#if anyone is waving a flag for the youths its me

[pokeybananas]

Honestly, the youths get waaaaay too much hate. I frankly am so stinking impressed with this upcoming group of young adults. They had to develop through the pandemic (which has apparently put them behind a lot), but also insanely politically motivated, like I'm a big fan! I'm so proud!

Ah yes, Gen Z. The Gayest Generation

[cuttoothed]

For day 6 of @jonmartinweek for the prompts "flirting" and "jealousy". Guess I'm living in this nebulous post-200 AU permanently now!

(Yes, I have decided that they live in Scotland. And also that Martin works for a non-profit that provides resources for LGBT+ youth.)

CW for discussion of jealousy (including mention of Martin wanting Jon to smite Oliver), mild flirting outside of a relationship, and teasing about said flirting. Take care if any of that is uncomfortable for you.

*

On Sunday they go to the pub that Martin’s been raving about. It’s a newly opened place not that far from their flat; he had gone there for karaoke last Thursday with his crowd from work, and when he came home—tipsy and affectionate—had insisted that Jon would love the place, and that they had to go this weekend.

“They do a Sunday roast, Jon,” he enthused, “I know you love a Sunday roast. And the cocktails are amazing!”

“I can see that,” Jon said, eyeing his slightly wobbly boyfriend with amusement. “All right then, we’ll go this Sunday.”

Martin had pressed a messy, exaggerated kiss to his cheek for that, and Jon had made sure to get a couple of glasses of water into him before bed that night.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon and they’re at The Brew House, and Jon has to admit it’s very nice. The interior is a mix of classic wood-and-brass and modern decor, with low-fi acoustic music playing in the background. Jon is pleased when he spots the rainbow flag hanging alongside the saltire behind the bar; not that he would be uncomfortable in its absence, but it’s always nice to see. Heartening.

The pub is moderately busy, but they’re easily able to find a table. Martin goes to the bar, and Jon sees him talking to the bartender, a tall, heavyset man of maybe forty, with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. They're smiling as they talk, and then the barman says something that makes Martin laugh out loud, and he’s still grinning as he brings over the drinks—a craft stout for Jon, a cider for himself—and menus.

“What was that about?” Jon asks, curious. Martin shakes his head.

“Nothing. I was just talking to the owner, he remembered me from karaoke the other night.”

“Oh, did he now?” says Jon, raising an eyebrow, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“He only remembered because I made an arse of myself trying to reach the high notes in “Take On Me.””

“Of course, that’s the only reason.” Jon nods with mock solemnity, and Martin gives him a glare without any heat in it. Jon notices that his cheeks have gone faintly pink.

“I feel like I’m being accused of something here,” Martin protests. “When all I’ve done is be bad at karaoke.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” says Jon primly, taking a sip from his pint. “I’m just asking questions.”

They’ve both agreed to try the Sunday roast, but Jon glances at the menu anyway, in case there’s anything of interest for next time they come here. If Martin ever lets me come here again, he thinks mischievously. After a few minutes, the owner approaches their table, smiling broadly. He’s a good looking man, Jon notices.

“Well, what takes your fancy?” he asks in a deep, pleasant voice.

“The roast for me, please,” says Jon. “What about you, Martin? What takes your fancy?” Martin gives him another glare, his cheeks coloring again.

“I’ll have to go for the roast as well, thanks,” he says. The owner smiles again, taking their menus.

“Good choice,” he says. “Not to be biased, but our Sunday roast is fantastic. Almost as good as I’ve been told our cocktails are.” He winks at Martin, and doesn’t seem to notice when he almost chokes on a mouthful of cider. “I’m Nick, by the way. Martin, right?”

“Y-yeah,” says Martin. “Nice to meet you—or, uh, to learn your name?”

“I’m Jon,” says Jon dryly, and Nick’s smile turns on him.

“Good to meet you both. I’ll be back with your food in no time!”

He sets off, and Jon smirks across the table at Martin, who is flustered and very definitely red in the face. Martin glares back at him.

“What?” he says indignantly. Jon only smirks more.

“I’m ace, Martin,” he says, “Not oblivious. I recognize flirting when I see it.”

“Not jealous, are you?” Martin asks pointedly. Jon considers for a moment.

“A bit,” he says. “How could I not be, seeing an attractive man flirting with my very attractive boyfriend and making him blush?”

Martin huffs dismissively, but a small, pleased smile spreads across his face. “Oh please, I was not blushing.”

“Of course you weren’t,” says Jon, grinning. “It’s rather cute, though, watching you get all flustered. Did you ever get that way about me?”

“Only the entire first two years we knew each other,” Martin says, grinning back at him; his foot kicks gently against Jon’s under the table. “I think you just thought I was incompetent, though.”

“Perhaps I was a bit oblivious at that point,” Jon admits, and Martin laughs.

“You got there in the end.”

The food arrives, heaping plates of roast beef and veggies and Yorkshire puddings, smothered in rich gravy. It smells amazing, and tastes as good as it smells, and Jon eats more than he really should. Afterwards, Nick comes to their table again; he sets down another pint of the (rather good) stout in front of Jon, and a tall glass full of ice and orange-gold liquid in front of Martin.

“I remembered when you were here Thursday you asked for a Hairy Sunrise, but we were out of triple sec. So, here it finally is—and this round’s on the house to make up for that.”

“You really don’t need to—” Martin begins, but Nick waves his protests away.

“Anyone who can belt out A-ha like that deserves a free drink,” he says. “Besides, I have an ulterior motive—we’re new, so I’m trying to build up a base of regulars. I hope we’ll see plenty more of you in future—both of you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” says Jon. “At least if Martin has anything to say about it.”

“Great!” Nick beams, while Martin tries to murder Jon with his eyes. “I look forward to it!”

They linger for some time over their drinks, full of food and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere; when they finally leave, Nick waves them a cheery goodbye from behind the bar.

“Okay, fine,” says Martin when they get outside. “Maybe he was flirting with me, just a bit. You’re not annoyed, are you?”

“No, I’m not annoyed,” Jon assures him. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirting. Not as if I’m going to ask you to murder him or anything.”

“Ha-ha,” Martin deadpans, and Jon grabs his hand, uses it to tow Martin’s arm around his shoulders. Martin leans in close, making a pleased sound.

“Besides, I can’t blame him,” says Jon. “I’ve got the most gorgeous boyfriend in the world—how could he resist?”

“No, that can’t be right.” Martin frowns. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve got the most gorgeous boyfriend in the world. So it doesn’t matter who flirts with me—”

“No matter how bearded and tall and definitely your type,” Jon interjects, and Martin kisses his temple.

“No matter,” he agrees. “Because nobody could possibly compete.”

And it’s not as if Jon had any doubts about that, but it’s still nice to hear, the little sliver of jealousy in his chest melting away in the warmth of Martin’s affection. He pulls Martin’s arm tighter around him, and they walk home in the evening sunshine.

[spencesglasses]

sweet creature (spencer reid x f! reader) pt 3

a/n: no spence in this part, sorry to disappoint you simps. but uhh, y/n and jj rights! but as besties <3

tw! there are mentions of sexual assault and a minor character death! please be aware before reading!!

part one | part four

“St. Augustine, Florida,” Penelope starts, showcasing the most recent case. “Two bodies were found early this evening in a remote wooded area just west of the city. Neither have been identified yet.”

“This woman’s complexion…” Tara said, looking at the pictures of a woman with various injuries on her face.

Y/N looked at the board beside Penelope. “… she was exsanguinated.” she hissed.

“Correct, my dearest, which is a really fun word to say, but I didn’t know its terrible meaning until I started working here.”

“Odd that the only female had her blood removed,” Rossi said across the round table.

“Well, the male victim might have been collateral damage or a witness that needed to be silenced.” JJ added.

“I mean, it is the kind of message that would be sent to each other. The Curiel Syndicate recently set up shop in Florida,”

“Except it looks like these two were meant without anyone the wiser. How is that a message?” Asked Rossi.

“Well, cartels have also been known to use murder as a form of voodoo.” Derek pointed out. “In 1989, a University of Texas student was murdered by a satanic gang while on spring break.”

Y/N leaned further into the table, reviewing the photos they were given. “My guess is that this has nothing to do with drugs. Maybe someone with a blood fetish-”

“Vampirism?” JJ asked.

Y/N hums in response, glancing at her for a brief moment.

“It’s late and we need to hit the ground running. Wheels up in 30.” Hotch said as he closed the file he held, gathering any necessary belongings for the case.

Without another word, the team mirrored his actions and followed him out. This was one of the first few cases she has worked on with the team without Spencer. She didn’t mind it, of course. The team welcomed her with open arms and treated her as if she had always been there, which she appreciated. She had gotten used to everything that came with the job, and grew closer to the team, but she wouldn’t be lying if she said that some things she sees still make her skin crawl.

-

Y/N looked out the window of the jet, admiring the contrast of the dark, star filled sky beneath the white clouds. She was seated with JJ, Hotch, and Morgan at the small table, the rest of the team claiming their spot to the seats to their right.

“The coroner attributed the lacerations on the bodies to animal bites.” Morgan said. “Apparently there are a lot of raccoons in that area.”

Y/N felt JJ nudge her slightly and brought her attention back to the file on her lap, flipping through the photos. “The media’s going on about satanic mutilation.”  

“It’s happened before. The West Memphis three case showed how animal activity on a corpse can be mistaken for a ritualized torture.” Hotch noted.

“After the first bite, the insect infestation expands and distorts the open wounds,” Said Rossi.

Y/N heard Garcia groan over the laptop speaker, seeing her face scrunch up in disgust on the screen. “Ok, here’s my finger, here’s the mute button. Are you guys done talking about the critter damage?”

JJ and Y/N shared a look, and she smiled. “You can put your finger down, Pen, we’re done,”

“Thank you, and Y/N’s right; local news and radio outlets are going wild with this being a blood-worshipping cult murder.” she continues typing. “Hey, new information. Both of those bodies have just been identified, Cheyenne Pravato, 23 and George Henning, 71.”

The team leaned forward to inspect the photos of the recent victims popping up on the screen.

“Any connection?” asked Hotch.

“My level-one search says no, my level 2 through 20 await. Cheyenne was a waitress that is currently unemployed. Henning was a retired steelworker from Pennsylvania, lived in Florida a few years. They both went missing 3 days ago.”

“3 days?” Tara questioned. “Coroner estimated the time of death as less than 24 hours from the time of discovery?”

“Preliminary indicators show no sign of torture or sexual assault,” JJ said.  

Y/N’s eyebrows knit together in thought, trying to piece together the information. “What was he doing with them?”

The team brought their attention to Hotch, and he said, “Dave, you find out what you can about Cheyenne from friends and family. Morgan, you do the same thing for Henning. JJ, I need you to rein in the media. And, Lewis, Y/L, you two go to the M.E.. Hysteria’s growing and we need to contain it.”

-

“Still waiting on the full tox screen for the male victim,” said the medical examiner.

“We think they may have been held for up to two days.” Tara said. “Were they fed?”

“Stomach contents were empty, but nutrition and hydration levels were normal. My guess is they were both fed through an I.V.” he said, lifting the fabric that covered the body. “I did find one curiosity,”

He uncovered the victim's calf, showing a mark on the skin with red rings around it. Y/N furrowed her brows, her eyes scanning the injured spot. “It looks like an animal bite?”

“Not under magnification. It’s actually a surgically precise triangle,”

She saw Tara’s face harden in the corner of her eye; she turned to her and they shared a questioning look. They heard the telephone ring from across the room, and the medical examiner was quick to answer it. Tara lifted the fabric once more, bending down to look closer at the injury.

“You’re positive of that?” Y/N heard him ask over the phone. The medical examiner hung up the phone, turning on his heel to face the two women. “The tox screen and DNA tests on George Henning just came back. You ready for this? Most of the blood in his body isn’t his…”

Y/N tilted her head. “Then whose…”

“It’s Cheyenne’s…”

Her whole body tensed at his words, and Tara’s jaw dropped in shock.

-

Y/N tapped her pencil against the table as she read over the tox screening. “The blood drained from Cheyenne was put into George Henning?” Morgan questioned, gesturing to the document in her hand.

She slid the paper across the table for him to read. “It is strange, a triangle was cut into his calf muscle too,”

“And there’s still something in the toxicology screen that the M.E. can’t identify.” Hotch said.

“Yeah, we’re hoping to find something more in the next few hours,”

Morgan slid back the report to her. She heard footsteps coming closer to the room they occupied and turned to see JJ walking in.  She greeted her with a small wave and smile, to which she returned. JJ leaned against Y/N’s chair, resting her hand on the back of it. “So, it took a little arm-wrestling,” she starts. “But the media finally saw the wisdom in toning down the whole demon worship angle,”

“Don’t take a victory lap just yet,” Rossi said, Y/N handing her the tox report.

“You’re kidding,” JJ huffed.

Tara picked up the photos from the M.E., flipping them over for JJ to see. “Y/L and I are just trying to work out this whole calf muscle business,”

“Triangles are big in illuminati symbolism.” Rossi recounted.

Morgan let out a sharp exhale. “This is just bending back toward cult behavior.”

“What did you find out about George Henning?” Hotch asked him.

“According to the neighbors, the guy was a shut-in. No friends, a lot of health problems — hypertension, parkinson’s,”

“Cheyenne was the opposite,” Rossi interjected. “Vegan, into new age lifestyles. Never met a harmonic convergence she didn't want to converge on.”

“Well, I mean, I get it with him; he was a recluse, but how did nobody notice her missing for 3 days?”

“Her friends said that Cheyenne was flighty. It was not unusual for her to take off without notice for a week or two.”

“Transfusions and sustained I.V. feeding takes skill, planning and access to materials, and as crude as it was, the replacing of old blood with new is dialysis.” Hotch said.  “ What if the triangle isn’t a symbol, but a tissue sample? Could this be medical experimentation?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’ve got a youthful, healthy host in Cheyenne and a sick test subject in Henning,”

“If the new missing girl’s his next victim, the unsub could be getting ready to try again,” JJ said, clutching the back of Y/N’s chair.

Y/N gave her a look of confusion. “New missing girl?”

“A missing persons report came in earlier today, Andrea Gambrell,” JJ explained. “Her car was found abandoned at a cemetery near Jacksonville. Cheyenne and Andrea waitressed at the same restaurant.”

“If Andrea mirrors Cheyenne, then who mirrors George?” Y/N asked.

“I guess that’s what we have to figure out.”

-

Y/N stood with JJ and Hotch looking over photos they’ve gathered throughout the case, trying to come up with a conclusion. She tapped her foot anxiously against the tile beneath her feet, her brows furrowing as she looked closely at the photos. The sound of Hotch’s phone ringing startled her, making her jump. She let out a deep breath and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. JJ took notice of a very flustered looking Y/N and placed a hand on her shoulder gently. “You okay there?”

She gave her a half-hearted smile, moving past her to stand next to Hotch. “‘m fine.”

“What do you have, Garcia?” he asked.

He asked her to search for doctors or any medical professionals in the area, anyone that could pop up as a red flag, and of course, Garcia was quick to find just what they needed. “Nothing on my crimson flag doctor search, but I did learn about something with a super cool name,” she said through the speaker. “The mad scientist club,”

JJ took a step, now standing beside Y/N. “And what is that?’ she asked.

“They’re a student group from the Florida College of Medicine in Jacksonville. Before the disbanded, they used to get together and talk about experimental ways to cure disease.”

“Do you have any names of the people in the club?” Y/N questioned.

“Uh, kinda, sorta, not really. They were totally informal. Here’s the part that made me sit up straight. They used to meet at a local cemetery,”

JJ scoffed. “Let me guess, the same cemetery where Andrea Gambrell disappeared.”

“Yeah! The very one!”

“Alright,” Hotch started. “Keep working on the names and see if you can find out what the club disbanded.”

“Okay,” Garcia said before hanging up.

Before the three of them could say another word, Y/N's own phone started ringing. She reached into her back pocket and held the phone up to her ear. “Agent Y/L,”

“Yes, agent, I’ve got the full tox screen of George Henning,” he said, Y/N bringing her phone from her ear so she could put it on speaker. “There were massive levels of massive levodopa in his system.”

“The parkinson's drug?”

“Correct,”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. “But the blood was replaced with Cheyenne’s. Does that mean the levodopa was introduced into his system after the transfusion?”

“Yes, ma’am. We got the results of the other DNA samples and the surprises keep coming. Found traces of mesoglea and testudinata keratin,”

“That is…” she urges him to continue.

“Jellyfish and turtle. George Henning had animal DNA in his system.” He said.

Y/N scrunched her nose, looking up to see JJ with her mouth slightly agape and Hotch with a deep frown. Y/N quickly says ‘thank you’ before hanging up. But before she could turn her phone off, a quiet ding! went off notifying her about a new message.

“Guys,” she alerted. “Another body was found.”

“You two check that out, see what you can find. I’ll brief the team on the tox screening.”

-

Y/N and JJ walked in silence, their shoulders bumping as they made their way to the site where the latest victim was found.  “Okay so, a homeless man found him,” Y/N breaks the silence, lifting the police tape for her and JJ to go under. The officer close by handed them both gloves to search the area and a bag of belongings found on the victim. “We I.D.’d him as Harold McDermott, longtime local resident.”

“He didn’t even bother hiding the body this time.” JJ said. “The unsub might be unraveling,”

“He must’ve been the new George Henning.” Y/N muttered, crouching down and her eyes scanning the injuries the man ensued. “I don’t even want to think about what might be swimming around in his bloodstream.”

JJ crouched down to her level. “No obvious tissue removal, bruising on his face and chest.” she looked at Y/N, then to the bag in her hand. “What’s in there?”

Y/N eyebrows rose, following JJ’s gaze to the items in the clear bag. She stood up, opened the bag and it was a wallet. With a medical card. Ah, of course we’d find something like this in here, she thought. “It’s a medical I.D. card” she said, pulling it out for JJ to see. “Our victim suffered from epilepsy and cortico-basal degeneration…”

They tore their eyes away from the card, glancing up to each other. “We better deliver the profile.”

-

It’s been a few hours since they’ve delivered the profile to local authorities, and since then, they’ve gotten more information to help them solve the case. The M.E. had found more animal DNA in George Hennings body: sea urchin and some other type of tropical parrot neither of them could identify.

Penelope was able to locate one of the former members of the Mad Scientist Club, Diane Haller, and she was able to go in to talk to Tara; finding out that there was a man that could be a potential lead. Robert, or Richard, Diane couldn’t remember his name, but the club called him the magic man. He only went to the gathering a few times, according to Diane, and while he was there he would go on about how they were in a ‘magical place’. He attended the Florida College of Medicine in Jacksonville while the club was still active, his interest being in neuroscience.

A local doctor went missing, Laura Braga. She was a neurologist, which they believed was a connection to the unsub. Dr. Braga was heading back to her office to get files she’d forgotten when she discovered that the unsub broke into her office trying to get extra levodopa.  

“Garcia compiled a list of every medical student in the North Florida area with the first name of Richard or Robert, and I got to tell you guys, it’s a long list.” Tara said as she stood to the side of a board filled with photo evidence and a map of the area.

“So which one is our magic man?” JJ asked.

Y/N sat in the chair next to her, facing the board. She spun her chair around to face the other way and noticed a peculiar look on Rossi’s face. “What is it, Rossi?”

“They identified the bird DNA in Henning as coming from a scarlet macaw,”

“Mmhm. And?”

