through the air, sending waves of varying frequencies through Caladin’s body. His guts churned with nausea and he could vaguely register blood dripping from his nose.

Inside, the source of the chaos, was a spherical stone, pulsing ominously.

It was vile.

-

Containing the damn thing was nearly impossible, but using their Tacetite based armor to pseudo-forge a box seemed to work. The high heat produced by Cal’s Spectro and sudden cooling of Aslan’s Glacio allowed for a shoddy job, but it was a job nonetheless. The weapons reappeared during daily reset anyways.

The main problem came after. Removing the Skies damned stone (even inside its tacetite prison), seemed to increase the Tacet discord activity. It also brought those vile frequencies closer to them.

Caladin was still mentally recovering from the wreck it’d done to his body on contact- even if that had also been repaired during daily reset.

The only plus side was the effect on the barrier. The damn thing flickered everytime they got close to it with the stone.

However, this meant attempting to fight through increasingly dangerous hoards of Tacet discords with the stone- the source of all of this.

Who even knows what would happen if they took this thing outside the barrier?

Could they even bring it back for research without bringing destruction home with them?

They couldn’t even touch the thing without its frequencies shredding their organs- the tacetite box barely helping.

-

The fight to get out was rough. They’d made the most simplistic plan they could. Their fastest member, Parshati, would attempt to get the box to the barrier with the covering fire of Aslan from the temple roof, the squad on the ground, and with Caladin setting off his nukes of Spectro deep into centers of the hoards.

She had the best chance with her Aero abilities. But even then.

Caladin had been impaled twice in the past five minutes. How he had managed to miss vital organs was beyond him. A quick burst of Spectro caused enough heat to cauterize the wounds at least.

Another burst of Spectro stunned the hoard nearest to Parshati.

Burst of Glacio dotted the field from Aslan.

Nova, their havoc resonator, had succumbed to the madness hours ago. Caladin had put her down himself.

The nonresonators covering Parshati were dwindling and Caladin was too far to guard for her right now.

This…

Would they even get the daily reset if they won this, miraculously?

Caladin’s golden gaze burned a hole in Parshati- tracking her location, a mere hundred yards from the barrier.

And then she went down, Glacio piercing her head.

-

Aslan fell to the madness. The reset had still happened. But Caladin had learned something new. Resonators that fell to madness did not reset.

Both Aslan and Nova were gone.

Parshati shook violently where she was curled up by the fire.

They were back in the temple. All that was left of their squad was the handful of nonresonators and them. Two empty shells of Knights.

He could see it in her eyes, the fear. The dying light.

She would succumb next. And he did not have the words to help her.

He was close himself.

The pulsing of the stone in its tacetite prison aided him none.

But the quiet presence of his sister’s wedding photo, of Dahlia’s amulet around his throat…

Caladin would outlast.

Because he had made a promise.

Madness would not take him yet.

-

Their next attempt was immediately foiled by Parshati losing herself. Her body had dissolved into powerful winds, killing soldiers and Tacet discords alike.

In the chaos, Caladin made a decision.

-

Mission Report:

Survivors: Caladin, Knight Captain of the Sunstrider Order.

The order of Sunstrider was sent to investigate an old temple of the Dusk Father for strange frequencies. Caladin claims they were trapped there for almost a month. For Solaris, they were found three days after being dispatched.

No bodies were recovered.

Caladin returned with an amateur-forged box of tacetite containing what appears to be the source of the strange frequencies.

It’s incredibly volatile to resonators, though normal humans seem to be withable to withstand contact through tacetite material.

Further study is required.

Bless be the children felled to madness and strife. Of Dawn they fall into the embrace of Dusk.

-

One year later

Caladin’s mind ached. His nose was bleeding and his organs were steadily giving up on him.

He tore through the hordes of Tacet discords crowding the citadel’s streets.

Just up ahead, a large, worm like Tacet discord, easily large enough to swallow a windcatcher tower with ease, raged. The Skies damned thing burrowed into the ground only to pop out, gulping down groups of people, Tacet discords, and infrastructure indiscriminately.

And it radiates the same sickening, vile frequencies of that stone.