“That got me thinking about Turritopsis Dohrni,”

“Turri… what?’ Tara questioned him.

“It’s called the immortal jellyfish,” he explains. “Endlessly recycles its own cells through a process called transdifferentiation, a kind of lineage reprogramming.”

“Oh, my goodness. Dr. Spencer Reid, master of disguise.” JJ joked.

Y/N quirked an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth rising slightly. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve assumed that you were the resident genius, Rossi,”

He let out a soft chuckle. “No disguise. I called the kid last night.”

“Ahh,” Y/N and JJ said in unison.

“But think about it, jellyfish, turtle, sea urchin, and now a scarlet macaw. What do they all have in common?”

“A long lifespan.” Tara answered.

“Exactly, longer than a human’s.”

“So that means the unsub may not be focused on a specific disease but longevity,” Said JJ.

“Oh, God. Guys,” Tara gasped. “I think I know why the magic man thought this place was so magical,” She uses the file in her hand to point at the map. “We are right around the corner from the legendary Fountain of Youth.”

-

A local zoo reported a macaw stolen, the owner suspecting it to be a former employee, Robert Boles, who they’d believed to be the unsub. He went to medical school and flunked out in the middle of his first year. They found key information linking him to the case when Penelope found that he currently worked at the same hospital as Dr. Braga. The team rushed to the location where Boles did his experiments on his victims.

“All right, so, in high school Robert Boles got a summer job at a gift shop near the Fountain of Youth archaeological park.” JJ explained. “He got fired for breaking in after hours.”

Y/N and JJ sat in the back seat of the car, leaving Morgan and Hotch in the front. “That’s probably where his obsession with eternal youth started.”

-

They trudged through the hallways of the abandoned building with their guns pointed forward, ready to shoot if needed. “And I won’t let you get in the way!” they heard a man shout from one of the rooms.

The team followed the sound of the voice and turns the corner to see two men standing over a young woman. The younger man they’d identified as Robert Boles, and the young woman being Andrea Gambrell, Y/N assumed.

“Robert Boles, drop the weapon.” Hotch said sternly.

He whipped his head around to them.

“It’s over, man. You’re not getting out.” Morgan steps closer to him.

“Put the knife down, slowly.” JJ said.

Y/N watches as Boles lifts his arms in surrender, opening his hand to drop the knife. Morgan hurried to cuff him, while JJ rushed to untie Andrea strapped to the hospital bed.

“My wife needs help!” The other man, Ben Kebler, tells Hotch urgently.

“Where is she?”

“In the next room!” Mr. Kebler rushed out.

“Show me.” Hotch said, following him, and Y/N followed along. “Call an ambulance,” he tells her.

-

“Medics are on their way,” Y/N said softly, entering the room Hotch and JJ were in and she stood between them.

She looked down to see Eileen Kebler in the hospital bed, her husband leaning over her her. And her heart breaks. Eileen was dying.

“How is she?” Ben Kebler asked, eyes brimming with tears.

The three of them stayed silent, Y/N unable to comprehend what's happening, let alone come up with words to say in that moment. Hotch peers down at him, and Ben knows. He frantically shakes his head, hand shaking as he grabs his wife's hand. “What have I done?!”

“I’m cold,” Eileen mutters.

His face scrunched up. “Eileen, stay with me!” he pleads.

“I am always with you…” she whispers. “Always…”

And she was gone. Sobs echoed throughout the empty building, and Y/N could feel her heart bursting out of her chest. Her eyes watered with tears, then suddenly she felt a hand interlock with hers. It was JJ’s. She squeezes her hand gently, JJ rubbing soothing circles along her knuckles. She let out a soft exhale and used her free hand to wipe away any tears, trying to regain her composure. This part of the job was something she could never get used to. Something the rest of the team couldn’t get used to, no matter how long they’ve worked there.

-

It was safe to say that Y/N was not a night owl. The team were on their way home and she laid on the couch in the jet with a small pillow and blanket that could barely cover her. She smiled to herself as the memory of her finding Spencer snuggled with a far too small blanket the morning after their first movie night. She still cringes at the fact that she accidentally fell asleep barely into the first few movies, but smiles when she remembers what she woke up to. Y/N thought it was sweet that he stayed there with her, and finding Spencer curled up in a messy bundle of blankets made her heart grow twice its size. She took a mental note to call Spencer when they land, and she finally lets her eyes flutter shut, finally being able to rest.

-

tag list: @eevee0722 @ceeellewrites

[fae-fucker]

Zenith: Chapter 76-79

Chapter 76

Andi has a nice little poetic nightmare. It’s irrelevant. The next morning has the girls preparing for the ball, complete with dresses and makeup.

Some things to note include Lira saying that in Adhiran religion (which is global, I guess), one has to mourn for three days before “letting” the souls of the dead pass on into ... everything.

Andi tries to say that it’ll take time to heal from it all, but Lira is having none of it.

“It will take time to move past what happened on Adhira,” Andi started, but Lira held up a hand.

“My three days of mourning have passed. Lon’s and my aunt’s, too. Now we, and the others who lost loved ones during the attack, must give the lost spirits to the stars, to the trees, to the wind.”

Which basically means that she’s done feeling bad about the unexpected and brutal attack on her home planet, so that’s convenient. Well, if one of our main characters doesn’t care about her people getting senselessly murdered, then why should we?

She also lets us know that her aunt has fixed up the Marauder and brought it here, because of course. Lira wants to arrange for Lon to be transferred to the Marauder, and though she has a logical reason for it (taking him home personally), it’s only a setup so we know why he’s on there at the end of the book when Andi’s bleeding out and needs a universal donor.

Spoilers, I guess.

Andi’s mother, Glorya, intercepts Andi as she tries to leave her crew to their makeover montages, just so we can move into a scene where her mom is brushing her hair and babbling on about gossip and vapid high society stuff.

But Andi, of course, gets lost in a flashback that’s so amateurishly written it’s honestly embarrassing and only highlights Shinsay’s helpless reliance on flashbacks as a storytelling device.

Observe:

Her words faded away as memories took their place. Andi lost herself to them.

The whole flashback is written in italics for some inexplicable reason, even though it would’ve been fine as just regular text since we’re clearly told what’s happening now and what’s a memory.

Also, there’s one bit where the memory “fast-forwards” to a different one. Shinsay, this isn’t a fucking movie. This isn’t a screenplay. What the fuck are you DOING.

The flashback and the mother’s inane babbling are all there to illustrate how vapid and brainless Glorya is and how she only ever cared about her status and not about her kid. Glorya pretends that everything is back to the way it was but Andi curses her out for abandoning her when she needed them most and how “the way it was” was actually always shit.

I mean it’s fine. It’s all right. I see what they’re going for, it’s melodramatic as all fuck but it works for what they’re trying to do? I can see this as being a realistic way for an emotionally neglectful family to look like. I wish it was more nuanced and wasn’t just shoe-horned in here (Glorya doesn’t show up before or after this bit, this is the only time she’s ever present or even mentioned in this book in any meaningful capacity) for the sake of making Andi’s friends look better and for her to not have anything that anchors her to Arcardius, but like, I won’t say this isn’t realistic.

And then Shinsay can’t stop themselves and it’s back to silly time:

“Really, Androma...” 

[...]

“That is not my name,” Andi whispered. She allowed the darkness to come up into her voice, the mask of shadow and steel to sweep across her face. “My name is the Bloody Baroness. And if you or Commander Racella ever so much as utter a single word toward me or my crew again, I will personally strip the skin from your body and wave it like a flag from my starship.”

Glorya let out a soft squeak. Andi snarled with all of her teeth.

Guys I can’t breathe this is too fucking funny. And not in a good “woo vindication!” sort of way, but in a “they really put this right after an emotional confrontation about parental emotional neglect/abuse huh?” way. They really thought this was ... badass? Revenge? Andi, sweetie, you’re, like, traumatized? Presumably? I can’t really tell. But maybe get some therapy?

Do Shinsay think this is somehow a win and that Andi’s threat means she’s fully released from the hurt and pain her parents have caused her through their neglect? It’s honestly written as if Andi just confronted her mother and her own hopes of coming back to her family in this one short scene, and then upon realizing her parents never loved her, she scares her mom a little and then is all smug and satisfied at the end.

That ain’t how it works, darlings.

Then the annoying Marketable Space Pet runs in and starts biting Glorya’s toes and she runs away shrieking like a defeated Disney villain.

Way to undercut your own drama, Shinsay.

The chapter ends with Andi thinking about how her crew is her True Family for the bajillionth time. Because we’re all idiots and Shinsay wants us to remember that.

Chapter 77

It’s the evening of the ball and Andi thinks about how she missed Bavista, which is apparently your generic coming-of-age ball held at Arcardius for every 16-year-old. I’m guessing it’s a yearly thing? The book never clarifies. Not sure why the fuck it’s here tbh.

Actually, it’s a pretty good demonstration of how the worldbuilding in this book is presented so here, have at thee:

She could still remember seeing the otherworldly dresses and suits float by her on the feeds as she watched the girls and boys glide into the A’Vianna House in the Glass Sector. They seemed light as air, full of pride, bursting at the seams with excitement. Once inside, they would be greeted by members of the Priest Guild, who would award each young person three items.

The first was a vial of water from the Northern Ocean, symbolizing strength. For growth, they accepted a single leaf from the oldest tree on Arcardius, known as The Mother, which was said to have been planted when the Ancients first arrived. Lastly, they were given a single floating pebble, no larger than a child’s fingernail, chiseled from the very gravarock where the Cortas estate was. It represented the wisdom of rising above.

Is this relevant to anything? Does this help you understand this world or its inhabitants? Does it tell you anything of the culture of Arcardius or its youth and what’s expected of them? No? It’s just a really generic list of things thrown together using Mystical Proper Nouns as glue? Weeell heeell.

Also what does “it represented the wisdom of rising above” mean? This is utterly generic and means fuck-all, that’s what.

Anyway, Andi’s admiring herself in the mirror. Her dress is very sexy, trust me, I can’t be bothered to include it so just imagine your favorite My Immortal outfit description. It does include sword holsters at the back, which are Andi’s favorite part, because she’s a strong independent woman who don’t need no man. She never actually uses them or brings the swords to the ball so ... Idk what the point of this was.

We also get some shit about how Andi actually LOVES dresses and being pretty but she never admitted it to anyone. But don’t you worry, this badass space criminal LOVES all things girly, because that’s feminism! Can someone check in on Shinsay? I’m not sure they’re getting enough air with their heads so far up Sarah J Maas’ asshole.

Admitting to herself that she looked pretty was something Andi kept private. She didn’t want to give her crew the satisfaction of knowing her true thoughts about fashion. How even though she was a fierce, hardened criminal, she could still appreciate the joy of a beautiful, impractical ball gown.

Huh. And here I thought they were your family. That’s weird that you’d keep this information from them, especially considering all of them seemed pretty excited to be prettied up in the last chapter. I guess they’d really just haaate the idea of sharing this joy with their captain, huh? Why aren’t you admitting this to them, Andi?

You’re saying shit about how “even though” you’re a hardened criminal, you can “still” appreciate beautiful gowns, like those two are somehow contradictory. Are you, mayhaps, ashamed of having this traditionally girly interest? Hmm! Interesting. Why could that be, I wonder? Why would having traditionally feminine interests or even caring about one’s appearance be seen as something inherently shameful or embarrassing, as inherently contradictory to being fierce and “hardened?”

This is all just so *clenches fist* feminist.

Forreal though, somehow Shinsay managed to take their entire made up GALAXY and make it subtly and not-so-subtly sexist. Good job, morons. Really girlbossed that one, huh?

The only bit I like about this whole mess is this:

The dressmaker had also accented her gown with a sparkling necklace full of jewels that Andi didn’t plan on giving back.

This is the one and only space pirate-y thing Andi does -- sorry, considers doing -- in the whole book and honestly could’ve been used to build her character more, but it’s just a one-off joke here. Wasted.

Valen comes to fetch her and we get some subtle foreshadowing.

“Valen the Resurrected.”

He stopped to look at her, brows raised. “What?”

She shrugged. “It’s what the press is calling you in all the feeds.” Valen let out a deep chuckle.

[...]

“Something tells me things are about to change for the better,” he said. “I’m ready to see it all happen.”

Andi wondered what he would do now that he was home with a whole planet at his disposal.

He deserved to have some fun.

Is it bad that I’m rooting for Valen to destroy everything? And this isn’t my villain-fucker coming out, I just want this poor bastard to absolutely annihilate Andi and her gang of acolytes.

Chapter 78

Andi and Valen arrive at the ball. It’s all very pretty and space-y and aesthetic. There’s a bunch of aliens everywhere. Andi sees a woman with funky eyes and assumes it’s a body mod, because I guess she knows the genetic characteristics of every species by heart and can tell when something is real or not.

An old classmate of theirs comes up to talk to Valen and congratulate him on being alive, then Andi reminds him of who she is just to be a smug asshole and the guy fucks off in a panic. She’s just so cool and badass, you guys.

Then it’s time for Valen and Andi to dance, and of course General Cortas looks like he’s about to lose his marbles because these darn kids! >:(

The chapter ends on Andi noticing Dex pouting in the distance.

“Relax,” Andi whispered. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”

She flashed him a wicked grin as the music began.

And as Valen spun her into the first move of the dance, Andi saw Dex standing on the fringes of the crowd, an expression of longing clear on his face.

Chapter 79

This chapter is exactly 298 words of Dex moping around about how he’s actually not over Andi at all when he thought he’d done such a good job of repressing his feelings, and how he should be the one dancing with Andi instead of Valen. If you’re surprised, you’re clinically dead.

[cno-inbminor]

ipsum exitio (PREVIEW)

a/n: i wanted to give you all little snippets from this long fic i’m working on -- currently sitting at ~21k and there’s still a decent amount to unfold and unravel. hope you all look forward to this! and a huge, ginormous thank you to @a-kaashi for helping beta this!!

estimated release: in ~2-3 weeks

plot: self-destruction is in the calm before the storm, in the eye of a hurricane. but when the forces are right, the winds are rapid enough, the catalysts send you hurling, you find yourself leaving a monstrous and disastrous path in your wake.

characters: ushijima wakatoshi, semi eita, iwaizumi hajime, and male oc w/fem!reader possessing vagina/uterus/uterine-system (other oc’s also included)

genre/warnings: (+18) slice of life, angst, descriptions and moments of high anxiety, explicit smut (w/slight degradation, size kink, spanking, etc.), virginity loss, mentions of alcohol, talks about virginity and sex toys, slow burn, pining, implied bisexual reader, (more might come up later)

-

A breeze flows in through the open window of your apartment, softly caressing your face as you lean against the sill on your elbows. You drink in the view of Tokyo at night like a fine wine sliding down your throat, attuning to all your senses. With tear ducts dry and dust caked along the rims of your eyes, they shut in defeat, the semblance of a white flag splayed on the back of your eyelids. Cars honk in the distance and your legs struggle to support your weight. The scent of sulfur from the earlier downpour teases at your nostrils, causing your nose to scrunch a bit as you openly take in the scenery before you again.

A nearby billboard flashes bright, mechanically cycling through advertisements and never resting. The LED lights paint a picture that you are all too acquainted with, even more so with the man in the frame. Your body is plunged into a lake of bitter nostalgia as your heart wrenches painfully. Instead of fighting against the resistance of the water and gravity, you succumb to the anchor dragging you down, knowing that eventually, the waves will recede, and you will return to shore again.

Inhale. Count. Exhale.

Breathe.

-

11 years ago

Perhaps you had become a burden to Wakatoshi. You had turned into the thorn in his side, something he no longer wanted to tolerate and keep in his life. Perhaps it was expected, you bitterly thought while shrugging off his jacket. The bite of the cold night teethed and gnawed at your skin, but the pain is almost welcomed now. He took the fabric without a word, only feeling slightly guilty at the sight of stray tears gradually streaking down your cheeks.

“Okay,” you sniffled, arms wrapped around yourself again for some vague sense of protection. “That’s fine, I get it. You have Nationals and the Youth team as well – it’s mainly best for you to end this.”

“(Y/n) –”

“It’s really okay, Wakatoshi. I appreciate you being straightforward with me. I’ll see you at practice,” you quickly interjected and turned to trek back towards the dorm, sending a quick but lifeless wave behind you. The shards of whatever was left of your soul trailed behind you like scattered stars on the concrete. Even when your roommate and friend brought your disheveled figure into her arms, they did little to ward off the parasitic spectres in your mind.

-

7 years ago

A bio was set, photos strategically ordered, and you were tossed into the world of online dating.

“This is a really bad idea,” you groaned ten minutes later as Sayuri swiped through the profiles showing up in your pool. “I haven’t even slept with anyone before.”

“Oh honey, I bet half of these men only ever got their dick wet once and came in two minutes flat. They think they’re impressing someone but they’re only fooling themselves,” Sayuri scoffed and then grimaced at a man’s daringly shirtless mirror selfie. “This poor guy needs to eat more; I can see his ribcage! You don’t need someone who doesn’t appreciate food.”

“What if he’s got an eating disorder?” You seriously speculated, heart going out to the possibility of that.

“Well now you make me feel bad after swiping left on him and – oh hey! You got a match!”

“What? Who the hell did you swipe right on?!” You screeched; chin craned to get a good look at the person on your phone.

-

4.5 years ago

With a duffel bag slung on his shoulder, phone in hand, dark skinny jeans, a casual pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up , his reflexes were quick enough to recognize the human bundle of joy sprinting towards him. Eita’s best memories of you were in your Shiratorizawa uniform, so seeing you in casual streetwear threw him for a loop at first.

The earnest beam on your face could warm the iciest of glaciers, and he easily lost against the facial muscles fighting to form into his own smile. As you deftly dodged the other people in your route to him, his arms seemed to naturally fall open in a gesture that welcomed your inevitable embrace. Eita was pretty sure you squealed before jumping onto him, but his focus had to redirect to his arms so they didn’t drop you.

“Semi Semi!” You happily cried out into his ear over the hustle and bustle, arms tight around his neck as he held you close. He gave you a brief, affectionate squeeze before setting you down, causing your arms to fall. But his hands held onto your shoulders, giving you a quick once-over and making his assessment. He always had a soft spot for you back in high school, knowing that it wasn’t easy managing a team of teenage boys who were ridiculously hungry and driven for a common goal. When news got around the team that you and Ushijima had broken up, he always kept an extra eye out for you and worried that you’d continue to work yourself to the bone in university.

...

Just one, he berated himself. Just one.

His nose ghosted over the skin from your jaw to your collarbone, catching the faint scent of what he assumed to be a mix of your body wash and natural scent. His senses found it comforting, grounding, and reminded him just how precious you were to him. You weren’t just a random girl at the bar he thought would be temporarily nice to make out with – you were (y/n), the girl who had watched over him and encouraged him during some of his most difficult times with a sport that was once his life, the manager who cared for him and his teammates to be nothing but their best, the person who the boys would unwittingly go to war for if anyone were to bring you trouble.

So he made that known, kissing the joint between your neck and shoulder, and reveled in the breathy gasp that escaped your throat. Little by little, he applied more pressure, preparing you for what he was about to do. His lips softly sucked on the skin, just enough so his teeth could graze it and nibble. Your hands were now fully entangled in the strands of his air, and as they tightened, Eita became more forceful and meaningful. You were entering a faint haze of ecstasy as he worked that one spot, determined to break the capillaries beneath your unmarked flesh and let the inevitable bruising bloom. He knew how beautiful you would look when he was done, and if he had your permission to, what a sight you would be with more littered on the rest of your body.

-

Present

“(Y/n), I know you’re in there,” a deep male’s voice permeates through the wood, though muffled and scratchy. “Please, let me talk to you. I’m sorry, I—” He pauses, a groan of frustration escaping his throat. Your vision refuses to refocus, bleary as you weakly take in your view of Tokyo again. Without a doubt, the man must be ruffling his hair frustratingly, distressed and discouraged.

“I shouldn’t have said that. Please let me in and apologize properly – I owe you that much.”

You owe me nothing, silly. It’s my fault.  

Eyes the shade of the complement to a martini in the billboard observe you, and you wonder: if seen in person, would they have stared with pity?

It’s time to stop running away.

So with sluggish steps, you make your way to the only barrier barring you from your fate. The two deadbolts slide back and click in place, echoing louder than ever. Your hand trembles in its path to the doorknob, faintly grasping the chilling metal and turning it until the latch pulls back far enough to let the door open.

And there they were, the eyes that held the key to your undoing, that had watched you crumble and fall, that had looked after you in more ways than you could imagine, peering straight into yours. You know them well, perhaps too well, and your knees nearly buckle at their intensity. It takes every part of your being to stop yourself from slamming the door closed, to hide away and escape destiny.

Because it seems that irises in the shades of olive will be the banes of your existence.

[artoodeeblue]

A Lady on Paper

Find the French version along with my other original writing on this blog!

I can barely remember my birth. My first one, anyway. The cornerstone. It is shrouded in mist, cloggy like the swamp of my cradle-town. Someone must have fathered me – towers and spires rarely sprout up unannounced, I have gathered. In the echoes of my nave, I still hear the scratching of quill over parchment, the heavy bangs of the hammer, the heaving of my creators’ breaths.

The little details give me real life. I take my first breath when Gaultier chisels his initials on one of my rib vaults. His upturned tongue sticks out, almost touching the freckles on his nose. The light bounces through his walnut hair and lands on my freshly-carved stones.

“Hello,” I whisper, gently caressing his mind.

“Hi.” He smiles. Wipes the sweat from his forehead. His voice is tentative. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, but his tender name glows, etched into the millennia.

“Pleased to meet you, Gaultier.”

With a professional hand, he scratches another layer of mortar on his stone. In the growing mass that will become my visitors, the sound is both grounding and appeasing. Painfully, heavily, I rise.

“Me too, my Lady.”

Someone must have sired me, but my loyalty has always been to my children.

 They give me jewellery and thorn crowns, which I accept like a mother concedes to her child’s present. I don’t need them, but if they reassure them – if they can feel less alone in this world – I can carpet my walls with a thousand tapestries.

Gaultier is long gone, but his laugh still echoes in the choir. It spins around, playfully blowing out candles and raising my children’s hair. His parting gift to the generations.

 They give me eyes. I count three, round and gleaming. They flash with pastel, sketched with a delicate mix of stone and glass. With them I see my cradle-town. I see the steaming chimneys, the palace, the paved dampness of the city. I finally see my children, immersed in pink and blue light. Kneeling, muttering, singing. Confessing. They come in processions, light candles most cannot afford, speak a language I do not understand. I pray as well – that they find the answers they ask of me.

They add more intricate buttresses, for fear that I fall. I chuckle. Of course I will fall. I will burn down and crumble and fade until I am nothing more than a lady on paper. But Raymond will have none of this. He gives out orders, holding his parchment, counting steps and scratching on his board.

His touch is firm and steady. He pats me like his pet, running his fingers in the tiny creases between the stones.

(He misses Gaultier’s carvings, which I hide covetously.)

“You will become the most beautiful temple ever to stand upon this earth,” he tells me. His pompous language never fails to pry a laugh. “You will be thin as a sheet of parchment, yet your towers will stand strong until Judgment Day.”

“My sisters have not,” I try again. “Can you not hear their screams, as they fall to pieces and flames in the East? Only their ruins will see the sun rise on Judgment Day.”

“Not you,” Raymond insists. “You are better. You are good. You are holy.”

“Holier than the entire civilisation your people slaughtered in the name of God?”

His blue eyes glint with stars and hubris. He jerks his chin upwards. “Yes.”

My children are strong, and proud, and will burn themselves for a touch of the sun.

  I wonder if this was how my sisters felt in the East.

They plunder my crypt, behead my kings and saints, but I never knew them anyway – they are all mere faces tattooed without my consent. Fake jewels. Kings never come to say hello; they just waltz in, kneel, smirk, and declare war over heretics.

Julien’s little kick is nonchalant, patronising.

The pavement is coated with a thick layer of blood. It swirls around me, inside me, churns my stomach and stares at me. They don’t do much to me – maybe, underneath the harsh gaze of the Raymond they so despised, they can hear Gaultier’s murmurs of hope. I never really understood hate, but I know it quickly dissolves under permanence.

“Not so powerful now, huh, girl?”

He wears a blue and red tricorn which awkwardly frames his childish face. He cannot be over twenty, yet his tongue sticks out as if he had finally brought a lion to its knees. Still, it has been decades since I have spoken. I nudge him back.

“Never,” I answer.

Julien smirks, and waves his little flag. “We control you now,” he gloats. “You’ll never hurt anyone else again. You’ll be forgotten, just like every other part of the Old Regime.”

“So will you.”

With a giant, heaving swing, the rod comes smashing towards St Thomas. His head explodes, and the fragments scatter through my bowels.

“I despise you,” he snarls. His breath is ragged, and his chiselled jaw twitches in its socket. “You’re everything that’s evil in this world.”

I am only rocks, I want to tell him. How can stone, oak, mortar and carved initials rival with the bloody smoke-trail of a musket?

But he is already gone, running on the pavement, carried by youth and homicidal optimism.

They change my name – it belongs sometimes to Reason, sometimes to the Supreme Being, sometimes to Liberty. My children are creative, and fickle. Anything to prove that they have changed.

But a few chopped off heads do not change the tell-tale glimmer in your eyes.

  A man with almond eyes and a high forehead like mine pushes through my heavy door. His steps break my trance-like slumber, and I stir. Shy sunlight cracks through my unused eye. I blink. Slowly.

Gaultier’s laugh is no more than a whisper now. It has lost its music – has grown as lethargic as mine. Raymond’s promise flies over me like the angel of Death.

The man blows, sending a streak of fresh air over the piers. Dust materialises in the diffused rays. He stumbles around the half-ruins littered on the floor.

Electricity courses through his fingertips as he brushes my stone. I shudder. I haven’t been touched like this in centuries.

There’s an aura around him. Not divine – not like the few priests who still roam my sleepy aisles. Something rich and brown, scented with paper, ink and starlight. His eyes seek, blink, and dart in rhythm with the turn of the earth. His feet are posed firmly on the checkered tiles, yet his posture is light and dream-like. Grounded, physical, yet full of wonder. Not broken – not yet.

He smells so intensely, decidedly human.

I take a breath, and guide his hand towards the tiny alcove I made. It hides in the joint between walls, covered by dust and inconsequence. His breath gets caught in his throat, Adam’s apple bopping up and down. He religiously traces around the tired G, the sloppy H. It stings up to my spire, but tickling nerves feel much less lonely than numb inattention.

“Six hundred and fifty years,” he murmurs. “We must look like insects to you.”

I brush his skin, watching his eyes light up with Muses. Deep in the bowels of my bells, a slow rumbling comes to greet him.

“I think you look like giants, Victor.”

 Out of everyone who said hello, he’s the only one who comes back broken.

“Look at you, all pampered,” he says. “You’re a proper lady on paper now. On your way to your old beauty.”

“It is your doing, my love. Your beautiful story set the spark.”

Victor smiles, a weary, tentative thing that contrasts with the navy bags under his eyes. His back is hunched, shoulders drawn tight under his jacket.

Sometimes, Victor reminds me so much of myself it sends sparks of pain down to my crypt.

“I am so very sorry, my dear.” I send him a tender sunray, but he recoils – flinches – away. He takes a shuddering inspiration.

The clangs and thrusts of the renovation scaffolding reverberate inside the nave. Victor’s knee fidgets back and forth, up and down, synchronised with my heartbeat. His breath comes in long, trembling sighs. He dips his head a little more, letting his brows cloud his gaunt expression with shadows too old for his age.

“She was…” Victor falters. “My Leopoldine, she was only nineteen.”

He whimpers, shoulders trembling. Never in his life could he withhold emotions from his features. My Victor has always felt everything so viscerally, so fiercely, that the force of a hundred hell fires could not possibly restrain him.

His hands are linked together and his eyelids close – a small, awkward attempt to connect to something far above my spire. I stay silent.

“You’re supposed to know everything.” His mouth moves, yet his voice comes from another realm. His brow twitches. “If you’re so omniscient, can’t you at least tell me… Tell me why?”

That is the one question I cannot answer, that I can never answer.

“Why can’t you bring her back?”

His broken sobs do not echo. Neither do Gaultier’s laugh, Raymond’s hopes, Julien’s fire. They are absorbed in the scaffolding above, in the heavy oak framework, in the centuries-old mortar.

 Sometimes I wish I could speak to God. After all, am I not named after his mother?

Perhaps I am condemned to share her fate, forced to watch my children break and die, suspended to the cruel post of Time.

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la cathédrale… Je partirai.

  It feels…strange, to say the least. I am smaller, lower. Reduced.

Smoke and ashes fly from my spire over my cradle-town, my beloved light-city. My children are cut from me, staring powerless behind murmuring firemen. They pray, they sing, mutter words of comfort that I barely catch over the screaming in my mind.

It aches. The intricate carpentry consumed, the flames licking up my roof, the crashing water relentlessly boring into my shoulders. The tireless wind ramming against my walls, whistling between my towers. It carries the bystanders’ collective gasp as they watch my spire crumble and impale my flank.

A young fire woman fixes her gaze on the brazier, a stoic jawline firmly maintaining her illusion of control. I can barely discern the tell-tale glimmer of her eyes through the smoke.

“You must be in so much pain.”

Maybe, but my pain is not unbearable. My children’s is.

“Don’t worry. We will protect you.” Her voice is wobbly, with a higher pitch than usual, yet her hand on the hose could not get any steadier.

 When the sun rises over my still smouldering body, I hear relief, and I hear grief. The city, my radiant, proud, boastful people, hang in exhausted silence. It drapes over me.

My close call to destruction caused thousands of individuals to turn their heads towards an old remnant of the Regime.

“We will rebuild,” they say. From my undamaged eye, I spot their leader, surrounded by a shifting mass of microphones and cameras. “We will restore Our Lady to her former glory, and make her even more beautiful. We will make these stones alive again.”

Raymond’s voice resonates through millions of television sets. His eyes bore straight through the country.

I think of Gaultier’s sweat-filled affection, of his cheery compassion.

Of Julien’s anger at the vices of the world, of the passionate curve of his eyebrows.

I think of Victor the writer, of his beautiful smile and his magnificent tears, of his unconditional love for humanity.

I think of the three or four billionaires I have never met, who will claim to adore me by bedecking me with fake jewels, by cajoling me with impersonal wood and long-dead cold stone.

I think of my other sisters in the ocean, in the forests, in the air. Cathedrals that will never be rebuilt nor remembered, in the small scheme of political power. Monuments older than my cradle-town disappearing with the snap of two fingers, never to be seen again. Killed by hubris, disdain and general disinterest.

 My stones do not make me alive. Just like you, they decay, wither, and burn.

No. I do not remember the placing of my cornerstone.

I took my first breath when a young, gap-toothed bricklayer chiselled his initials on the slabs of my rib vault.

[rustbeltjessie]

Self-Portrait as the Girl from a Springsteen Song // from Shut Down Strangers & Hot Rod Angels: an anthology inspired by the music of Bruce Springsteen

Jesus Christ      Peter Pan      whoever

you are this time      I’m done playing mama to you      who martyred yourself on the myth of the working class antihero       & his eternal youth      who sacrificed       yourself to the factory smoke-stacks      I’m done being the darling of all       those lost boys under the bridge      all those boys & their cars & guitars they talk      in the scrub-grass yards of faded clapboard houses      all the bottles they pass back       & forth ‘neath the bridge we used to go together      almost-perfect blood brothers       denim stretched tight ‘cross teenage

thighs       & our leather

jackets with flasks hidden inside      & rusty knives we used to carve our       initials in to each other’s skin      we looked so hard      drove faster than the speed       at which this town kills its dreaming youth      screamed curses into the wind      windows down      radio on singing those desolate hymns       we were the wildest      wildest things we’d ever seen loved realer      more feral       than a coyote busted open on the blacktop       of those two-lane roads we were gonna ride       off into that American sunset      we were tramps &

thieves       born to run & steal       everything

every rotten dream that wasn’t       nailed down      what a rip-off       baby we dreamed the same dreams for a while       it was our whole lives      until you said you wanted me only & I still wanted more      never never was praying       for a savior’s rising       I needed the streets       not the coins you fished from beneath your hot rod’s seats      not your Jesse James Dean dreams       fuck you & your promised land this is your land      has no place       for me       I still need more than you’ve given       me      more than the screen door crashing      closed behind you      more

than a white dress waving       like a flag      more

than your sad heroic odes       to my not- beauty       my sweet boy      I sure don’t need this half-buried bathtub you adorned      with plastic stars      & enshrined me      entombed me in      when you made me over as       virgin Mary      Wendy darlin’       boy you’ve forgotten I was motherfucking Bobby Jean      no moral schoolgirl      I was hardworking      asshole worked beside you       in that piss factory it was a paycheck      Jack      I rode beside you      on my own motorcycle      smoked beside you on the dusty beach      both of us so

thunder      & all of that road

which was our redemption      but somewhere ‘tween living fast & dying      with that everlasting kiss on our boyish lips      you took away that brotherhood & recast me mother      to all of the lost boys       fighting off the pirates & the bosses & the blues      while I mend your torn shadows      pull the nails from your wounds & you use me as an excuse      oh Christ it wasn’t me      ripped the bones from your back wasn’t me who burnt you out       made you a Chevy      a skeleton frame      & if there are ghosts       in the eyes of those other boys

they were haunted       long before

I ever sent anyone away      I’m done asking       boy      why are you crying?      I’ve got my own sadness      gonna burn this treehouse down      use the wood from your cross       build a life boat      a fast car      fuel it with madness      go racing       into the wind      I’m ready to grow young again      you can hide from my going or come to tell me      goodbye      boy      you can scream all my names in the rainy street      like the broken chorus of a three-minute record       like a broken rosary’s beads spilling from your throat      throw roses in my

wake as I      roar

down the road       or      if you’re ready to take that long walk you can      come along with me the door is open      but the ride ain’t free Jesus      Peter      Bruce       break the shitty vows I never made you take       babe      now you listen      have a little faith in me      ‘cause there’s magic in the night      & this time      it’s mine       mine       mine

[artificialqueens]

papillionlisse 1/? [gigi x nicky / jan x jackie] - pinkgrapefruit

[ chapter one ]

Fast forward to the middle of sixth year and she’s signing up for the Beauxbaton exchange program, egged on by Jan who’s bouncing on her toes, the tote bag slung over her shoulder almost overflowing as Crystal explains the significance of her One Direction stick’n’poke to Jackie who still only has a limited knowledge of muggle music but bless her, she’s trying.

[harry potter hogwarts/beauxbaton au]

A/N - hey! there was a prompt on aq that i was IN LOVE WITH because I’ve wanted to venture into my second favourite fanfic fandom for months but haven’t seen the need. but hey - this should be fun. Thanks to Meggie for betaing, this should be about 6 chapters but don’t hold me to that <3

*

Ever since she was seven, in the aftermath of one of the greatest wizarding wars in British history, Gigi has longed to go to Hogwarts. Her uncle (on her magical mother’s side) would tell her stories of his youth running through ever changing corridors - challenging ghosts and stealing food from the kitchens. Her mother would scoff, nose up high as Gigi and her father would lean into the fantastical tales. Her dad was a muggle but he was fascinated nonetheless, one of the few that would lean into the wizarding world as far as he could rather than run screaming. Their family had hidden during the war - Gigi’s mother a part of one of the highest orders of pure blood family that still accepted the marrying of muggles (and hadn’t affiliated themselves with Death Eaters) - and Gigi had been immersed in the Pure Blood culture for a few months. She was tended to by house elves and taught to fly on a broom by her grandpapa who regaled her with his time playing as keeper for Hufflepuff.

When she got her letter she cried. And then she sent a letter to her grandpapa with her old owl Fluffy and a chocolate frog.

She’d sat on that train, knees bouncing the cage that held her new tawny owl Snitch at a rate that had agitated the poor bird so much he was flapping at the top of the cage. A small girl with insane dark curls entered the carriage and immediately removed the cage from her legs.

“You doin’ okay there?” the girl asked with a peppy voice and wide eyes. “I’m Crystal.”

“I’m Gigi,” she responded quietly, overwhelmed with excitement. “Do you want a crisp?”

“Are they salt and vinegar?” Crystal asked and Gigi nodded. “Awesome! Yeah!”

It was the start of a very firm friendship.

*

Gigi and Crystal entered the great hall with mouths agape. They were funneled in by Hagrid, grouped together with the first years to be sorted and their eyes flitted between the ornate decorations and the hall full of students in black house robes - seated at long tables decorated with banners and flags of the houses; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

“What do you want to be?” whispered Crystal eagerly as she vibrated next to Gigi.

“I don’t mind,” Gigi mused. “None of them are bad.”

“I want to be a Hufflepuff,” Crystal enthused and it made Gigi giggle at her new best friend.

“GOODE, GIGI,” Headmistress McGonagall called from the front of the hall and Gigi skittered up to the front of the room nervously, passing students both older and taller than she. She sat on the stool carefully as the Sorting Hat was placed onto her head. It wriggled uncomfortably for a few seconds, mumbling things Gigi couldn’t quite make out before screeching ‘SLYTHERIN’ at the top of its nonexistent lungs. The green table erupted into cheers as she ran to take a seat on the end, the badge on her uniform transforming into a snake in front of her eyes.

She sat patiently for a few moments as various other girls were called - a Mateo going to Gryffindor and a Liason going to Hufflepuff before Crystal’s name was called.

The young girl sat for only a second before the hat called Hufflepuff and the house cheered in triumph, Crystal giving Gigi a little wave before running to join the sunny yellows of her house.

Once everyone had been sorted, McGonagall tapped her glass to silence the room. “Welcome first years! As you may know,  since the Battle of Hogwarts we have taken house unity very seriously. This means that although you are governed by your house’s prefects, earn points for your house and play quidditch in your colours, you will live, work, and eat with whomever you choose. Aside from special occasions - you will function as a unit, not separate groups. Common rooms, while house specific, are open to everyone and your dorms could be anywhere so it’s important that you respect all house prefects because you don’t know whose rule you’ll live under. Be kind to one another - it matters more than you know, and let the feast begin!”

With a final flourish of her wand, the empty tables were full of platters and the once plain ceiling looked to be full of stars.

*

Gigi’s dorm ended up being in the old Hufflepuff quarters, ever filled with a glowing warmth. She was thrilled to find Crystal lounging on a bed when she entered, two more girls also already having claimed beds - Jan Sport and Jackie Cox. She’d discerned from conversation that Jan was a half-blood like herself and Jackie appeared to be a very clueless Canadian Pure-blood which only made Gigi chuckle as she thought of the confusion on two sides the girl would be facing.