Caladin’s stomach lurched, wondering how badly the researchers of the Alliance had fucked up to produce this monstrosity.

-

The citadel fell in mere hours.

But Caladin did not.

The Etheric Sea converged above the battlefield, a highlight to his lone attempts at killing this thing.

This devil spawn.

Spectro warmed his palms.

But never made contact.

Time stilled, and that warmth stayed with him for the next hundred thousand years.

And it was all Caladin had. Both conscious and not of his frozen state.

Until a curious face came knocking.

-

WOOO THAT WAS A LOT.

I know I said I’ve been writing more of Cal being a little silly buttttt-

I hope everyone enjoyed!

For those participating in the project, feel free to add onto this!

My idea was to have a master post of the prelude to the Beneath the Sands quest. For instance, what drew your Oc to the disaster site? Are they a researcher? A local in this desert nation thousands of years later?

Please keep in mind that there was a Court of Savantae set up around Caladin’s ruins and it eventually fell into ruin itself. There’s a high chance your OCs are only aware of the CSC ruins unless they’re a local.:

Anyways, here’s the tag list. Anyone who’s interested in joining said tag list, please interact on the tag list post :3

@uncreative-cryptid

@hobbysognodilibri

@crypticrainbowmoss

@captainsounddisaster

@yupuffin

Good luck everyone!

[activatebutterflyshield]

Time to be long-winded about music again featuring the Four Winds albums by the Oh Hellos. I desperately hope this one will be shorter given how bloody long the thing about Coyote Stories ended up being so to somewhat ensure that this will be split up into four separate posts, one for each album. I’m going in chronological order of release. Come one, come all, but especially @writer-of-random-things, to see me put more effort into tumblr posts than my english essays.

Part 1: Notos (you are here!)

Part 2: Eurus

Part 3: Boreas

Part 4: Zephyrus

Before even getting into the songs, let’s look at the album art. A cicada, the hallmark of summer, buzzing in chorus for a few days before dying. They are a horde, second only to their cousins the bees, wasps, and locusts, but a horde nonetheless. The cicada blindly sits underground for most of its life, growing in solitude and waiting for its cue to escape to the sunlit world, mate, and die. A cicada does not question it’s place in the universe. A cicada harbors no thoughts of doubt in its mission, and holds no grudge when it dies under the sky. But humans are not cicadas.

The first song of the album is “On the Mountain Tall”, a relatively quiet start. It’s very biblical in its symbolism and imagery, but perhaps the most important lines are when the singer calls out, “Still the wild wind blows / Up our of the grave of an angry ghost / Firing bricks from broken canon and prose / To build a wall so high it reaches the heavens in the sky”. The spelling of “canon” is not that of the instrument of warfare on the high seas, but that of generally accepted truth when it comes to creative works, as well as religions. But it is used to describe an action much more befitting the weapon, as the “wild wind” is “Firing bricks from broken canon and prose”, a metaphor for using hypocritical or untrue logic and facts to defend itself. Whomever the singer is singing to, they want the singer to fear them and love them in equal measure, but the singer doesn’t. This nebulous thing is described as being “Quiet as a candle and bright as the / morning sun”, not unlike some angelic thing from on high, and yet whoever they are, they are not “He”, who is “not within them, the clatter of / brass and drums”.

“Torches” soon follows, a quicker paced tune of a back-and-forth between two singers. Each alludes to the other, “Father Ignorance” and “Mother Fortuna”, matching up with the leading male and female vocals. Both figures are referred to by the others as making either “Brothers of us all” or “Sisters of us all” through their actions, though neither seem to be very virtuous people. “Father Ignorance” seems to feed people’s anger and fear, setting “our torch aflame” and burning someone at the stake, no matter their innocence. “Mother Fortuna” turns “shadows into shapes”, stoking paranoia and encouraging violence despite the fact that “the faces in her wake / Look more like our own than the / effigies we immolate”. Neither singer seems to be the one from “On the Mountain Tall”, as the previous song was about someone resisting the carrots and sticks offered by someone quite similar to both Ignorance and Fortuna. And yet these two beings still have power, as they sing together, “We keep that old wheel turning / Over and over, again”, maintaining the endless cycle of fear, paranoia, anger, and destruction.