As she lay in bed that night - the room a perfect temperature and the bedspread an emerald green, she’d never felt so at home.

*

Fast forward to the middle of sixth year and she’s signing up for the Beauxbaton exchange program, egged on by Jan who’s bouncing on her toes, the tote bag slung over her shoulder almost overflowing as Crystal explains the significance of her One Direction stick’n’poke to Jackie who still only has a limited knowledge of muggle music but bless her, she’s trying. Jan smiles to herself as she watches her girlfriend try to understand how the ink is staying under the skin. “C’mon Gigi, write quicker!” Jan whines, “I want to go get waffles before the guys eat them all.” Gigi stifles a laugh knowing that’s the only reason Jan got up before seven today before scribbling her signature at the bottom of the form and transfiguring it into a paper butterfly to be sent up to Headmistress McGonagall’s office without hassle.

They all enter the hall, finding four seats together on the end of an old Gryffindor table - the hall only really sticking to the tables on Quidditch game days and special feasts where house unity can be thrown out of the window and no one wants Slytherin to win another house cup (Gigi doesn’t blame them - she’s the captain and they’ve been damn fantastic these past few years).

Jan’s shovelling waffles into her mouth as Jackie mutters for her to breathe when McGonagal clears her throat and taps her glass bringing the hall to silence.

“As you all might have heard, the Sixth Year Beauxbaton Exchange starts after the holidays. For all who have not heard - today is the last day of sign up. Sixth years who choose to participate will be assigned a partner from Beauxbaton. The partner will come here for our summer term - partaking in their normal NEWT subjects and sharing dorms and generally experiencing life here at Hogwarts. They will take on their partner’s house for all house related activities and will not be eligible for quidditch teams before any of you ask.” She pauses, eyes directed towards Gigi with a smirk making the brunette blush in her seat. “Then, in the winter term our students will visit there - the same rules will apply - before all returning here for our famous Yule Ball just prior to Christmas. This is not a graded event but it will do well for anyone wanting international experience or those considering a mastery at Beauxbaton after their NEWTs. With that, it’s almost nine so you have a few more minutes to devour your eggs before I expect you all in your classes - promptly.” She ends with a smile and a wave indicating the hall can get back to its usual chatter and it does with some immediacy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do it, Crys?” Gigi asks, pushing a final toast crust around her plate with her fork as the girl opposite her gets crumbs all over the transfiguration essay she’s frantically finishing.

Crystal looks up at Gigi with a raised eyebrow, her unruly curls falling over her face (although they’re quickly fixed back by Jackie who’s particularly proficient at beauty charms). “Baby, if I tried to speak French I’d insult them all.” Crystal chuckles. “I failed year six french, thank god I didn’t have to do high school.” Jan and Gigi chuckle in agreement as Jackie sticks her tongue out, insulting them all in french. She drops a kiss on Jan’s head before leaving for her Ancient Runes class.

“You both in transfiguration next?” Jan asks with mouth full of eggs. Gigi and Crystal nod - Gigi looking much more excited as it’s her favourite subject. Crystal sighs - she wants to be a healer so she’s got a full board of classes from Charms and Transfiguration, which she cannot do to save her life, and Potions and Herbology which are much more her speed. Needless to say she’s grateful for Gigi in spellwork classes.

Jan brushes a few lone crumbs off her robes, grabbing her Beatles themed tote bag and rushing off to Care of Magical Creatures, leaving Crystal and Gigi to walk to Transfiguration together.

“What do you think your girl will be like?” Crystal muses, a finger fiddling with one of her loose ringlets.

“I hope she’s nice…” Gigi replies as if she hasn’t put a lot of thought into it (she has but she’ll deny it to her grave).

“Yeah, and respectful. It takes a lot of respect not to throw a pillow at Janet and Jaqueline some nights,” Crystal jokes and Gigi snorts out a laugh as they arrive at the classroom.

“Alright bitch, are we hoping for an E?”

“If I exceed expectations I will be very happy,” Crystal agrees and they take their seats.

*

Gigi normally finds the Hogwarts Express relaxing. She’s usually soothed by the feeling of the old steam engine chugging away under her feet. Crystal stuffs as many pumpkin pasties as she can into her trunk and Jan spends the whole ride with her head in Jackie’s lap which would definitely be a hazard if the train happened to brake (it doesn’t, it’s a magic train, but it could).

She’s normally relaxed about now, but she’s going to meet her exchange partner and honestly she’s finding it very hard to be relaxed. Not to mention she has a very new cat (Quaffle) that is currently unimpressed with being in a train carriage and has found a home on Crystal’s lap, begging for attention.

“You doing okay there Gi?” Jackie asks, worried as always. “You’re looking a little pale.” This is a joke of course, Gigi’s pretty sure she’s never been more tanned than alabaster but if her reflection is anything to go by, she’s not looking particularly calm.

“Just nervous,” she admits, batting away the stick of Droobles Bubblegum Crystal tries to offer her - branching out from her usual snack trolley order.

“Big day!” Jan enthuses from her reclined position, Jackie’s fingers tangled in her hair.

“Big day,” Gigi repeats under her breath, trying to channel some of her roommate/best friend’s energy. “Big fucking day.”

*

“Honestly Crys I’m pretty sure you’re more excited than I am.” Gigi chuckles as they all walk up to the castle together, Jan holding the squirming cat carrier as she’s the only one not phased by the movements.

“If you think about it,” Crystal starts, adjusting her robes as she walks a way akin to a confused badger, “She’s kind of like a family pet. If you get her - we all kinda’ have her. Like a dog.”

Gigi and Jan burst out laughing while Jackie gives a snort that she stifles into an exasperated sigh. “I swear to god Crystal if you refer to the poor woman as a pet while she is here I will disown you.”

Crystal hums nonchalantly at the threat but all of their attention is drawn away by the faint sound of twinkling in the air. They look up out of instinct and coming out of the clouds is a giant, powder blue carriage drawn by Abraxans (large horses with wings). It floats as if weightless and the entire student body stops in awe just to watch it descend onto one of the large fields by Hagrid’s hut.

No doubt they’d all stare for much longer but Professor McGonagall calls from the entrance, requesting them to hurry and put their things away before dinner.

They all enter the dorm with a hubub and Gigi calls the bathroom first, forcing Jackie to charm her hair into one long brown braid that falls over her shoulder. She applies the minimal makeup she knows how to - feeling an urge to impress the girl she is yet to meet before being hurried out of the bathroom by Crystal who is insisting she needs the mirror to do something (none of them are quite sure what).

An additional bed has been added to the dorm between Gigi’s and Crystal’s. While Jan and Crystal’s beds have yellow covers and trimmings, Gigi’s is green and Jackie’s a deep blue - this new bed has a deep purple cover with delicate silver trimmings down the side and Jan appears to be examining it curiously as she braids her silver blonde hair into a messy french plait. They all bide their time, as they wait for Crystal, and once Jackie has rescued whatever hairstyle the dark haired girl was attempting, they head down to the hall.

Despite this being a start-of-term feast, the house restrictions have been lifted for the school so they all find themselves sat in their usual seats at the Gryffindor table, idly waiting for the process to begin. As far as Gigi knows, the Beauxbaton will sit on the same stool they all sat on as first years and the hat will call out the name of their partner - to get a feel for Hogwarts, or so Professor McGonagall said. Then Gigi will have to stand and the girl will join them at the table.

She plays footsie with Crystal under the table through McGonagall’s speech - too nervous to pay much attention (and knowing Jackie will let her know anything important) and then the sorting starts.

The room goes deathly silent except for the sound of the rain on the enchanted ceiling as the first girl is called up. Violet Chachki is paired with Pearl and Gigi finds herself glad as the girl seems intimidating - her dark hair a stark difference from the rest of the blonde, porcelain skinned, part veela girls.

The part-Veela doesn’t worry her. For one she’s not a desperate straight boy clamouring after a perfect French girl and two - she doesn’t really care but she does feel oddly drawn to the girls in blue and she takes a brief second to wonder what would happen if she did get a Veela more interested in women. A smile flits across her face and Jackie rubs a warm hand on her leg.

The next girl - Nicky Doll - is called. She’s blonde, like the rest, and lithe - gorgeous really - and even from where Gigi’s sat, she can tell her eyes are a pearlescent blue. She sits carefully on the stool - managing to make it look like a Vogue shoot rather than a school ceremony. The hat is placed on her head and it dwarfs her petite features - her button nose and her shining eyes and it makes her look almost childlike. Gigi is so focused on this she barely registers the way the hat screams ‘GIGI GOODE’. She’s sure she wouldn’t have if Jackie hadn’t jabbed her wand straight up into her ribs to jumpstart her again.

She stands inelegantly, smiling at the French girl who bounds towards her like Bambi but much more gracefully. It’s like she’s floating along the old cobble floors and then slides into the seat next to Gigi, breathless.

“Nicky Doll, enchanté,” she offers sweetly with her gloved hand outstretched. Gigi takes it gladly and is pleasantly surprised by how warm it is given the general coolness of the castle - even in April. Her shock must show on her face because Nicky gives a soft chuckle “Warming spell.” She shrugs.

“I’m Gigi Goode.” Gigi remembers to introduce herself. “This is Crystal.” The brunette waves jovially while her eyes stay fixed on the continuing ceremony. “Jan.” She waves too. “And Jackie.” Jackie turns for a split second to shake hands before she goes back to watching a girl named Brooke be paired with Vanessa Mateo - the feisty Gryffindor from their potions class.

“Do you know when there will be food?” Nicky asks rather brashly for her demeanor. “I’m starved.”

Gigi laughs softly. “Give it another five minutes and we’ll have a feast,” she jokes quietly and they turn their attention back to the end of McGonagall’s speech - Gigi unable to help getting caught on the feeling of a warm thigh pressed on her own.

*

Gigi doesn’t think to ask about the bedsheets until they’re getting ready for bed. Jan’s already tucked into Jackie’s bed in her girlfriend’s oversized Holyhead Harpies shirt attempting to read the astrology book that’s peaked the Persian’s fancy.

“I’m surprised you can read, Jan,” muses Crystal while cradling the, now much calmer cat, like a baby. “You’re such a cutie, Quaffle, aren’t you,” she coos at the kitty as Jan pounds the shade button they’d found in the Weasley’s joke shop on Diagon. The snake that comes out makes the cat squirm out of Crystal’s arms onto Nicky’s bed where the blonde picks it up gently. Out of nowhere it calms and curls up on her lap.

“He likes you,” Gigi states plainly and Nicky chuckles, running her fingers through the longhaired tabby’s fur,

“Most cats do I suppose.” Her hair is in loose blonde curls and she’s dressed in a satin blue babydoll which only makes Gigi self conscious about the loose sports bra and shorts she prefers. The dorms are always warm thanks to the old Hufflepuff wards so she’d rather go light than overheat.

Gigi settles herself in her bed, the green covers resting just under her grey bra. She bundles her hair up on top of her head and pulls out the glasses she only wears in the comfort of the dorms. “So tell us about yourself,” she asks as all the girls look to the purple bed. Everyone keeps their curtains open most nights so you can see round the curve of their dorm room through each of the poster beds.

Nicky hums as she thinks, tilting her head to the side in a way that makes her curls spill over her shoulder. “Well, in Beauxbaton I’m in Papillionlisse - and, uh consequently my colours are purple and silver. We are not like any of your houses. Ombrelune is probable to be Slytherin and I would say Bellefeuille is maybe Gryffindor but Papillionlisse is not. We are kind and artististic and idealistic at times.” She smiles softly as if remembering something nice and in the soft dorm lighting Gigi can see freckles on her cheeks.

“Oooh, we’ll have to see what houses we would be sometime!” Jan decides from where she has tucked herself under Jackie’s arm.

Nicky giggles and nods. “Absolutely Janet. Um what else? I do - what are yours called? NEWTS?” Crystal nods and she carries on. “Well I do astronomy, potions, transfiguration, charms, and divination.”

Gigi thinks for a second before she responds, brow furrowed as she mentally figures out logistics. “So you’ll be with me and Crys for transfiguration and charms - although Jackie comes to transfiguration too sometimes. We all do potions together and then astronomy you’ll be with Jackie and divination you’ll be with Jan.” She looks around to check that’s right even though she knows it is.

Between them they cover every subject with Jackie in arithmancy, ancient runes, astronomy, herbology, potions, history of magic, and transfiguration, Jan in care of magical creatures, potions, herbology, and divination, Crystal in potions, herbology, charms, and transfiguration, and Gigi in charms, transfiguration, potions, astronomy, and defence against the dark arts. Muggle studies is mandatory once a fortnight since the wizarding war and they all sit through it for the sake of their academic careers rather than for the joy of it.

“I have a feeling I shall enjoy it here,” Nicky contemplates as she moves Quaffle so that she can lay on her side under the covers.

“I hope so,” Gigi smiles. They fall asleep facing each other.

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - ch2

Ok, I’m already regretting setting myself the art challenge.  It’s hard.  Huge kudos to all you artists out there.  Still, the clue for me should have been in the word ‘challenge’.  No, I don’t know why Alan’s hand is a different colour to the rest of him and shading features is pretty much impossible.  Maybe by the end of the fic I’ll have got the hang of it.  I might have to pick and easier idea for the next chapter

Huge thanks to @willow-salix​ for all the read throughs and pointers.

Earlier parts: One

Chapter Two

The early light of dawn was just visible around the curtain edges in the lounge.  The reflected light off the large screen projection illuminated the figures staring avidly at the screen with a soft blue glow.  The occasion had been deemed worthy of setting up the large cinematic screen meaning the whole glittering spectacle filled nearly a whole wall of the generously proportioned room.

 Jeff sat back in an aged leather armchair shipped specially from Kansas.  The form of it had moulded to his body by the passage of many years although he rarely had time to relax in it now.  Across the room Virgil and John, both on vacation from university, book-ended the sofa; a sleek designer affair that manged to combine both style and comfort.  Both looked sleepy and a little unfocussed.  Virgil had never been a fan of early mornings and it was entirely possible that John hadn’t actually made it to bed yet if he had spent the night engrossed in the stars.  His youngest son, still a child and growing into his talents, sat on the floor leaning back against the sofa rather than sitting on the chair itself.  In Alan’s hands was a cup of popcorn chosen especially for the cinematic treat.  He sat there in rapt awe, barely blinking as he popped piece after piece of white fluff into his mouth.  Jeff nursed his own mug of inky black coffee.  The aroma of the beans filling the space around him with a rich warmth.

 At last the moment they had been waiting for arrived.  Team USA marched into shot; processing around a stadium half a world and many time zones away.  Ranks of the chosen few strode across the screen in all their athletic glory.  The athletes were bedecked in pristine white trousers and shirts topped with navy blue blazers.  Red trim to the lapels completed the patriotic ensemble.   The young men and women chosen to represent their country trailed behind the flag bearer, their lines arranged with military precision. Jeff rather thought the effect was spoiled by the individuals walking out of step with each other and waving to the crowd in the surrounding stadium.  It jarred with his Air Force history which much preferred the uniformity of troops marching smartly in time.

 A squeal broke through his internal criticism of the scene.

 “There he is! There he is!”

 Alan’s voice, still high pitched in its youth, filled the space with an exuberant joy. The cup of popcorn was tilting dangerously towards the floor as the youngest of five spotted his next in line.

 The fourth Tracy son crossed the screen and disappeared out of sight in a matter of seconds and Jeff was forced to pause, rewind and replay the footage several times before Alan had got his fill of the sight.  

Gordon looked happy.  Happier than he had done for weeks.  Happy didn’t do justice to the beaming, grinning individual with sandy blonde hair slightly tinted by chlorine who strode between his fellow countrymen and women. He seemed to bounce along, riding the waves of the atmosphere that swirled around the stadium.  

 Jeff had seen little of his second youngest son lately despite technically living in the same house.  Both had demanding schedules; one filled with work and business meetings, the other filled with school and pool training.  The moment school had finished Gordon had been whisked away to the pre-games training camp, missing both his high school graduation ceremony and the senior prom. The young man on the screen was almost a stranger and definitely an enigma to him.

 Jeff’s eldest three sons were of a mind-set he could understand.  They were studious, clever, indeed highly gifted in their chosen fields.  He had been immensely proud when Scott had been accepted to Yale and then followed him down his own career path into the Air Force.  The young man was making quite a name for himself in the service if the regular updates sent through by old colleagues were to be believed; he had already been promoted to First Lieutenant and it looked like he would soon be a Captain.  Virgil excelled in engineering but also retained a quiet compassion that allowed him to see the world as more than just a set of variables and constants to be manipulated.  John had followed him to the stars and Jeff had no doubt that his quietest son could follow him out of Earth’s atmosphere and beyond just a theoretical study of space travel if he so desired.

 Gordon was evidently gifted too but in a direction he couldn’t quite comprehend. Physical ability was a facet he appreciated and even John had submitted to his requirement for regular structured exercise.  But a strong body needed to be a vessel for a keen mind and Gordon just hadn’t shown any particular leanings towards an academic field.

 He was as proud as any father could be that a son of his had reached the Olympics and at such a young age but he still worried for his son’s future prospects.    

 A sigh from the floor broke through his contemplations.

 “I wish we could have been there for the opening ceremony.”

 “Now Alan, we’ve been through this.  Gordon’s heats don’t start for another week.  I’ve got us tickets to his events and we will be there to see him compete in person but I just cannot spare the time to take you out there for the whole duration of the Games.”

 “But Virgil could have taken me.  Or John.” The voice was a petulant whine now.

 “Virgil and John might be on summer break but they both still have work to do.  The last thing either of them need is to be responsible for you at the biggest international sporting event in the world. Watching sport has never been your thing before.  It’s normally hard enough to prise you away from those video games you play.”

 Both Virgil and John looked infinitely relieved that neither of them was expected to be responsible for an excitable young teenager in a foreign country.  It was bad enough taking him bowling or to the cinema. Alan seemed to be well and truly gripped by Olympic fever, hence them all watching the live coverage of the opening ceremony at some hideous time of the morning rather than watching a recording at a more socially acceptable hour.  It seemed to mean so much to their youngest brother to get the chance to watch out for Gordon live that they hadn’t had the heart to refuse.  It was just as well Gordon had had his few seconds of glory on screen otherwise Alan would have been beyond devastated not to have seen him.  

 “But it’s the Olympics.  And it’s Gordon.”  As if this explained everything.

 “And you will get to see Gordon compete in every race he is in when we fly out next week. Even Scott has managed to arrange some leave so he can join us.  Gordon will be well supported.”

 Alan huffed slightly in response but went back to staring at the screen, the popcorn once again being shovelled in as figures from all nations strode across in a seemingly never ending stream of competitors.

 Once it became clear that Team USA would not be making another appearance Virgil and John sloped off.  Virgil to reclaim his bed, John to find his for the first time that sleep cycle having reverted to a near nocturnal pattern without classes to drag him away from his beloved stars.  Both had willingly joined the spectators in the lounge but the time difference left a lot to be desired and both were exhausted after a long and difficult semester. Jeff followed after but for him the destination was to work rather than bed.  Alan was soon left to watch the conclusion of the carefully choreographed spectacle alone.

 xoxoxox

 Virgil padded towards the kitchen, he socks making no sound on the hardwood floor. He could almost forget that there was anyone else in the apartment.  He had barely seen his brothers all day and Jeff was still at the office.  John had spent much of the day sleeping after grumbling that the city skies really hadn’t been worth staying up for.  He assumed Alan was engrossing in another gaming session. Part of him wondered if he ought to have a word with their dad; his youngest brother seemed to spend an unhealthy amount of time hooked up to a console.

 He paused at Alan’s door, taking a moment to take in the view through the crack. Rather than being strapped into a VR headset as expected, Alan was instead sprawled on his bed.  A screen was propped up on his knees.  The murmured one sided conversation suggested a video call rather than another game.  He wasn’t normally one to eavesdrop but curiosity overcame Virgil as he wondered who on earth Alan could be talking to.  He didn’t talk about any particular school friends and beyond Grandma they had no family to speak of.  He stayed to one side of the doorway out of sight and listened.  If he stood absolutely still he could just about pick up the other voice on the line.

 “The stadium looked huge.  What was it like?  Did you get some photos for me?”

 “Yeah, it’s massive.  Kinda makes be glad I’m not in the track and field events.  No photos though, we couldn’t take cameras in to the opening ceremony.  We didn’t even get to see the show afterwards, just lots of waiting around to go in then straight back to the Village after.  You probably saw more than I did.”

 Gordon then. He figured it must already be the next morning for their absent athlete.

 “Aww. We saw you, y’know.  Who was the cute blonde you were next to?”

 Virgil smirked.  For all he might bounce like an excited puppy Alan was evidently growing up and the hormones were kicking up.

 “Which one? Amber the high jumper or Brad the hockey player?”

 “Amber, I’ll leave Brad to you.  Think you can introduce me when we’re over there?”

 “No chance. Firstly, she already has a long term boyfriend.  And secondly, you’re about five years too young for that sort of stuff.”

 “Hey, I’m not that young.  Not that you’d think it the way things go round here.  There’s something going on and Dad won’t tell me about it.  Since John and Virgil got back Dad keeps having meetings with them in the study.”

 “Rather them than me.  You know as well as I do the study only means bad news.”

 “I don’t think so.  And since when has John ever been chewed out over anything.  It’s not like he ever missed curfew or turned in a bad report card. I don’t know what’s going on but this place is full of secrets.  They all just treat me as a kid though, like I wouldn’t understand.”

 “Try not to worry about it Al.  Why don’t you get John to help you finish that sim you were coding?”

 “Maybe. He just seems so busy though.”

 “Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got training soon.  I’ll try and call same time tomorrow if that works for you.”

 “Sure.”

 “Don’t forget to eat your vegetables and clean your teeth.”

 “Yes Mom. Now don’t you need to go put some water wings on.”

 “Cheeky brat. Speak to you tomorrow.  Bye.”

 “Bye Gordo.”

 Virgil watched as the screen was put to one side, the smile sliding off of Alan’s face, before continued his journey to the kitchen to grab a drink.  That brief conversation with Gordon was more words than he had heard out of his youngest sibling in one go since he had arrived back home.  He had put it down to sullen teenage moods but evidently Alan could be quite chatty when he wanted to.

 Alan was clearly missing Gordon.  The youngest two had always been close.  Despite Gordon technically being closer in age to John than Alan the sibling friendship pairings hadn’t worked out that way.  Virgil realised how little he knew about the youngest pair beyond Gordon’s swimming.  Since when had Alan been able to code simulations? And what sort of simulations?

 He shrugged it off as a conundrum for another day.  They would be flying out to the Olympics in just a few days and he wanted to get a project plan sent off to his supervisor before that happened.  The meetings with Jeff, which Alan had evidently picked up on, had changed the direction of his post-grad project and he wanted to get the revisions in before travelling.  Bonding time could happen once the work was completed.

[imagesofthegreatgull]

Hybrid Rainbow

Joy has always been a rare and precious commodity. I would argue, though, that in the developed world (Wherever, exactly, that is), it has become somewhat less rare in recent times, as standards of living and education continue to go up. That’s an absurdly privileged thing to say, I realize, but I’m trying to start this thing as evenhandedly as I can. I understand about suffering and poverty; I’m reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn right now, even! Okay, saying we’re closer now than ever to utopia is going to smack of ignorance no matter how you phrase it, but it also strikes me as undeniably true, in the grand scheme of things. I think most people--aside from the fascists--would refuse a one-way trip in a time machine to any previous era, or at the very least, would recognize that it wouldn’t improve much of anything for them. As unruly as our age is, it’s still probably the best one we’ve gotten thus far, and as the boot-heel of oppression starts to ever so slowly ease up its pressure on the necks of the long-suffering masses, the question has begun to enter into the collective consciousness: what is to be done with joy when it begins to fall, unbidden, into your life with something like abundance? What is to be done if moments of joy no longer must be pried with great effort and sacrifice from the rockface of life, but lie strewn liberally throughout our days, needing only the will and lack of embarrassment to seize them?

Thus far, the latter-day generations have faced up to this problem with decidedly mixed success. The idea that expecting anything other than the very worst leaves one vulnerable to the universe’s cruel whims has been stamped upon the human brain for centuries, and has left many sadly unable to recognize their own privilege (Which, by the way, is a big part of why a whole lotta white folks refuse to admit they have it better than anyone else and continue to dig their heels in against progress because to them it looks like cutting in line). It is still widely accepted that constantly finding joy and peace and purpose in one’s own life is the purview of children and children alone, that it is a naivete to be grown out of. We have the impulse always within us to be hard, to be warlike, to show the world that we’re not weak and frivolous but monsters to be feared, without emotions to be appealed to or ideals to be fallen short of.

Remedying this problem has turned out to be one of the primary functions of counterculture. If it is often unhelpful to simply look at the entire value system of one’s parents and say “Fuck that”, as it tends to foster a rather negative self-definition, still, if part of that value system is a deeply entrenched distrust of happiness, “Fuck that” may be exactly the response called for. The beauty of “Fuck that” is that it leaps past the slow loss of faith in something and arrives immediately at a flat rejection of it, and since much of the history of civilization has been bound up with blind faith in arbitrary and harmful things, the ability and the courage to flatly reject something, to give it no credit for however widely accepted it is but to dismiss it as bullshit from the ground up, is a step forward in human consciousness tantamount to the reinvention of the wheel.

The great irony of the end of the sixties is that all the hippies were miserable for no reason: they won. Rock n’ roll did change the world, it just didn’t immediately transform it on every level into an unrecognizable nirvana. For all the apparent emptiness of its utopian dreams, the basic thrust of the thing worked out just fine: that particular cat will never be put back into its bag, and those ideas are now out in the ether forever, always waiting for someone to find them and be inspired to change their own life and the lives of those around them for the better. The same goes for the punk rock revolution a few years later: they may not have brought the bastards down, but they did successfully bring personal liberation to a lot of people, and poured exactly as much gas on the fires of populism as they intended to. Culture, and in particular art and in particular music, cannot, unassisted, change the world, but it can change your world, and has been changing small worlds all over the frigging place at least since those mop-topped Brits set foot on American shores and probably since Johnny B. Goode learned to play guitar just like a-ringin’ a bell. 

The thread can get lost, however. Culture is always a reflection of the people, and the people still spend a lot of their time bored, frustrated, and terrified of letting on that they have feelings about stuff. Young people especially, formerly the eternal pirate crew waving high the flags of “Liberty” and “Up Yours”, in recent times have often capitulated and resigned themselves to no more than a few stray moments of fun pilfered from the fortresses of the almighty Money Man-Kings, usually in the form of drugs, sex, and reckless self-endangerment. The cost of the hippies and the punks giving up their battles is that the counterculture lost its intellectual leadership, at least until the resurgence in political literacy in the 2010s. In the wasteland following the 70s, there were no John Lennons or Joe Strummers to look to for guidance; even the people who were elected to speak for their generation seemed adamant that there was fuck-all they could really say. Yeah, it’s nice to know that someone else feels stupid and contagious, but that’s not really a direction, is it? The generation-defining message Kurt Cobain and his peers sent out was “We’re all way too fucked up to do anything about anything”, and that introspective moodiness pervaded American underground rock music from the invention of hardcore at least all the way up to the moment Craig Finn watched The Last Waltz with Tad Kubler and said “Why aren’t there bands like this anymore?” and set out with rest of the Steadies in tow to remind everyone that music can save your immortal soul and that hey, that Springsteen guy was really onto something, headband and all, and together they all successfully ushered in the New Uncool and now we’ve got Patrick Stickles wailing that “If the weather’s as bad as the weatherman says, we’re in for a real mean storm!” and Brian Fallon admitting “I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis” and everything’s great, except it’s not, everything’s fucked, but rock n’ roll is here to stay, come inside now it’s okay, and I’ll shake you, ooo-ooo-ooo.

The point of all this is my belief that even with the responsibility rock music has to provide cathartic outlets for dissatisfaction, is has an equal or greater responsibility to provide heroes. I think it’s time we all got over pretending that we’re better than the need for heroes, because we all insist on having them anyway, imperfect roses by any other name, and we’d do a hell of a lot better selecting them if we just admitted what we were after. We don’t just want particularly talented comrades, we want King Arthur, Robin Hood, Superman, Malcolm Reynolds. Damn it all, they don’t need to be perfect, they don’t even need to be all that great really, and yeah, Arthur dies, and Robin never gets Prince John, and Superman can’t save everyone, and the war’s over, we’re all just folk now, and John Lennon beat women and Van Morrison is a grumpy old fart and John Lydon’s a disgrace, but it’s the faith that counts. The faith that there’s something greater than ourselves that some people are more keyed into than others, and that whatever they can relay from that other side is what’ll see us through. All the best prophets are madmen, and madmen aren’t always romantic fools; sometimes they hurt people, or fail at crucial moments due to a compulsion they can’t control. Let he who is without sin etcetera, right? Why not cast aside realism and sincerely believe in something or someone, huh? 

I believe in the Pillows. I don’t know hardly anything about them; my expertise of Japanese culture and history extends to the anime I’ve seen and that “History of Japan” YouTube video that made the rounds a while back. I can’t locate them within the Japanese music scene; all their western influences seem obvious to me, and the rest I know nothing about. They’re the only rock band from their country I’ve listened to any great amount of, I don’t speak the language they mostly sing in, I don’t even know their career very well. The particulars of any experiences they might have had that motivated them to make the art they make are not ones I could possibly share in, so, saying that I “Relate” to their work sounds a little preposterous. They ought to be a novelty to me, a band that clearly likes a lot of the same bands I do despite hailing from a foreign shore, marrying that shared music taste with a cultural identity I have nothing to do with, a small, nice upswing of globalism pleasing to my sense of universalism but not having any kind of quantifiable impact on me.

Yet I, like a good many other westerners, believe in the Pillows. I’m a little buster, and my eyes just watered as I wrote that. In fact, it’s likely because of the barriers of language and culture that exist between us that my belief in the Pillows is so strong. Pete Townshend, someone else I believe in, once opened a show by saying “You are very far away...but we will fucking reach you”, and though the Pillows are both geographically (At the moment) and culturally miles away from me, Lord strike me down if they don’t fucking reach me. They reach me in a way many of their American college rock peers, many of their biggest influences in fact, never have. Dinosaur Jr, Bob Mould, Sonic Youth, the Pixies, Nirvana--all these artists speak directly to the American adolescent experience, but though they have all moved me to one degree or another, none of them have produced a body of work I can so readily see myself in as that of the Pillows. Maybe it is the novelty of it, maybe I’m fooling myself and it is just my sense of universalism carrying me away, but there’s something I hear in the Pillows that I don’t hear in those bands, and though the obvious candidate for that thing would be the foreign tongue the majority of the lyrics are written in, when it comes down to it, I think that thing is joy.

Joy, to me, is the possibility glimpsed by rock n’ roll. Not hedonistic pleasure, not a sadistic glee over the outrage of authority figures, but real, true, open-hearted, “Freude, schöner Götterfunken/Tochter aus Elysium”--type joy. Buddy Holly had joy. The Beatles, The Who, the pre-fall Rod Stewart, they had joy. Springsteen’s got joy to spare. Those people have such profound love for their art and their audience that just the continual recognition of the fact that they have a guitar in their hands and they’re being allowed to play it is enough to make them ecstatic, and whenever they want to actually express something serious they have to get themselves under control to do it. Yet, whether it’s the unfashionability of those utopian dreams, or the simple fact that rock music has become accepted by mainstream culture and is now a commonplace, unremarkable thing, but half the people who have picked up an electric guitar for the past few decades don’t seem all that excited about it. From Kim Gordon snarling about how people go down to the store to buy some more and more and more and more, to Thom Yorke moaning about how he’s let down and hanging around, crushed like a bug in the ground, even up to Courtney Barnett asking how’s that for first impressions, this place seems depressing, it’s not really a given anymore, if it ever was, that people who make rock music are very joyful in what they do. 

Of course, I’m not demanding that our artists be empty-headed fluff-factories; far from it. The Pillows write sad songs and angry songs same as everybody else. But the important thing is this: every song the Pillows play is played with an exuberance and abandon that is immediately striking, regardless of the emotional content of each song. Channelling that kind of revelry into rock music is both to my mind the initial purpose of the genre in the first place and something which has become so rare as to be remarkable. A veneer of detached cool, a howling ferocity, a whimpering woundedness--these have become the hallmarks of American rock music, and they are nowhere to be found in the Pillows.

At the same time, the Pillows are the very antithesis of artlessness. Joy of the caliber they deal in is more commonly found in folky rave-ups, a lack of musicianship giving way to trancelike festivity. But the Pillows are skilled song craftsmen like few others; their sound has evolved throughout the years, but they tend to settle in the neighborhood of power-pop, abounding in glorious hooks and surprising structures. A hundred unnecessary, perfect touches seem to exist in every song; a pause, a solo, a bassline, all deftly elevating the song into a perfect expression of something sublime, something that always--always--takes ahold of the musicians themselves and imbues their performances with power and purpose the likes of which most little busters can only dream of feeling. It should be testament enough to their brilliance that upon first listen to a song I never know what most of the lyrics mean, but whenever I look up a translation, they always turn out to be exactly what I felt they must be; their songs are so musically communicative that they all but lack the need for lyrics. 

This dual nature is why I believe in the Pillows: by so utterly failing to neglect both the highest possibilities of musical composition as an unparalleled tool for capturing emotional nuance and the unrestrained id-like rush that is the province of rock n’ roll, they successfully attain the lofty realm that is--or ought to be--the goal of music in the first place. Never once is there a hint of straying into the realm of primitivism nor into overthought seriousness, and instead they locate themselves somehow exactly center on the scale between punk and prog, lacking the weaknesses and gaining the strengths of both. They make rock whole again by finally disproving the tenet initially laid out by their heroes, your heroes, and mine, The Beatles: the notion that growing up means having less fun. The viscerally exciting early work of The Beatles lacks any of the depth and vision displayed by their later records, but those records are so carefully and expertly crafted that they tend to lose spontaneity, and constantly second-guess themselves where the juvenilia they followed forged unselfconsciously ahead. That legendary career path has laid out a false dichotomy that every proceeding generation of kids with guitars has chosen between, save for the few who could see past it, the ones who heard the wildness in “Revolution” and the wisdom in “Twist and Shout” and realized that they were of a piece, were one and the same, not to be chosen between but embraced fully. Pete Townshend. Bruce Springsteen. Joe Strummer. David Byrne. Paul Westerberg. The Pillows. The real heroes are not those who champion one side or another but fight all their lives for peace between them, knowing that we have not yet begun to imagine what could be accomplished if that were made possible.

Just as they bypass the divide between what Patrick Stickles termed the Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies of rock (I prefer to think of the usual battle as being between the Dionysians and the Athenians, with the true devotees of Apollo being most of those heroes I keep referring to, except Dylan, who might be a Hermesian), so too do the Pillows bypass the Pacific frigging ocean. And the Atlantic, to boot. Their music quotes the Pixies and The Beatles directly, and obviously owes much to Nirvana and all their college rock predecessors who spent the entire 80s desperately stacking themselves until the doomed power trio could finally vault over the wall. Their first record is practically a tribute to XTC. They do speak a lot of English, too. I’m informed that much of western culture is seen as the epitome of coolness in Japan, which might explain their obsession with Baseball, and apparently sprinkling a bit of the Saxon tongue into the mix is far from uncommon in the music scene(s). Regardless, there is something ineffably touching to a distant fan in a foreign land about hearing Sawao Yamanaka spit “No surrender!” or exclaim “Just runner’s high!” It looks from here like a show of mutual effort to understand me as much as I’m trying to understand them. They’re generous enough to have already walked to the middle where they’re asking me to meet them, a middle where it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a suffix attached to my name or that they don’t wear shoes in houses. The invisible continent that all forward-thinking and sensitive people come to long for is where the Pillows are broadcasting from, because they’ve realized that its golden shores and spiraling cities are attainable. They’re attainable with joy, with the fundamentally rebellious act of refusing to let the fascists bring down even your globdamn day, because who the hell gave them that power other than us? I know enough about Japan and America to know that either one accusing the other of being imperialist and socially conservative to a fault is a fucking joke, and to know that we’ve done a lot more wrong to them than they’ll ever do to us and the presence of the Pillows amounts to a “We forgive you”, not an “I’m sorry”. Having watched a decent amount of anime, which is basically the result of Japan’s mind being blown by western media and then proceeding to show their love by often almost inadvertently surpassing their inspirations, I know that the only way to save our respective national souls and everybody else’s too is to put our knuckles down, have Jesus and Buddha shake hands like Kerouac tried to explain that they would anyway, and embrace each other’s dreams and passions and adopt them into our own. 

It takes better people to inhabit that better world, and in case that sounds like fascist talk, I mean we’ve got to do better, not be better. It’s no physical imperfection that holds us back, nor a mental imperfection exactly, as we all have our own neuroses and if we expunge those then we’ll be kissing art and lot of other vital stuff goodbye. No, it’s our discomfort with ourselves, our world, our neighbors, our aliens, that keep us from seeing that crazy sunshine. If we can’t even acknowledge the greatness around us, that surplus of joy I mentioned a while back that we just seem to have no idea what to do with, then we have no hope of ever achieving further greatness, of ever quelling man’s inhumanity to man down to an inevitable fringe rather than the basic order of the world. 

There was always more to do 

Than just eat and work and screw

But now that there’s time at last to do those things, we’re still afraid to, afraid that we’ll come up empty, that the search for fulfillment leads only to disappointment, better to hang back and play it safe, better not to risk becoming one of those people I shake my head at and pity and will secretly envy until I die. It’s a new world, and we must learn to be new people. I believe in the Pillows because I believe they make excellent models for that new kind of person. The way they behave in the studio and on the stage is the way people behave when they’re truly free, and we’ve all been set free already or will be soon, so if we’re going to try and learn what the fuck is next from anyone, I think we might as well learn from the Pillows. At least, that’s one of the places we could get that insight. There’s a lot of art and a lot of philosophy and political theory to sift through to in order to put together a workable 21st century identity, and the Pillows are hardly the only people to have begun making the leap. But because of a silly thing like the size of the earth, the infinitesimal size of the earth even compared to the distance between us and the next rock we’re gonna try and get to, not everybody is getting their particular brand of free thought and action, and I happen to think that’s regrettable, and it’s my will as a free individual to rectify it as much as I can.