The next song is an instrumental interlude, “Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling”. It’s a gentle tune that slowly builds into the next song, “Constellations”, but the name alone indicates that whatever stars exist far above are not real things, but rather facsimiles. Pretty things, sure, but nothing like the real, burning, blazing balls of gas that dot the night sky.

“Constellations” begins slowly, as the singer describes the sensation of speaking something that takes their voice away and feels upon their tongue like “Brick and mortar, thick as scripture / Drawing lines in the sand and laying / borders as tall as towers / I babble on until my voice is gone”. The clear and more cloudy references to the Tower of Babel and the Empire of Babylon show how the singer has been confounded and confused by that thick and choking scripture. Everything good in their life, everything good done by them and to them are “like constellations, a million years away”, no more real than those “Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling”. What few pieces of joy they have are no more real than the lines drawn to create “Constellations”. But by the end of the song, those good stars are “imploding in the night / Everything is turning, everything is turning / The shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light / Everything you thought you knew / Will fall apart, but you’ll be alright”. The singer has realized how much they have been smothered by thick scripture, how little they know about the world, how much they want to be free, and how they have been denied their freedom by the world they grew up with, by Father Ignorance and Mother Fortuna.

The titular “Notos” is next, starting with the singer describing the world in the moments before the clouds break and a storm crashes down. The world is holding its breath, waiting for “A thunderous disturbance”, the inevitable response to what the singer has done to those “Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling”. But whatever the world is expecting is not what happens, as the rush that comes “will take you away / Like you’re caught in the undertow / And you will drown in the wake / Of the things you lost to the winds of Notos”. Everything the singer has lost to the thick scripture, all that the spent in hopes that the “Constellations” of good intentions would become real, is now being repaid tenfold over. Their realization is as strong as a hurricane, as untamable as the sea, and more furious than a thunderstorm in this moment. They’re drowning Fortuna and Ignorance in “the wake / Of the things you said that you can’t take back”. It’s a beautifully poetic description of the pure, flaming anger felt by someone in the moment they realized their betrayal, but as the final line of the song says, “You gotta let go”.

The second instrumental interlude of the album is “Mandatory Evac / Counting Cars”. Finishing the wordless cry that began in “Notos”, the song is a slow, gradual build up from gentle guitar strums to the beautiful melody that has haunted the background of the rest of the album, a promising echo that reminds the listener that they’ve come quite far since the beginning of this 20-minute journey, and that they’ve still got plenty of road left to travel.

The final song of Notos is “New River”. The singer’s tune is one of gradual change, of how “though the eons may pass as slow as the sands of an hour glass / Every grain that we’ve counted / Claims that even the mountains can change”. This promise that even the most permanent parts of the landscape can slowly but surely change, that the very land itself can bend to the power of a “New River”, is a powerful metaphor for the prospective journey of the singer. They yearn to carve out a new path, to rise with the tide and bask in the “rain for forty days and nights”, to embrace the change so abhorred by the “Planetarium Stickers on a Bedroom Ceiling”, to erode away where they had once stood “On the Mountain Tall”, to extinguish the “Torches” and prove the “Constellations” to be naught but lines drawn in the sky. Within this wind of “Notos” will they rise and remake themselves anew, casting off the thick scripture and ignoring the roaring fire and wind. The fiery Southern Wind of Summer has risen and raged, tearing apart the walls of “broken canon and prose”, and as stormy Notos leaves, Eurus of Autumn and the Eastern Wind will blow in from the horizon where the sun rises, bringing cooler times and heralding yet more change as migrations begin and more questions are asked.

[mixtapemag]

BEN FOLDS PRESENTS BANKS, JULIEN BAKER AND THE NATIONAL SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA AT THE KENNEDY CENTER

Photos by Christopher Hall

Ben Folds returned to the Kennedy Center on Friday night for another chapter in his Declassified series. The new edition featured Julien Baker and Banks accompanied by the National Symphony Orchestra.

Julien's spectacular set in the middle of the show featured "Ziptie" (arranged for the orchestra by Rob Moose), "Sprained Ankle (arranged by Alex Jacobson), and "Claws in Your Back" (arranged by Eric Allen). It was the usual Julien Baker brilliance - an unparalleled voice accompanied by one of the most exquisite songwriting pens. I put the camera down at moments just to watch Julien's voice ascend into the Kennedy Center rafters, pushed higher and higher by the orchestra at her back.

Banks closed the show with a beautiful run of "Misunderstood," “Waiting Game,” “I Still Love You,” and “Gemini Feed” (arranged by Alex Turley). The NSO treated the crowd to selections from West Side Story with Tiffany Choe on vocals, Blue Cathedral and Four Sea Interludes.

You can read more about the Declassified series at The Kennedy Center over here.

Previously on Mixtape:

Photos of boygenius at connect festival.

Photos of boygenius at pryzm.

Photos of boygenius at the piece hall.

Photos of boygenius at way out west 2023.

Photos of boygenius at the idaho botanical garden.

Photos of boygenius at the forest hills stadium.

Photos of boygenius at the fox theater.

Photos of boygenius at the premiere of "the film".

Photos of Julien Baker at Fox Theater.

Photos of Julien Baker at 9:30 Club.

Photos of Julien Baker at Amplify Decatur.

Photos of boygenius at Brooklyn Steel.

Photos of Julien Baker at Shadow of the City.

Photos of Julien Baker in Prospect Park.

Photos of Julien Baker at White Eagle Hall.

Photos of Julien Baker at Union Transfer.

Photos of Julien Baker at Outside Lands.

Photos of Julien Baker at Newport Folk Festival.

Christopher Hall posts over here. Stop 1.

[extraordinaryhistories]

#19 - 'Satan's Saxophones' (A Sun Came bonus track, 2004)

There is an album I quite enjoy by a German group named the Peter Brötzmann Octet. It’s called Machine Gun, and it is utter unhinged chaos. Most sources label it as a jazz album, and I suppose that’s true in a broad, methodological sense, but listening to it reminds one less of the works of Coltrane or Shorter and more of the works of Merzbow or Haino. Never has a title matched with its music so well – the album begins with a battalion of saxophones firing out notes at an astonishing pace, freed of all concerns for melody or consonant harmony. Everything is distorted, everything is blown-out, everything is furious. It is a very, very strong album and one that has been widely emulated since its 1968 release.

There is a song I don’t particularly enjoy by an American artist named Sufjan Stevens. It’s called ‘Satan’s Saxophones’, it clearly attempts to emulate Machine Gun with its free jazz trappings, and unlike Machine Gun, it does little more than hurt my ears. But just like Machine Gun, it certainly does suit its title!

‘Satan’s Saxophones’, strangely released as the closing track of the core album (???) on 2004’s A Sun Came re-release (but not on the original release), starts with one of the more disgusting Sufjan moments: a little interlude in the vein of ‘Siamese Twins’ and ‘Belly Button’ that uses vomit imagery to devastating effect. The dreaded high-pitch Sufjan who pops up (much to my, and everybody else’s, chagrin) in many places on A Sun Came is back here in fine form. No maggots in belly buttons here, though, or dated terms for conjoined twins. Baby Sufjan instead shares a delightful story about his mother vomiting all over the house – including, somehow, in the refrigerator –  and the family dog slipping on the vomit. I imagine that he intended this as some sort of provocative, Dada-esque inversion of Proverbs 26:11 (‘As a dog returns to his vomit...), but really I can’t give it too much credit beyond just being a horrible story weaponised here for shock value. That, and the dubious distinction of being the first Sufjan song to directly mention his mother. Your move, ‘Romulus’ fans.

The song then pushes boldly forward into a section that represents the feeling the spoken word portion invokes in me, which was no doubt intentional. Hilariously preceded by a four-count, a splutter of saxes dribbles aimlessly, tunelessly, onto the track, accompanied by what sounds like a drum kit getting pushed down forty flights of stairs. It is Sufjan’s sole foray into free jazz, and this is Free Jazz with a capital ‘F’. Even Machine Gun has a ghost of a rhythm; ‘Satan’s Saxophones’ has moments of silence interspersed with bursts of noise, but the playing is otherwise totally aimless, entirely random. Midway through this section, the drums cut out, along with most of the saxophones, leaving just two in their wake. This is probably the most musically painful moment on a Sufjan song. Sufjan makes those two saxophones absolutely beg for his mercy, and oh boy do they beg. It is a sound I can only describe as the dying groans of a factory as it slides down a cliff made of metal into a sea made of polystyrene. Satan’s saxophones, indeed. This one is quite the test of endurance.