Writing about music really is worthless, isn’t it? I haven’t said jackshit about what the Pillows actually do other than to vaguely qualify their genre and temperament, and the only more useless thing I could do than not describing their songs would be to describe their songs. If you don’t hear the bracing weightlessness in “Blues Drive Monster”, or the aching nostalgia in “Patricia”, or the soul-bearing cry in “Hybrid Rainbow” then nothing I could write about those would be more effective than “Little Busters is a really good album.” The better primer might be Happy Bivouac, from a few years later; it has the melancholic rush of “Last Dinosaur”, the ascended teenybopper “Whoa, whoa, yeah” chorus in “Backseat Dog”, and the intro that should make it obvious immediately that you’re listening to one of the best songs ever recorded which opens “Funny Bunny”. Those two, Runners High, and Please, Mr. Lostman are the classic era, selections from the former three immortalized in their biggest claim to western fame, the FLCL soundtrack, a brilliant use of their music that could warrant an equally long piece. Before and after those four are periods of experimentation and discovery equally worth your time, not all of which I’m familiar with yet. See, now I’m just an incomplete Wikipedia article; it’d be equally worthless to expound upon the individual bandmates, on the pure yawp of Yamanaka’s vocals, on the passionate drumming of Yoshiaki Manabe and the supernaturally faultless lead guitar of Shinichiro Sato, or the contribution of founding bassist Kenji Ueda, which was so valued by the others that when he left he was never officially replaced (They’re so sweet). I’m not here to write an advertisement or a press-release, I don’t really even know why I’m here writing this, but I know that I believe in the Pillows, that they’re important, and that people should write about them. I’m being the change I want to see in the world, get it? That’s all we can be asked to do.

It occurs to me that people believed in Harvey Dent too, and that didn’t turn out so well. Hell, let’s leave the comic book pages behind, people believe in Donald Trump, they think he’s a hero, and that’s all going down in flames as I write this. Having heroes can be dangerous, but I still believe it’s not as dangerous as not having heroes. “Lesser of two evils” sounds an awful lot like one of those false dichotomies between fun and intelligence or between misery and foolishness I mentioned earlier, so, let’s call it a qualified good. I’m not much of a responsible world-citizen if my only effort towards bringing the planet together is spinning some sweet Japanese alt-rock tunes and bragging about how open-minded I am, but if I do ever end up doing anyone any good, then I’d consider it paying forward the good done to me by the Pillows, among others. They helped me form my identity as an artist (Read: functional human being) and they made my adolescence a lot easier. Actually, that’s a lie: my adolescence was (And continues to be) pretty easy already, and the Pillows reassured me that I wasn’t avoiding reality by feeling that. While American bands sang about the downsides of being a mallrat or a non-mallrat, the Pillows offered a vision of teenagedome much like my own, one that was grandly romantic, in which suffering wasn’t a cosmic stupidity but a trial with pathos and merit, and joy was not an occasional indulgence but a constant presence, whether it was lived in or lost and needing recovery. 

That’s the old idea of youth, the youth of John Keats, the youth that makes the old miss it, makes it required that we explain to them that it’s still there, it never left, it’s a dream, a momentary affirmation, an attitude, a muttered curse word. So many of my peers, now no longer engaged in a constant race to stay out of the grave as their ancestors were, seemed intent on beating each other into their tombs, as if reaching walking death before their parents was the only way to outgrow them. There’s so much life just lying around and it’s just plain wasteful to let it lie in the sun and rust in the rain. There’s space enough to stretch, to not keep who you are awkwardly curled up inside yourself, to breathe the air and taste the wine and dig the brains of your fellow travelers in this loosely-defined circus. I found that space in the Pillows, having often suspected it was there, and while everyone is going to find that space in their own way--or not, still, tragically not--I have to think that experience was due in part  to some innate and unique quality of the music itself, not just a complimentary sensibility contained within myself. The Pillows are free, and that makes them freeing, it’s easy as that. Their liberation is plain as day; it rings in every chord, every snare-hit, every harmony; it’s up to us ascertain what we can do in our own limited capacity to hoist ourselves up to their level and give some other folks a boost along the way and a hand to grab afterwards. It’s the gift that art gives us, and the Pillows just give it more freely than most is all, which is why I think the suggestion to listen to them is more than just a solid recommendation. Like the insistence on listening to The Beatles, or The Clash, or any of the others, it’s a plea to save your soul, to learn the language of tomorrow and drink the lifeblood of peace and love and piss and vinegar, or else you’ll be lost, lost, lost. 

Can you feel? Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?

[technicolor--dreams]

Judy Garland and Gene Kelly on Screenland, may 1948

the novelized version of The Pirate published on the magazine is under the cut

BACK in the hotel room were the laces and embroideries, the crinolines and the silks and satins for her trousseau which had come all the way from Paris. But here standing on the great sea wall looking down on the blue Caribbean was real romance, something much dearer to her heart than the plans for her marriage. For the Caribbean had been the home of the man Manuela had dreamed of since her childhood, Macoco, the pirate. These were the waters he had sailed, the ships he had plundered. He had moved over their surface like a dragonfly, glittering, uncapturable, a man who struck terror into the hearts of other men and romance into that of an imaginative child. Let others grieve at the sorrow he caused, her young heart could only find rejoicing that there was a man so daring and fearless and dazzling in a commonplace world. It was ten years now since Macoco's wild battle cry had been heard, since his cannons had opened fire on helpless merchantmen. It was in 1810 that he and his men and his cutlasses and grinning death's head flag had disappeared. Now he lived only in the songs minstrels sang of his exploits and in the grown-up Manuela's heart. And it was because even to look at the waters he had sailed meant so much to her that Manuela had persuaded her aunt, Donna Inez, to meet the ship bringing her trousseau here at San Sebastian, on the pretext that the dressmakers needed to alter them would be so much more expert than the ones in their own town of Calvados, where even bridegrooms were so less thrilling than those in other places. But she would not think of Don Pedro now, she decided. She would forget that in just a week she would be marrying the gross, middle-aged man Donna Inez had picked to be her niece's husband, because as mayor, Don Pedro was not only the most important man in town, but the richest one as well. "Macoco," she thought desperately, her brown eyes staring into the distance. "Where are you now? What seas do you travel? Is it sunset or sunrise where you are?" She closed her eyes and it was almost as if the waves as they broke on the shore were whispering Macoco, Macoco, Macoco, as if the seagulls as they cried were crying it, too.

Then suddenly another voice, a real voice cut across her thoughts. "Who are you?" it said, and as she turned she saw a man standing beside her. He was young, with eyes that could be both bold and tender, and which stared at her admiringly now.

"Tell me, what is your name?" he begged as she said nothing, "it is as vital to me as the beat of my heart. Tell me, are you married?"

"No," Manuela said imperiously, then a look of elation swept across his face, head lifted. "But I shall be this time next week." And turning she began walking quickly away, terrified by the sudden pounding in her heart. She had never felt it before, not even when she dreamed of her pirate.

"Senorita!" The stranger was at her elbow, following her. "Don't marry that pumpkin! For any man who lets you out of his sight, even for a moment, must be a pumpkin."

Manuela wished he hadn't used that particular description for it brought to her mind Don Pedro's round, swarthy face which, with just a little imagination, could look like a pumpkin. "My affianced is a very noble, pious man," she said indignantly, forgetting it was just those qualities. in him which made him so very dull, too. "He doesn't smoke, he doesn't drink. And he certainly would never annoy a young lady he -"

"You bewilder me," the young man sighed extravagantly. But then everything he did was flamboyant, even the way he circled around her as they walked, viewing her from every angle. "A young girl like you, with beauty, youth, enchantment, throwing yourself away on a lump like that. If he had any sense he would step aside for someone who would appreciate you. Someone like me, for instance."

"Don't be silly," she sniffed.

"I love you," he said. "And love isn't silly. Aren't you interested in love?"

And then as she tossed her head, he looked at her almost pityingly. "In America and England they have a strange custom. The ladies pick their own husbands and they marry them for love."

"It's a very stupid custom," Manuela said breathlessly, and picking up her flounced skirts began running.

But he kept pace with her. "Don't tell me you don't ever long for a prince instead of a pumpkin!" he whispered. "I know that underneath your prim exterior there are depths of emotion, romantic longings, unfulfilled dreams! For I can read your mind, your innermost thoughts. I can tell you your past, your present, and your future. It's my business." As she stared at him he gestured proudly toward the tent which had been rigged up in the street near her hotel. "Come to see me tonight and youll find out. I'll leave a ticket for you. Just mention my name, Serafin!"

So he was an actor, and a strolling player at that, one of those silly, lighthearted vagabonds who sometimes visited her village, pitching their tents and marching the streets in gaudy parades. She looked at him horrified, and ran to the shelter of the hotel and the protection of her aunt. She was so appalled at herself she could scarcely look at the beautiful gowns and underclothes her aunt and the dressmaker were spreading before her. At the same time her heart was keeping up a terrifying rhythm, as if a bird had been caught in it and was beating its wings frantically. Even later when she had gone to bed, she felt that wild fluttering so much she could not sleep. And then as she laid there the music came and the voices. It was a strange music made up of drums and bagpipes. The voices were strange, too. "Step in and see the show!" one of them shouted. "The wonder show of the ages! Magic! Mesmerism! And the only chance, ladies and gentlemen, the only chance to see the great Serafin in person —Mesmer's favorite pupil, who reads the past, the present and the future! Hurry, hurry, hurry, the show is starting!" Manuela tried to shut her ears against it, but suddenly she was getting out of bed and running to the window. Then, almost without realizing it, she seized her cloak and as she wrapped it around her, the drums and the pipes became one with the beating in her heart. Only when she saw Serafin on the makeshift stage whirling a wooden cage that held a many-sided mirror did she realize how wantonly she was behaving, coming to a common street show with only a silken cloak covering her night dress. Then he was smiling and coming toward her, and as she gazed at his twirling mirror, suddenly it was as if she had begun to dream, enveloped in a misty haze. "He's hypnotized her!" someone shouted. But she did not hear it, for only one voice came through to her now and as it asked her questions she answered in a hushed voice which did not sound like her own at all. She told him her name and the name of her village, and when he asked if she loved the man she was to marry she answered that, too, in a single emphatic negative. Serafin's eyes glowed as he looked at her.

"You love someone else, don't you?" he said softly, and from the look in his eyes there was no doubt who that someone was.

"Yes," her voice came in a sigh, as she told the secret she had never before told anyone. "I love Macoco, Macoco, the pirate, the dazzling, the fabulous, and some day he will come like a hawk and carry me away."

"No, no," Serafin said imploringly. "No, Manuela, you don't mean that. Think again, gracious lady, who is it that you—"

"Don't call me gracious lady!" She wrinkled her small nose distastefufly. "It irritates me. Underneath this prim exterior there are depths of emotion, romantic longings— "

Suddenly she was casting aside her cloak and singing, and as he held his hand out to her she began to dance. It was as if they had found some far cloud over which they tripped gaily and she was forgetting everything and everyone—most of all Don Pedro and his ring on her finger—until suddenly over the music came a violent sound of thunder, waking her out of her trance, so that she stood Ihere in amazement, staring at the audience clapping their hands in a frenzy of appreciation.

"That's for you," Serafin smiled, "for your singing and dancing."

"Singing and dancing!" Manuela echoed in a dazed voice. Then as she stared down at herself, seeing herself dressed only in a nightgown, the dream suddenly became a nightmare. With a cry she was gone, not even waiting to find her cloak. As she reached the hotel, she went into her aunt's room and awakened her, insisting they must go home that very night, that very minute. But the dream remained, both sleeping and waking, so that time seemed to stand still until the morning she awoke and knew it was her wedding day. It seemed ended as she dressed in the lace of her bridal mantilla, her head felt as if it could hardly support the weight of the veil though it was fashioned of the sheerest of laces. Then as they left her, she thought she was dreaming again for there was the wild strains of the drums and pipes again coming nearer and nearer, and when she ran to the window she saw Serafin marching gaily at the head of his strolling players. In that instant, he looked up and saw her and before she realized what he was doing he had flung a rope up to her balcony, lassoing one of its posts, and was climbing up to her window. There was the terror then, coming more from her fear of herself than of him. Picking up a pair of scissors she leaned over and started to cut the rope. But she couldn't. As he saw her faltering, there was exultation in his eyes as he leapt into the room and caught her in his arms.

"Are you real, or an angel!'" he whispered. "Am I on earth or have I climbed all the way into heaven?" Her hands beat against him, trying to push him away, but his hold tightened. "You can't marry that man. Manuela. come with me. We'll tour these islands, then on to Paris, Rome. Madrid. We will sing alJ our lives through. You don't know what a thrill it is. You were in a trance before. You didn't hear the audience."

The shame she had been unable to forget until this moment came back again at his words and she tore herself out of his arms. "Do you call it a thrill to live in a tent?" she demanded. "To go hungry? To be a vagabond, hounded out of towns, looked down on by all decent people?" She stopped appalled as she heard her Aunt's and Don Prdro's voices outside her door. "Quick," she whispered desperately, pointing to the window. "If Don Pedro should find you here, he would kill you!"

But the man already knew the intruder was there, for even as she whispered the door swung open and there he stood, his hand clutching the evil whip he lashed out at Serafin who leapt nimbly out of its way. "Don't harm him!" Manuela cried. "He didn't mean any harm—he—"

Don Pedro flung her out of the way as she tried to come between them, his voice roaring as he advanced on the younger man who moved so gracefully he seemed to be dancing as he avoided the deadly lash.

"You mountebank!" he roared. "You thieving vagabond! You scum, sneaking into a lady's room! This is a respectable community. We do not entertain the scum of the cities, the thieves, the blackguards such as you!"

"Don Pedro, please!" Manuela pleaded, but even as she spoke her aunt took her by the arm and pulled her out of the room.

Manuela crouched on the stairs unmindful of the wedding guests crowding around her. For despite the hum of their voices all she heard was the lashing of the whip, until suddenly it stopped. That was even more terrifying, not knowing what had happened. Then the door was flung open but it wasn't Don Pedro who swaggered out, it was Serafin, and the whip was in his hand now and the other followed him like a whipped dog, or a man who had seen ghosts, Manuela could not be sure which. First there was shocked silence. Then as the men of the wedding party began swarming up the stairs.

Serafin held up his hand. "Stop where you are!" he ordered in a thundering voice. And then as some of the more timid among them rushed toward the safety of the door, his voice came again.

"No one is to leave this house without my permission!" Donna Inez' proud head went up at that. "What right have you to give orders here?" she demanded.

"The right of any man!" Serafin said, and though his voice lowered it was as authoritative as before. "Self-preservation. The thing I have feared for years has happened. My true identity has been discovered. But," his eyes went coolly toward his cowering adversary, "Don Pedro will keep my secret. I have seen to that. But I should like some assurance from you. I fear the price on my head may be too great a temptation."

"What are you?" Donna Inez demanded scathingly. "A pick-purse or a chicken thief?"

Serafin swept her a deep bow. "My depredations. Madame, have been on a somewhat grander scale. I," he paused impressively, "I am Macoco, the Pirate." Manuela stared at him wide-eyed.

"Macoco!" she whispered breathlessly.

"And you," Serafin turned to her, an amused smile playing about his lips, "you thought I was a strolling player, didn't you? That is indeed a tribute to my acting. But now I demand even a greater one from you. Manuela, are you ready to come with me? I have engagements on the seven seas and I demand that you keep them with me. Otherwise, my men, who are only waiting my signal, will come down from the hills and put your town to the torch!"

"Manuela!" Don Pedro cried hoarsely. '"Do not listen to him! He is lying!"

Serafin turned threateningly. "Are you accusing Macoco of lying? think twice before you answer, Don Pedro, or whatever you call yourself!" He turned scornfully to the others. "This fat pumpkin was travelling on a ship I captured once. I spared his life. But I may not be so kind this time." His eyes went back to the other's terrified ones then. "A word from me, you know, and you'll be hanging from a gibbet."

"Please," Don Pedro's tongue touched his dry lips nervously. "I did not know you intended this—if I could see you alone, just for a moment?"

"I have no time for snivelling cowards." Serafin cracked his whip threateningly.

He turned to Manuela now and his voice was more imperious than it had ever been before. "Well, what is your answer? Unless you come with me now, your village will lie in ruins, your friends and your relatives will be scattered to the winds, not one house shall be left, not one stone upon another!"

There was a wild outburst of weeping from the women and even the strongest of the men raised their voices in a desperate plea that she should spare them. So what could Manuela do but listen to her friends, especially with that wild fluttering coming in her heart again, so that it seemed that not just one bird but hundreds of them had taken refuge there? She went to him, her trembling hand accepting his offered arm, and walked through the path the others made for them to the street where his men waited. How could she ever have thought them just silly vagabonds, Manuela wondered, as they led the way to the Mayor's home itself, since it was by far the largest and most beautiful in the village. As Serafin paused for a moment on the balcony to assure the anxious villagers who had followed them that they were safe because of her sacrifice, Trillo, one of his men, led her into the house and into the room where the tables were spread for what was to have been hers and Don Pedro's wedding banquet.

"Well," Trillo smiled, "this is what you have dreamed of, isn't it?" And then as she looked at him bewildered, his hearty laugh came. "Don't you remember, that's what you said at the show last night, that you were in love with Macoco and that you dreamed some day he'd come like a hawk and carry you away."

"I said that?" Manuela looked at him incredulously, and it was then the first dawning of her suspicion came. "I said that to him?"

' "Sure," the man grinned, and no pirate cut-throat had ever grinned in such an idiotic way. "That's what you said to Serafin—I mean Macoco."

The color swept into her face realizing how she had been tricked. For she saw it all now that the clue had been given her; the way Serafin, the mountebank, the silly, capering actor, had finally managed to win her by taking advantage of her dreaming. But she'd pay him back, she thought, as Serafin swaggered toward her. And she was even more angry when she saw how she relished this new role he was playing. He wasn't even a good actor, she thought contemptuously, overplaying his part like that.

"Why did you think you had to threaten to get me here?" she asked in pretended awe. "Didn't you know that you had only to stretch out your hand? Please, don't move, I want to gaze my fill at you! That sinister brow, the hawklike glance of your eyes! I can see you now in battle, the clash of swords, the roar of angry cannon, and you, Macoco, standing there with lightning breaking around you, dominating everything! And to think," she looked at him wonderingly "I thought you were just a silly little actor." If she had stuck a knife into his heart he could not have looked more stricken.

"A what?" he demanded, his swagger gone in his hurt vanity. "What was that you said?"

If she had needed any more proof, his words would have given it. "How could I have been so gullible?" she mused, knowing how her words were striking even deeper into his heart. "I should have known the moment I saw you on the stage that you didn't know anything about acting."

"Just a minute," Serafin said coldly, "tell me just what was the matter with my acting?"

"Your what?" Manuela laughed mockingly and then pretended seriousness. "Don't speak of anything so disgusting, so degrading! I despise actors. You don't have to pretend before me. I love you for what you are, ruthless, cruel, taking what you want! Fearing no one!"