The issue, of course, with ‘Satan’s Saxophones’ is that it lacks the deceptive level of care needed to make the best free jazz such an enjoyable listening experience. Machine Gun sounds heavier than some sludge metal songs. It has the low-end kick, high-end bite and mid-spectrum punch necessary to make the listening experience feel like a beatdown from a grizzly bear. And humans like that feeling. We’re weird like that. ‘Satan’s Saxophones’ unfortunately has a weedy sound typical of four-track recording that strips it of much of its brute force impact. There is no assault on the body here, only assault on the ears. It’s a production style that suits an album like Illinois just fine, but Sufjan is playing with an entirely different fire here, and all it can do is burn him.

But we’re missing the point here entirely, aren’t we? I may never – ever – under any circumstances – want to listen to ‘Satan’s Saxophones’, but I am very glad that it exists. It’s a song that comes from the height of Sufjan’s cross-eyed, scattershot songwriting nascency. He clearly did not know what style best suited his inclinations at the time, so he tried a bit of everything. He could very well have been good at free jazz; I mean, why not? He evidently wasn’t, but he could have been. I remain eternally grateful that Sufjan spent his early years ruling out the ‘could have beens’ en route to his true calling, and if ‘Satan’s Saxophones’ makes a casualty of our ears on the way, then so be it. It’s directly because of songs like this one that Sufjan would eventually write ‘Chicago’. Cut him a break.

Songs like this make me feel – momentarily – that a project like Extraordinary Histories is ridiculous. You can hear someone hysterically laughing in the background during the little breaks at various points in this song. He’s obviously laughing at the absurdity of the performance, because this is just some bullshit that Sufjan made for fun. And yet, as I sit here and write nearly a thousand words about ‘Satan’s Saxophones’, I find it hard to shake the unmistakeable impression that he’s instead laughing at me.

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Second Interlude]

The second arc of the story comes to an end with this part :3 I'm still not 100% sure, but I think this fic will have other four arcs Thank you all for reading this story! Hope you like it! ^^

Viktor x Fem!Reader/Gothic AU; Haunted Sea---1.4K----SFW**

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: There were three times when the beach of Piltover the Old got stained with blood during your lifetime. This is the first one.

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Slow Burn | Bonding Time | Some Lore | Dysfunctional Family Dynamics** |

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip

Interlude II: The Crimson Tide

As soon as you enter the lighthouse, you know Viktor isn’t there.

It feels empty when you call his name. The walls newly painted echo the sound of your voice back to your ears without an answer; your footsteps, however, are absorbed by the wooden steps when you decide to climb toward the beacon room, the keys jingling in your hands, still cold from your father’s grip on them.

The open windows carry the salty marine breeze, some hairs prickling your forehead as you get near the balcony where a chair is put against the wall with a book atop the seat.

Nosy, you peek at the worn-out dark blue cover, the words Marine Legends almost erased.

Looking at the coast, you see him. He’s like a painting now—probably all the time, but today it remembers you of those seascapes hanging on the overly decorated foyers from all those wealthy people hosting parties in the city.

There are too many seas today: a sky icy blue, like the frozen surface of a rippling lake with the clouds streaked in harmonious lines across it, and the navy blue of the sea that sways in gentle waves. And in between all, there is Viktor, sitting in a formation of rocks by the cliffside.

Your stomach churns, almost like a sensation of vertigo pulling you toward the rail, down to the sea. You don’t want to get close to it, but you doubt Viktor will be returning soon to the lighthouse as it’s just past noon.

Also, your father told you to return soon, as you must get ready for a soirée.

Back at his studio, your eyes were glued to his stern face, the handsomeness of his youth washed by the ferocious sun in the middle of the sea, by the cold breeze continuously hitting his face, by the scars some mermaids got to draw on his flesh before he carved his own.

Your hands were interlocked against your stomach, wanting to stop a sudden wave of nausea. “Luna told me I wasn’t invited to dinner tonight.” Mr. Fresnel could frighten with your air of perpetual melancholy and the intense gaze you bear, just like your mother’s. Or even worse, he could take a liking to you and go crazy, she had said with her blank expression, knowing-it-all, supposedly.

Gavin clicked his tongue. “You know you shouldn’t mind her comments—you and Astraia are equally my daughters,” he says, his light eyes glued to your face, pulling your back straight.  “No matter what everyone says.”

You felt the twitch of your nose—words stuck that run across your mind in disdain.

Daughter? Only when you see fit. When you need my face to distract a man long enough to sign a paper to give you money.

“Mr. Fresnel is a gentleman, with all that privileged education in the newly built city,” Gavin continued, as if sensing your disgust. “It’s a wonder that a man like him still believes in the miracles coming from the sea.”

He wouldn’t be the first one, not after all the dozens coming from poor coastal towns to Piltover to harvest all the riches of the sea, and all its mysteries. Now, the desolated, wild coast was scattered by huts and docks with fishing boats gently swaying against the waves.

The magic had gone away, and everything was his fault.

Gavin pointed at you, the golden marriage band in his hand twin to the one in the other that is scribbling away. The sight makes you want to yank the older band apart from him. Bold of him to think he deserves the memory of his previous marriage after Gavin left all the things of your mother to burn. "Don't disappoint me."

He held your gaze, the air heavy. Don’t disappoint me even more, hangs in the silence.

Taking deep breaths, you make your descent toward the beach, gripping the keys so hard it’s a miracle your hands aren’t bleeding.

It’s a beautiful day, but now you can only focus on the way the sand pushes your feet under, how the long skirt tangles around your legs like a net, with the roar of the waves growing closer, calling you, demanding you to submit to them just like your mother did. That it’s the only way you could be free.

“Miss,” Viktor says, your eyes darting away from the waves toward his face, chestnut locks of hair glued to his forehead thanks to the humid ambiance. “What do I owe your presence?”

“I came to give you the spare keys.” You swallow hard, feet walking toward the shallow end of the beach, stepping over broken shells and wet sand, almost as if it would devour you. “My father told me to tell you not to lose them again, or you’ll have to pay for the duplicate.”

He brushes his cold fingers against yours when he takes the keys, stuffing them in the breast pocket of his shirt. “I won’t, don’t worry. It was… eh, an… accident.” His cheeks look dusted in pink, and you have to look away.

“Well, it’s fine. I… I think I’ll go now,” you say awkwardly, your stiff hand waving him goodbye.

“Miss, wait,” Viktor calls. He can’t get down the rocks so easily, between the slippery surface and his cane, so you relent and come back to him. “I… I wanted to give you something I’ve found.”

“Oh?”

“It-it’s something I think it’s pretty and… eh, maybe you might like it, perhaps?” All red cheeks and avoiding eyes, Viktor puts a shell the size of your palm from behind his back, bright pink, and orange in stripe spirals.

It feels like being hit in the stomach, bathed in freezing water during winter. You look at the shell, feeling a pull down your insides, down toward the sea.

“You don’t like it. I should’ve known it,” Viktor mutters, clearing his throat as his fist closes around the shell. “You don’t like the sea, you probably don’t like things that come from the sea, either.” He chuckles, trying to hide his nervousness. “Of course.”

“I like the sea.” I’m just scared of it.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Miss,” Viktor says, his golden eyes filled with resolution.

“I’m not lying,” you mumble, closing your eyes when you see his brows furrow. “I just… I hear the screams, Viktor.” Your arms tangle around yourself in a makeshift hug, trying to hide you from his gaze, from this sea that whispers your name in each wave rolling against the beach. “I hear their screams.”

His inquisitive expression morphs into surprise, and you're filled with regret. Why did you say that? He's going to think you're out of your mind, and perhaps he wouldn’t be wrong—if he’d say it, then Gavin and Luna would be right. You don't want to know what you'd do if that's the case.