"Manuela," Serafin protested unhappily. "I have a confession to make —"

"You don't have to confess anything to me," she said, and then as he looked at her pleadingly, she stopped the little game she was playing, and her humiliation took refuge in her sudden fury. "So you'd trick me, would you?" She seized a vase from a table and flung it at him. "You'd make a fool of me, would you?" But the last word ended in a sob as she saw him collapse and fall to the floor. And as she ran to him, she knew that her anger had been only a counterpart of her love for him. "Speak to me, Serafin," she whispered as she knelt beside him. "I didn't mean what I said. You're a good actor, you're fine. Oh, if I only hadn't been such a silly, little fool, mooning over some silly pirate, you wouldn't have had to pretend, you wouldn't have —"

She was in his arms then and he was holding her close and it didn't make any difference even knowing that he had only pretended unconsciousness. But even as he held her, she heard the shouts out side, and then before she realized the meaning of them the door burst open and Don Pedro came in followed by a company of soldiers.

"Surround him!" the captain in charge ordered, and smiled sternly as he faced Serafin. "I must say, Macoco, you are very satisfying. The other members of your profession, whom I have met officially, have looked more like bookkeepers than pirates. But you fill the eye."

"But he isn't Macoco!" Manuela protested desperately. "It's only a joke a silly joke. He is Serafin, an actor, who knew I had an admiration for Macoco So he pretended. That's all it was."

"I am sorry, senorita," the captain said "this is no silly joke." He turned back to his men. "Put him in irons," he ordered, "and issue a command to erect a gallows at once. We'll forego the formality of a trial."

They were gone then and Serafin was gone with them and for all that remained of the afternoon she heard the sounds of the gallows being erected in the village square. Then when evening came and the hammering finally stopped, another more gruesome sound took its place, the measured sound of soldiers' marchin feet and the cries of the villagers screaming for justice. She could not stay away and even knowing the dire scene that awaited her, she ran to the square to make one last appeal for his life.

"You cannot hang him like this, without evidence," she pleaded, not daring to look at Serafin already standing on the scaffold. "You can't, you can't!" It was the captain who showed her the evidence that Don Pedro had discovered among Serafin's theatrical effects, the casket overflowing with fabulous jewels. And as she stared at them, recognizing in a necklace the same intricate design as that which fashioned her bejeweled betrothal ring, she realized it was Don Pedro who was the real Macoco. Everything that had happened was so clear to her now. Serafin had recognized Don Pedro as the pirate in her room that morning, and that was the reason the pompous little man had been so terrified knowing the reward for his capture. It was because of her that Serafin had not denounced Don Pedro but had played this little game instead, in his fear that her childish adoration of Macoco would make her idolize even the dullard he had turned out to be.

There was nothing she could do, for how would any of them, knowing she was in love with Serafin, take her word against that of the eminently respectable Don Pedro? But, wait! There was something else she could do. Couldn't she appeal to his vanity as a pirate, even as she had appealed to Serafin's as an actor?

"Macoco!" she cried, and running to the gallows she climbed to the scaffold, putting her arms around the bewildered Serafin who could only think she was betraying him: "I ask so little," she cried, "only to be allowed to worship at your feet, Macoco, my prince of pirates. For they may do with you what they will, but your spirit, your legend will live on through the ages. And I will always worship you for your immortal deeds, your fearlessness, your daring. I shall carry your image in my heart forever and ever and — "

"But, Manuela," Serafin said, and as she looked at him she saw his bewilderment was gone and that now at last he realized what she was trying to do. "Remember you are to marry Don Pedro, the most pious, the most virtuous—"

"The most piddling of all men," her voice cut in scathingly, "a namby-pamby who doesn't dare leave this village, a catchpenny who is afraid of the sea."'

It was too much for the vanity of the man who had once been the uncrowned king of all the rogues in the Caribbean. Screaming the blood-curdling cry which had been Macoco's battle song, he leapt to the scaffold and tore her out of the other man's arms. "I've had enough of this!" he roared. "This marionette," he stretched his finger mockingly at Serafin, "strutting around pretending to be me, the fearless one! Do you think a runt like this could handle a crew of cut-throats? Do you think real men would risk their necks to serve under him? No, it was I who was the terror of the Caribbean for / am Macoco, the most feared and hated man who ever sailed —"

Only then, as the crowd roared and pressed forward, did he realize the confession he had made. But as he turned to run, the soldiers pressed in around him, covering him, hiding him from the girl who trembled now as Serafin's arms went around her. And even then, with the horror not entirely erased from her eyes, the new peace and the joyousness, which was only a forerunner of the joy to come, of the laughter and songs and lighthearted gaiety when they would roam the roads of the world together.

[seju-k]

My Alternative Ending to Frozen 2 **MAJOR SPOILERS**

So as many people are speculating about the alternative ending Frozen 2 would of had, ya know with how the castle looked like from the art book, if Elsa didn’t save Arendelle. WELL ANYWAYS, my friend and I were talking about it and I went ahead and did my own ending in regards to the photo and discussion. 

There is major spoilers within the one-shot, so if you haven’t watched it, don’t read it, if so, then click the ‘Keep reading’ link.

 A year had gone by with the events of Anna and Elsa’s journey to the Enchanted Forest. It had felt like ages for the younger sister, so much has changed since then. And some things didn’t. Like how Sven and Olaf would mess around and getting into crazy adventures with each other, or Kristoff being his awkward self. She loved that that would never change for her. And Elsa? Well.. Elsa’s love for her sister was her whole world. Just don’t mention it to her husband.

 Fresh autumn leaves filled the sky as Gale whistled through the streets of the kingdom. Lively chatter echoed about, bouncing off the walls and stalls of the small portside. Feet bustling as they hit the stone roads with every step the people took. The kingdom’s people were getting ready for a huge celebration that were to happen that sunset evening. And things were still in the midst of preparation. Just like Anna.

***

 The Queen was in her chambers, sitting upon her chair in front of her vanity mirror. A somber expression resting upon her face as she gazed at her reflection. Something was on her mind, and it was bothering her more than usual. It was so out of her character. Elsa must have felt this countless times while in their youth. 

  A heavy sigh left her parted lips. There was no need to psych herself on this important day of hers. It was supposed to be of joy! Union! An everlasting happy occasion! But, to not be able to share this moment with her parents. That’s what was getting to her. And it was aggravating her to no end. Luckily a knock on her door had snapped her away from her thoughts that she swore she would beat down if that was the last thing she would do.

 “C-Come in!” Anna yelled out before clearing her throat to waive her doubts away. Plastering her cheerful, usual smile onto her face. From the reflection in her mirror, the fifth spirit had walked into the room. “Elsa!”

  The older sibling smiled at her little sister, “Are you ready for your big day?” 

 For a split moment, the young girl’s face had faltered; Elsa had noticed, but regained her fiery spirit to fend it off. “I was born ready!” She spun around on her seat to face her sister, hands balled into fists in exclamation like she was ready to tackle the day. Parts of her was, but the more uneasy parts of her wasn’t.

 “Okay,” The older one of the two said in worry, “What is it?” 

 “What is what?” Anna coyly asked.

  “You tend to over exaggerate when something is wrong.”

 “Whaaaat? Psssh,” a dismissive hand waved from the Queen. “No I don’t.”

 A raised brow from the spirit-embodiment female suggested otherwise. Her younger sibling just proving her point. 

 “Weren’t you the one who said not to keep secrets from each other ever again? To share everything.”

 “Don’t use my own words against me!” Anna playfully exclaimed.

  “But you’re right.” She let out another sigh and let her hands fall into her lap. Elsa kept quiet, letting her sister take her time while she sat across from her on the bed. The older sister’s attention never leaving her little sister.

 “It’s just..” Anna struggled for the right words to form before speaking, finding what she hoped would be good enough to not unease her sister. “I always thought of getting married here at the castle. Ever since I was a kid..” 

 Her gaze was down into her hands, looking distant into an old memory. “Having Father walk me down the aisle with both you and Mother beside the altar waiting for me as is my soon-to-be-husband.” Just the recollection of that made her eyes turn glossy with fresh tears daring to expose her sadness and grief.

 A sniffle and batting her eyelids, the Queen managed to keep her tears at bay. For now. Though the crack in her voice disclosed her feelings. “But everything is different! Both of them are gone! And nothing of them remains..” Anna hiccuped and used her forearms to wipe at the tears that rolled down her puffy cheeks. “It all got washed away and destroyed in the flood when the dam broke..”

***

 “Mattias, please, the dam needs to be destroyed to break the mist spell and free the forest.” The princess pleaded to the lieutenant who was blocking her path onto the walkway of the dam. Three very large, and very angry rock giants on her heels. She planned on using them to take out the structure.

 “If this dam breaks, then Arendelle would be destroyed.” The older man’s voice was filled with concern for his kingdom. “We’ve sworn to protect it at all costs.”

 Anna felt a pang of heartbreak at his words. He spoke the truth, the strong tidal wave that was kept at bay with the stoned dam would wipe away the entire fjord. But this. This would right the wrong that was done to this forest, and it’s people all those years ago. 

 “I know.. But destroying this dam is the next right thing. My grandfather betrayed the Northuldrans and caused this whole mess.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because my sister gave her life for the truth.. So please.. Before we lose anyone else..”

 With a heavy heart, the lieutenant processed this newfound information and followed his orders. Sizing up his build and raised both his shield and sword. Clashing his weapon against the steel of his shield, his men following his actions. In the distant, the rock giants moved their attention towards the noise and found their prey that ran from them for disturbing their slumber.

 Boulders flew through the sky towards where the Arendellians were gathered. The group dispersed quickly to keep from getting crushed while the princess ran onto the pathway on top of the dam. 

 “That’s it! DESTROY THE DAM!” Anna yelled out at the giants. More large chunks of rock soared through the air, crashing against the stone barrier. It had torn away at the end on where she entered, running towards the other end. Although her path was cut short with a boulder tearing at her exit. This was not good. 

 Trapped on the dam, she began to panic. There was nowhere left for her to go, she’d be crushed and brought down along with this walled barrier. So all she could do was get a head start and start her mad sprint back to Mattias and Kristoff at the now cliffside in the opposite direction. 

 With boulders still raining down, the floor beneath her feet began to crumble and split while she ran. “Come on.. I can.. Make.. This.. !!” On her final step, Anna leapt off towards the side of the cliff. She’ll make it! 

 Her hand reached out to grab onto the edge of the cliff, but her leaping distance was not the greatest. She would fall short, and her expression blanked. She wasn’t going to make it. Mattias and Kristoff had jumped towards the edge of the cliffside, to try and catch her. Their fingertips just grazing the princesses. 

 They couldn’t catch her in time.

 “ANNA!!” Kristoff cried out as he watched his beloved fall down towards the unforgiving waters that rushed past the dam. His hand still extending downwards, willing for his arm to miraculously extend to grab his loved one’s hand.

  Anna gasped as she fell towards the depths, tears spilling from the corner of her eyes while free falling. She was going to die. Her gaze moved to the sky, the sun’s rays peeking through the mist. It tore through the icy cloud, slicing open and making its presence known to all of the Enchanted Forest. This was the end. At least both Elsa and herself gave their lives to free the people from within the forest. The Kingdom of Arendelle would understand their sacrifices. Kristoff, Sven, and Mattias would take care of the people.. Grandpabbi and the rock trolls too.

 Shutting her eyelids tight. She was ready to succumb.

 All Anna regretted was how she and Elsa left things before uncovering the truth, and doing the next right thing. 

 “Elsa..”

 Her body crashed into the water, and everything went pitch black like the dark sea. 

***

 The tidal wave that was unleashed had raced down the empty ravine. Strong currents splashing and lashing out against the sides of cliffs. Tearing down trees and moving giant boulders in their wake. It was nothing but destruction that it left.

  It had turned, moving with the direction of the cavern which led to the fjord and the Kingdom of Arendelle. On the cliffside, where the townspeople and the rock trolls laid in safety and waiting for the return of their queen and princess, witnessed the oncoming doom that was to befall on their homes and land.

 The sight was truly terrifying to behold. Torrents of water gushed towards the empty streets, annihilating everything within the area . And the vigorous influx of water had impacted onto the side of the kingdom’s castle walls, shaking the foundations. It tore through as if it were nothing. The icecap roofing of the structure shattered from the impact. The building crumbling from the weight of the tide overcoming the stronghold. 

  It left nothing.

 The flag of Arendelle that flew in the sky, the one the queen had promised that would always fly, had been lost to the waters.

  As was everyone’s hearts.

***

 Moments passed, and the princess had found herself gagging and gurgling water from her lungs and throat. Inhaling deeply of the cool crisp air to fill her airways. It stung a bit. How long was she out? Wait, how did she survive that fall? The raging currents should had crushed her down towards the rocky floor and bash her skull. 

 The answer to her questions laid right beside her. Holding onto her in fact. Her perplexed gaze looked up at whose arms she was in. Radiance of a pale beauty was all she could see, given that the newfound sun was causing a glare in her vision. Then they moved to shield the rays that obstructed Anna’s view to show themselves.

  It was Elsa. And she looked so much different. A good different. Beautiful different. So she was alive, they both were! Thank goodness she didn’t lose her dear sister. 

 “You’re alive, but how? Did you find the fifth spirit?” The older one gave her a knowing look, “You are the fifth spirit!”

“But wait..” The younger sister gazed at her oldest one, “If I’m alive then..” A mournful expression began to paint on Elsa’s face. “Arendelle..”

 The fifth spirit looked away, pain and anguish on her facial features. It was confirmation to the princess's unspoken question. 

 “Oh..” Anna muttered lowly. She couldn’t believe the place she called home all her life was gone. In an instant. “You sacrificed Arendelle..” That grabbed the oldest sister’s attention, cerulean eyes locking onto her younger sister’s, “For me?” 

 “... I love you.” 

 Fresh salty tears erupted from the princess as her arms wrapped around the blonde in a tight embrace. Grieving at the loss of her kingdom and home, and happy that her sister was both safe and sound. She hadn’t even noticed but the two were riding on the Nokk towards the shoreline. Exhaustion taking over her entire body and laid limply against secure arms. 

 It had been a long two days.

 By the time the two sisters reached the shoreline, it was noon. But even then, a veil of clouds made it to cover the sun for the time being. Shading the surface of the Earth. Gingerly easing her sister awake, Anna batted her tired eyelids. “Time to wake up.”

 “Huh..?” 

 Elsa giggled softly at the younger girl’s sleepy antics. “Come on, we need to let others know that we’re okay.”

 If it were their cue, Kristoff and Sven came running down a small side cliff of dirt. Gale leading them to the pair. “Anna!” The tall blonde cried out, “You’re safe!!” The once tired female, jolted awake and ran to her boyfriend’s arms. Picking up the smaller woman with a twirl and tight embrace, he was relieved to see her safe.

 Setting down the girl, he looked over at Elsa, the older woman smiled heartedly and opened her arms to allow a hug from the ice deliverer. He enveloped her in a tight hug, also relieved that she too was okay. 

Anna watched with a warm smile, then hugged Sven before both traded off. The blonde petting the reindeer, and the auburn haired beauty hugging Kristoff once again. All seemed to be perfect. Almost perfect. 

 “Wow, you look different!” The male blonde finally said while looking at the older sibling, “Did you cut your hair or something?” 

 Both girls giggled and looked at each other, giving each other a side hug. “Or something..” Then the queen’s face turned to a more serious note. “Anna, I need to ask you something.” The freckled girl looked at her sister, mimicking her expression with a hint of worry. “Do you wanna build a snowman?”

 Shock developed on her face at the sudden question. “What?..” Did she mean what she thought she meant? 

 The fifth spirit closed her eyes, allowing her senses to dive deep and be one with nature. Gale, the wind spirit, whistled in response. A flow of snow flurry bristled through the air towards them. Cerulean orbs opening with a smile on her thin pink lips, she looked back at Anna. “Thank goodness water has memory.” A twirl on her hand, the flurry began to reshape a familiar figure.

 Anna gasped as she moved to kneel beside the mound of snow: applying sticks for arms, coal buttons, twigs of hair, and most importantly that orange carrot as a nose. Then it came to life, like Frosty the Snowman.

 “Anna? And Elsa! Kristoff and Sven!! Oh you all came back!!” The overzealous snowman proclaimed. The group hugged the smaller member of their family, missing his presence. “Oh, how I love good happy endings!”

 “Quick question,” Olaf spoke once everyone broke away, looking up at Elsa, “Is the whole ‘putting us in mortal danger’ gonna be a regular thing?”

 The blonde chuckled softly, patting the snowman on the head, “No that’s it.”

 “Well not it it.” The male blonde interjected. He looked both nervous and calm. “There’s one more thing.” He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, swallowing the lump that dared cling onto his throat. He got this. Right? 

 Moving in front of Anna, Kristoff kneeled a knee to her. “Anna, you are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known. I love you with all that I am,” a hand moved into the inside of his leather vest, pulling out a rare orange diamond ring. Presenting his love for the girl. “Will you marry me?”

 Tears again prickled at the corners of her eyes. She’d been doing that a lot as of late, wasn’t she. But the tears of joy were more than enough for this moment. Trying to fan herself to dry them, and being overly excited, she cried out. “Yes!” Then leapt into his arms to better seal the deal with a kiss.

 Then it struck her. Where would they marry? Arendelle was destroyed. And she loved the rock trolls, but their customs weren’t for everyone. She also couldn’t impose the Northuldrans with Arendellians invading their forests again. “Where would we hold the ceremony though?”

 Olaf looked confused for a moment, the castle was the obvious place. “Well in Arendelle, that’s so obvious Anna.” The group of four had forgotten to inform the snow being of the situation. 

 “Olaf.. Arendelle,” Elsa started, trying to word things for him to understand. “Well. Arendelle is.. Gone..”

“Gone? Like it’s moving. OH! Everyone went on a vacation!”

 “No Olaf,” Anna began, “Arendelle is destroyed because we broke the dam to free the forest.”

 It took a moment, but he was beginning to see the picture with this new information. “O-Oh..” He looked sad for a moment, though his a blink of his eyes, he found a bright solution. A bright side of it all. Like always. “We can rebuild! We can rebuild Arendelle into what it’s supposed to stand for!”

 The idea put them in better spirits. They could rebuild the kingdom to have a better connection with both the Northuldrans and themselves, and have peace and love. “That’s a brilliant idea Olaf!” The young girl cheered, looking over at Elsa with excitement. Who in turn looked slightly distraught. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, the spirits all agreed for me to stay here, in the forest.” She started off, Anna slowly beginning to show signs of refusal. But Elsa pressed on before her sister could speak. “I am the bridge between nature and our people, I have to stay. But,” the blonde continued, taking her younger sister’s hands in hers, “A bridge has two sides. And Mother had two daughters.” Anna’s eyes began to widen, almost knowing where she was going with this. 

 “Arendelle deserves to stand. With you, Anna.” 

“Me?” Elsa nodded to her. “But that would mean?” Her older sister smiled at her reassuringly. “If, if that’s what you think is best, then I support it. I’ll do my best for our kingdom.”

***

Rebuilding their ruined kingdom took almost a year. Of course the Northuldrans had helped their endeavors in building new houses and showing them of their cultures while doing so. Sparking interests and curiosity from the people of Arendelle. Both which Anna and Elsa were more than happy to entwine both cultures together in their infrastructure. They believed it’ll help Arendelle grow closer with Northuldra, while also keeping their looks more modernized. 

 And the end result was beautiful. Like a dream even. Never did they think this would have happened in their lives, but here they were. Better and stronger together, than ever. It was remarkable. Reforming the foundations to build a better kingdom, and to lead it how it should have been since the very beginning. This was no dream, but their newfound reality. 

 Their new home to start again.

***

 Back within the bedroom, it took Elsa all her strength to not crumble when watching her baby sister shed tears in front of her. It was agonizing to witness. But she needed to be strong for Anna. Like how Anna was always strong for her, she needed to repay that at this moment. Be her rock and keep her spirits up.