"You saw it," Viktor says instead, his tone soft and barely audible, making you lean closer to him, ignoring how the water has started to soak the edge of your skirt. “How the waves turned red.”

“I did." The words are stuck in your throat, and you don't really know how long you were expecting to let it out. Since the death of your mother? Or was it since the first time you saw it? Just an innocent child gazing at the yellow sand turned red with splashes of blood, ears filled with wails of agony. “I did.”

Viktor's thumb rests over his chin, deep in thought. "But they don't come here anymore. They know, now.” He looks at you. “Do you fear them?”

Yes, you want to say. Yes, I do. But you don’t, not really.  You're the daughter of your father and mother, after all, and they didn't find them threatening at all, for better, or for worse.

You understand them—how they were used to fulfill stranger’s desires, tossed aside when they weren’t needed anymore. How they retaliated, with sharp teeth and murder songs, unbridled magic and purposeful.

You want to be like them.

“How do you know about the mermaids?” you ask instead, the image of the marine legends’ book in the beacon coming back to you. “Do you like mermaids?”

Viktor looks toward the sea. “I find them fascinating. They were the reason behind the sudden blooming of this town, and now, they’re behind its downfall. It’s… poetic, in a way.”

You chuckle despite yourself. All these years you can't hate the men working under your father’s thumb, they had families to feed, vices to fulfill. But your father? He has no excuse. No exit.

“Yes. I suppose it was only a matter of time.” You can’t trample with powers you don’t understand, at least not for very long.

“A matter of justice, one might say,” he adds with a slight smile. “Then, would you like to keep the shell? Or… eh, maybe it’s not of your liking?” Viktor extends the shell toward you. “You can hear the sea from here, and there will be no screams. I promise.”

It's your turn to feel flustered, lips curved in a smile. This time, your fingers are the ones brushing his palm when you take the shell in your grasp, smooth and warm, heavier than it looked.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Viktor,” you say. “I’ll give you something back soon.”

He chuckles. “There’s no need. I’m not giving you this for you to feel indebted.”

Habits are hard to change, you assume but prefer not to tell him that. At least, not yet.

“I’ll let you go now,” Viktor adds once you don’t say anything. “But I hope I will see you soon, Miss.”

“Me too,” you smile, tucking the shell in the inner pocket of your coat as you wave him goodbye, striding up the hill.

Midway through it, you see the outline of a person waiting for you at the top.

“Astraia," you say, hating the slight pain in your voice from climbing so fast. You don’t stop, however.

"You shouldn't behave like that," your sister says, hands taking fists off her dress to avoid it getting dirty. “What will father and mother think if they see you like that with the keeper? It would ruin your reputation.”

As if I have one. “I don’t care.” You’re an oddity, the child of a crazy woman who may be just as crazy, why does it matter? To keep a false image of yourself that will get washed away? “And you shouldn’t either. Focus on your debut, Astraia.” You look at your younger sister’s pristine hair and fawn-like eyes, so, so naïve.

She says your name, but you don’t care. You just can’t care anymore. “What did he give you?”

“Mind your business—”

“If it’s a shell, you know you have to throw it away!” she cuts you off, taking you by the shoulders. “They’re dangerous, you can’t keep them close to you. They… they attract monsters.”

Your jaw feels tense, if it’s for anger or frustration, you don’t know.

“I’m already surrounded by monsters, Astraia, my dear,” you say coldly. Your words freeze her, and you push her hands away, walking toward the house whose entrance looks like an open mouth ready to swallow you whole. “Just... let me alone.”

From the Diary of Astraia Galvin.

Dear Diary,

Today marks one month since my sister hugged me. Since she talked to me. I didn’t think that when she told me that now she was dead to me, she’d mean it. I’m like a stranger to her. She feels cold and aloof like a ghost roaming our shared floor. I wish I knew how to amend it—where did I do something wrong? I only wanted to protect her. Sometimes, I want to go to the ocean and dig up that shell I throw away, but the ocean is forbidden and dangerous. I know I’d die if I ever set foot in it. But what if death is the price I have to pay to earn my sister's forgiveness? Could she be that cruel? I don't believe Mother. She loves me. She has loved me ever since I have a memory. What changed? Was it me? Her? I want to go back to those days when I could lay on her bed while she told me a story about the sea, to wake her up in the middle of the night and both tiptoe down the stairs to prepare hot chocolate because the nightmares wouldn’t end. I want her with me, and I don’t know what to do to cross the rift created between us two. No, when the abyss that separates us is filled with black-ink water that smells like death and magic. Today is raining and she isn’t here; I don’t want her to do something she will regret, as I don’t wish for her the pain that now consumes me like the candle on my desk, almost out and without her returning from the lighthouse. I don’t want the sea to take her. I don’t want the mermaids to claim her. Dear Diary, I only want her to be free. For us to be free. But… I don’t know how much we’ll have to pay for that to become true. And I’m too scared to find out.

[nonwal]

writing updates

figured I should update my pinned post, so here's a list of my active* WIPs—please ask questions about any of these (or any of my completed fics!)

* not necessarily fics that will get published, just works that I am still actively writing/planning/thinking about

Critical Role

the sea, the stars, the dreamers

blumenshadow

space opera/arranged marriage/murder mystery. four wizards have a terrible time on a spaceship. AKA the Among Us AU

partially published, extremely rough draft complete(ish) but in need of serious editing/revisions. still slowly chipping away at that, and publishing will resume after the second draft is complete

a body in absentia

shadowgast

exploration of Essek's (and Bren's) relationship with sex/intimacy through the lens of a scourger AU, plus magical gender transition with the complications of a scourger AU

main fic complete. many one-shots in various stages of completion; most likely to get finished are the one with a riding crop and the voyeurism fic

a wolf is a ghost with teeth

Eadwulf/Fjord/Jester

man who worships goddess of death has existential crisis after his body gets fished out of the ocean and resurrected. also, the ocean really, really wants him back (and Eadwulf wants to be used useful)

unlikely to be finished due to sheer size, but it's a damn fun idea. Fjord is living in an adventure movie, Jester is in a romance novel, Eadwulf is stuck in a ghost story where he is both the house and the haunting

what collects in the hollow

Astrid/Beau/Yasha

a mirror to a wolf is a ghost with teeth, set during the same time but following Astrid. having achieved her life goals and besieged by emails paperwork, local woman has midlife crisis and turns to a frenemy?nemesis? coworker? monk for help. also, Beau mentors a teenage wizard with sociopathic tendencies and Yasha shows Astrid the benefits of eating bugs

equally unlikely to get finished as awiagwt, but I have a lot of ideas

untitled BQ/RQ fic

Bright Queen/Raven Queen

Leylas Kryn is the last mortal who remembers meeting the Raven Queen before she ascended. 7+1 conversations, each time that Leylas dies (+ an interlude with Quana)

unlikely to be finished but it's such a cool concept that I'm loathe to abandon it

Baldur's Gate 3

light in unlit places

Wyll/Astarion

post-canon (possibly pre-epilogue? haven't finished the game yet.) Astarion gets saved by Wyll and runs into complications trying to return the favor. parties, politics, peril. heroic idealist/guy who does the dirty work. (also, the unexpected consequences of releasing that many vampires into the underdark)

in the slapping ideas around phase so we'll see if a coherent story emerges from what is currently Concept Soup

[whovianofmidgard]

Light Touched AU

A place to collect my works on tumblr for ease of access

Light Touched 

Summary: What if the Silmarils could fundamentally change an elf over the course of centuries? Elwing and Eärendil have one, Maglor and Maedhros had the other two. This is the story of how they changed, what have they become, and what have they got up to that made them myths, legends and folktales across Middle-earth. AKA Elrond's Eldritch Silmaril-touched Parents

The Stories I Hear of You 

Summary: An interlude between chapters 12 and 13 of Light Touched The times when Elrond overheard strange tales and rumours throughout the years that reminded him of one of his four parents. OR 5 times Elrond heard tales of his parents +1 time he reunited with one of them

Sea-led With a Kiss 

Summary: After Ages of courtship and regifting the Silmaril to each other every year, Maglor and Ulmo finally tie the knot.