 “Oh Anna..” Her arms opened up for the girl, inviting her for a close embrace. Without hesitation, the younger girl jumped into her arms, crying into her sister’s chest. “Cuddle close, scooch in..” Elsa whispered soothingly, easing her dear sister into a small whimper. Her arms acting like a veil, warding away all of her negative thoughts and sadness.

 A familiar tune was hummed in the silent room, it came from the older sibling. It calmed Anna, remembering that their mother had sung it to them as kids. “Where the northwind, meets the sea..” A nimble hand moved to touch her chest, right above her heart. “There’s a heart here, full of memories.” The brunette looked slightly confused for a split second at the changed lyrics.  “Come, my sister, homeward bound.. When all is lost,” then dawned upon her on why her sister did such a thing. Softness replaced her confusion.  “Then all is found..”

 “They’ll always be with you, sis, in here.” Her gaze moved to the hand on her sister’s chest. “So don’t think for a second that they’re gone. Okay?”

 Wet tears and snot rained from the Queen’s face. The song, her sister’s words, her being here for her when she needed her most. It all made her really, really happy. And grateful to have such a wonderful sister.

 “Oh Anna, it’s your wedding day,” forming a tissue from soft snow, she used it to clean her baby sister’s face. “Don’t go ruining your dress.. But are you feeling better?”

 “Uh huh,” Anna sniffled and smiled. “A heck of a whole lot better, thank you, sis.” Wrapping her arms around the blondes neck, she hugged her lovingly and tightly.

 Elsa returned the embrace with the same fondness ten-fold. 

 “You’re welcome sis.”

 "I love you.."

 "I love you too.."

[forlackofabettersound]

Ochungulo Family is a More Ethical Ethic

Yeah I said it.

I was initially afraid this statement might be a bit classist coming from me, a middle class suburb bred 20-something year old. But the genre has risen from its gritty hood predecessor, ‘genge’ and moved up the street into the Boiler Room co-signed Jason Dunford aka Samaki Mkuu spitting ‘gengetone’.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4jko8AHWIU

Did Ethic walk so that Ochungulo Family could fly?

If so, then the Kansoul crawled so that Ethic could take it’s stumbling baby steps into the receiving arms of the Nairobi mass market. Meaning Jua Cali and Jimwaat swam like sperm to egg so that the Kansoul, 2 lads from the cabro streets of Ridgeways with the sole exception of Mtoto wa Khadija, Mejja who gives the Kansoul it’s much needed mtaa edge, would be accepted by both the clipped english accents of Capital FM and the tongue chewing sheng of Ghetto Radio.

Now that the scene has burst open like the ripe fruit it is, there’s so many of them: Boondocks Gang, Zero Sufuri, Sailors. The question I’m not going to answer today is “When did Gengetone stop being snubbed by Naija-blaring establishments and became the flag-waving sound of the nation it is today?

The question I WILL answer today is: What’s the difference between Ochungulo Family and Ethic that makes the former a boy band of insinuating heart throbs, and the latter cancelled by KoT?

Perhaps a brief history of both camps is in order. Let’s start with Ethic.

These kids broke out of the precinct of Umoja and into the scene with the finger-licking club banger, ‘Lamba Lolo’ back in 2018, stirring a country-wide frenzy. The beat is a simple repetitive stock synth melody backed by the easiest bassline. The low-budget music video shot in their neighbourhood features REKLES, SWAT, SESKA and ZILLA on what seems like a regular weekend dusk, where they called their friends out to come jam- the bottles and cups ubiquitous in hip hop music videos swapped for Big Boms and Pin Pops. 

Analogy: If Ethic is Pin Pop. Ochungulo is Chupa Chup.

It’s clear from the jump that REKLES is the most lyrically adept, with SWAT’s notoriety stemming from being the cutest face. The track isn’t so much a wine and dine as it is a ‘let’s skip to the good bits’ as it’s opening line states, “Piga Goti (eeh) Panua Domo basi (eeh)” with a chorus that repeats the question, “Ushailamba lolo?”

Browsing through their discography, their second single ‘Postion’ was a smash hit with the co-sign of the Kansoul, providing us listeners with beloved catch phrases such as ‘Geuka Nikubeng’ ‘Ganja Farmer ni wale wajanja’ ‘Ushaiguswa uskie tu kunyora ushaiguswa uskie tu kuoga’ and of course, ‘shuglibagli shugblibagli nden nden nden nden.” One of the laziest verses of Okonkwo’s career in my opinion but I digress.

So now let’s jump to their 3 most controversial tracks, ‘Pandana’ ‘Tarimbo’ and ‘Soko’.

In ‘Pandana’, the phrase that came under fire was Rekles’ use of the word ‘Tunabakana’ ; Baka meaning rape in kiswahili. However with Rekless use, ‘tunabakana’ translates to ‘we are raping each other,’ a double non-consent which cancels each other out and alludes to consent. While rape in any construct or form should not be encouraged, this line may have been taken out of context by KoT. Rekles probably meant no harm in its use, simply suggesting that they are aggressively in each other’s body business. However from this faux pas, Rekles should have learned. He did not.

In Tarimbo, less innocently, he raps, “Mi huchapa mi humwaga hata bila permission” One thing should be clear, doing anything to anyone’s body bila permission is non-consent aka sexual assault. This lyric can not be as easily forgiven.

It gets harder and harder to defend these guys with ‘Soko’, which Rekles opens with the line, ‘Kuna toto na ameiva iza’ ‘There’s a child and she’s ripe sorry’ bringing to our moral imagination the fact that the object of this rhyme is a minor. Contrast this with SWAT’s badly interpreted line in ‘Pandana’ where he says ‘Toto yako iyeke fiti nitaikulala’ and you can see that the use of the word ‘toto’ in each of these songs is different. In ‘Pandana’, SWAT uses toto as a euphemism for lady parts. In ‘Soko’. Rekles’ toto is an underaged girl. While both are lewd, Pandana is suggestive whereas Soko is criminal.

Speaking of criminal, let’s dive into Ochungulo family and compare see whether they’re anymore saintlike or if we’re a public who ignore dirty things if they’re dressed clean.

https://twitter.com/ethicofficial/status/1270784205308526593

This is the tweet that started this whole investigation. Ochungulo broke out with the Nelly the goon led track, “Bora Uhai’ an ode to life and all it’s sweetness. Followed shortly thereafter by ‘Krimino’ and a rain of smash hit singles following the likes of ‘Na Iwake’ ‘Aluta’ ‘Kaa Na Mamayako’ where Alejandro Chief Inspekta compared thee’s nipples to a nectarine blossoming flower’s in the less shakespearean format. “Nipple zako nazinyonya kama nectar’

Alejandro Chief Inspekta aka Benzema, formerly EDM producer with the electronic collective Lectronica Circle has found more success and notoriety and ease in the world of gengetone than in Dance Music. Already, gritty grimy gengetone and synthesized programmed European Dance Music are contrasted by a class divide. You won’t hear Martin Garrix being introduced by Mbonoko on the radio during your work day commute. Only the middle classed suburb youth had fantasies of jet setting to Tomorrowland with their pocket money savings.

More specifically diving into the track in question, ‘Ngwatiology’. ‘Ngwati’ being sheng for porn hence ngwatiology meaning ‘a deep analysis of the effects of pornography on the human psyche through a thorough hand-genital exploration’ Masturbation folks.

While hilariously lewd, there’s no foul play in ‘Ngwatiology’ just a play by play of the natural phenomenon that is ngwatiology.

“Did you know porn hub awards, hu-happen once, ile time ya cramps?”

“Did you know arsenal fans? Hao hukuwa ass-anal fans?”

In conclusion, yes. Ochungulo Family are the more ethical ethic. While both teams are explicit, straight-to-the-point, no-beat-around -the-bush-just-beat-this-meat when it comes to the content of their lyrics, there’s a line in the distant horizon that cannot be crossed. And the name of that line is consent. Ethic have crossed that line whereas Ochungulo Family have not. This does not make any better or worse than the other. In today’s morally policed jungle, both bands are prey and Ezekiel ‘Pornstache’ Mutua is the predator sending cringe emails to Youtube like an uncle who still doesn’t understand how the internet works.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Forty-Four: On an Island ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Hoshigaki Kisame ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Blue Waves and Black Flags ] [ AO3 Link ]

What else is an orphan lad of an island nation to do but become a pirate?

Hanging from a web of rigging, Sasuke watches the waves roll and feels the seaspray against his skin. It’s nearly the end of a cloudless day in late Spring, and the weather is about as fine as seafarers could ask for as night begins to fall. The wind ruffles his flyaway hair, a small smile on his face. Should be easy sleeping tonight with the calm waters.

As tough as life has been these past few years...he knows he’s simply lucky to see them passed. With most others sharing his blood long gone, Sasuke had little choice but to resort to the less lawful ways of surviving.

Of course...his current arrangement wasn’t, at first, intended. Attempting to filch some supplies from a slew of crates along his hometown’s dock one foggy morning, he’d found himself caught and hung upside down by an ankle. Protesting quite loudly, it hadn’t done much to sway the pirate that had caught him red handed in their goods.

“Seems a little rat’s nibbled his way into the rations,” he’d laughed, ignoring Sasuke’s thrashing. Solidly built and covered with ink, he’d gathered a few others around. “What d’you say, lads? Bit scrawny, ain’t he?”

“Put him down, Kisame,” a flame-haired man retorted. “He’s harmless, and we’ve got crates to load if we’re to make it to the meeting point on time.”

“Feisty little bugger, I have to say...seems a waste to let him sit here and starve…”

“We have enough children mucking about,” another man cut in. “We don’t need any more strays, Kisame.”

“What, we were all strays at some point, Sasori! How many of us can you say were conscripted at any sort of ripe old age? Not even you!”

“We’re still getting that blond brat to obey orders, let alone the albino. Last thing we need is another mouthy child to fight with before we get short and toss them overboard for the fish.”

At the threat, Sasuke had quickly settled down.

Kisame’s mouth had settled into a firm line, brow furrowed. “I’ll keep an eye on ‘im if it’s such a hassle, then. I’m not about to squander promising youth.”

“If he can pull his weight despite his being scrawny, then do what you will. Just keep him out of the way and get the supplies loaded.”

“Aye, Yahiko sir.” Setting Sasuke down, the one called Kisame had crouched, looking him over appraisingly. He’d seen his fair share of abandoned children on the docks, and had been one himself once upon a time. “...think you can trade a bunk and some food for manners and obeying orders, laddie?”

Still wary, Sasuke had realized he didn’t have much choice...and nodded.

“...good, then. Now...grab that sack, there. Can’t start too early, eh? Need to bulk you up,” he’d then taunted, ruffling the little Uchiha’s hair and chuckling at his protest. An arm flexed, showing the sizeable muscles. “Someday we’ll have you strong as an ox, but for now...best you start off light.”

And that was how Sasuke ended up on the ship among the group calling themselves the Red Dawn. Though not the only child, he’d been the youngest, close in age to those like Deidara and Hidan. The former detested him on sight, and the latter enjoyed having someone younger to pick on...but at least he was alive.

Now he’s fifteen, and though still far more lithe than Kisame and his bulk, is much stronger than he’d been when first discovered pilfering their supplies. Self assured, and maybe a little cocky, he’s one of the quickest and most agile of the crew, and it’s common to see him climbing about in the rigging like a monkey.

“Oi, boyo!”

Glancing over to his mentor, Sasuke leaps down to let Kisame speak to him face to face. “Aye, sir?”

“Find any frayed lines or slipping knots?”

“No, sir. Everything looks to be top form, sir.”

There’s a snort. “Always with the ‘sir’...I think I know well enough by now you respect me without you spittin’ the word every few words, hm?”

“Aye sir.”

Ignoring Sasuke’s smirk, Kisame gives his shoulder a shove. “Off to bed with you, then. We’ll be landing midday tomorrow, so best you be rested.”

At the notion, Sasuke can’t help but brighten. It’s been several weeks since they last made landfall, and he’s eager to get off the ship for a while and explore a new town. “Will we be moored long?”

“A few days, give or take. Just be sure you don’t get yourself into any trouble,” the elder pirate advises, giving the youth a rather pointed look. “None of your shenanigans from the last time we docked...got it?”

“It was just one brawl -”

“And you had two black eyes. Not to mention we were nearly ousted and thrown out. I’m serious, Sasuke...keep your head down. We can’t afford to muddy the waters.”

“...yes, sir.”

“To bed, then.”

Making his way below deck, Sasuke doesn’t waste much time crawling into the hammock he sleeps in, kicking off his boots and not bothering with anything else. He’ll just change in the morning before they make landfall and at least look somewhat presentable.

Until then...he swiftly falls asleep to the gentle rocking of the ship.

...at least, for a few hours.

“Sasuke...Sasuke!”

Eyelids squinting, they open as he hears his mentor’s voice. “...Kisame…?”

The pirate’s expression is solemn. “We’re coming up on a nasty squall...no avoiding it with the winds as they are. Best you get up and secure yourself before it hits.”

Sasuke’s gut sinks, but not entirely. They’ve faced storms before. Sure, some get lost now and then, but he’s yet to go overboard.

...and yet, Kisame’s face makes him wonder.

Slipping on his boots, he makes his way topside to a terrifying sight. Even as color peeks over the horizon, the rest of the sky is quickly being consumed by a reaching, contorting black. Clouds roll and tear at the ferocity of the winds, and the curtain of pounding rain is quickly approaching.

...this doesn’t look good.

The crew is shouting and running, moving to tie down anything that moves. Sasuke leaps into the fray, helping to check the rigging he only just finished securing the night before. The whipping winds snap the sails like thunderclaps, and he pales as perfectly good lines already show signs of stress.

This really isn’t good.

Waves begin to swell, cresting further and further over the deck. Clothes are quickly soaked, Sasuke moving to mop water from both heaven and sea from his face. He can barely see in the deluge…!

“Sasuke -!”

Squinting and turning to Kisame’s voice, Sasuke pales as a monster wave begins to tilt the ship, rearing up over them like a furious stallion.

He barely has time to take a breath before it hits him like a slap from a god. Turning and spinning as the water tries to pull him apart, he loses all sense of direction before being spat back up upon the surface.

Around him, several other crewmen attempt to grab on to anything nearby and floating. The ship slowly wobbles back the other way, swiftly drifting the other direction at the storm’s mercy.

With it goes any hope of being pulled back onto the deck. The ocean is too angry, too determined to see them drowned.

Managing to find a barrel, Sasuke clings to the bobbing lumber as lightning flashes and rain falls in sheets. Already his body is exhausted from its beating, and he knows it won’t be long until he can’t fight any longer. Curling his fingers as best he can into the ropes around his lifesaver, he holds on for dear life for as long as he’s able. But once his body gives up...it all goes black.

“...nn…”

Eyelids quivering, he rises into consciousness like a struggle against the tide. Where...what…?

Managing to open his eyes, Sasuke finds himself staring at...some kind of thatched roof…? But, he was on the ship, and...and…

...oh no…

Sitting up in a panic, he soon finds himself dizzy, collapsing back upon something soft. Bits and pieces of the morning before (or...whenever it was - how long was he out?) flicker through his mind, lingering exhaustion making the memories difficult to recall. But eventually he finds his feet, staggering out of what turns out to be a small hut.

Squinting against the sun, he finds himself not too far from a sandy beach peppered with stones. Stepping out, he stumbles far enough to get a better view of his surroundings. It looks like he’s one some kind of...island of some sort. What size he can’t know, or if there’s anyone else around.

...but someone had to build this hut.

Slowing panning his eyes, he stares as a figure approaches from one side of the shore. Somehow pale despite the sun, a curtain of dark hair hangs to her hips. Under an arm is a basket, and she comes up short as she spots him.

“Y...you’re awake!”

Feeling more caught in a fever dream than alive, Sasuke can’t manage a reply before his knees decide enough is enough. Crumpling, he sinks into the sand before his vision flickers and his body goes slack.

A gasp sounds from his unexpected companion. Racing over and setting aside her burden, she carefully takes his head in her lap. “...well...maybe you’re not quite r-ready to be on your feet,” she murmurs. With surprising strength, she drags him back inside, settling him atop the odd nest of fabric within that serves as a resting place. Next she fetches her basket, heavy with fruits. Ensuring he’s stable, she trades it for a net, walking back out into the sand and wading into the water.

For a moment she stands and stares before slipping beneath the surface. Just as she submerges, a flick of an amethyst tail sends water flipping into the air before she disappears.

                                                          .oOo.

     Oh golly it's late @~@      ...I wanna say I wrote something kinda like this before, but it's been so long and with SHM on top of it, I can't really recall what all I've done and when and for what, ahaha - forgive me if this sounds too familiar. I'm very tired and couldn't really think of anything else, RIP.      Anyway, I wanna say more but...too tired. I'm gonna go crash :'D Thanks for reading~

[supersizemeplz]

Pastor Duke

Part Two

Winston Duke x Black PlusSized Reader

Another #supersizedfic short. Continuation of this short, though no one asked for it. But I kind of like this AU. Enjoy!

A pair of sleek black heels rested by the doorway of the kitchen. Contrasting against the seamless white tile of the floor. Hushed bubbling and boiling came from the stove as food cooked atop it, leaving no stove eye unattended. A ham cooked in the oven, just about done as time ticked closer to five o'clock.

You moved about the spacious kitchen, humming a song that was stuck in your head as you did so. Some R&B song that had played on the radio as you drove home from church. The dress you wore swayed with your movement, covered by the polka dotted apron you wore. It's deep color was a contrast from the dress you'd worn earlier, and you hoped that Winston would like it.

Winston.

You smiled to yourself, putting a little bounce in your step. Of course, the man was undeniably handsome. Tall, thick, and attractive. Winston was a year older than you, according to his aunt Melanie. He'd graduated college with two master's and does a bit of charity work when he isn't in the pulpit.

You'd helped at an event that he'd hosted once before. A cookout for the youth of the church. He'd asked you personally for your help in that, spending as much time as he could with you during the day. You'd caught his quick glances at you, as well as holding back a smile when you'd noticed his longing ones.

You chuckled at the memory of him that day. The man had the perfect stature of intimidation yet the moment he was around you it shed. I'd taken him most of the day to get the courage to ask you to lunch, which you sadly couldn't agree to because of something that'd came up.

You considered this a rain check.

The doorbell sounded through the house, in two quick dings before the visitor rapped a beat against the door. Shawn. Every since his teens, that was his signal to let you know that it was him at that was knocking.

Wiping your hands on a clean towel, you turned down the stove eyes before leaving the kitchen. Your house slippers were silent as you padded into the front hallway, undoing the locks before you pulled the door open.

Shawn stood before you, beaming that charming smile. "Hey mama." He stepped forward, hugging you tight and pecking a kiss to your forehead. You smiled, returning the greeting. Before your eyes landed on her, the infamous Monae that'd caught the heart of your baby boy.

You'd noticed her almond shaped eyes first beneath those thick, arched eyebrows. Her round nose housed a touch of highlight on its tip, above the touch that tainted her cupid's bow. She gave a nervous smile that spread her full lips, both her hands holding her purse in front of her and against her thighs.

Shawn cleared his throat, stepping back to stand by her side. He put a comforting hand to the small of her back, giving her side a small squeeze of assurance. "Mama, this is Monae. My girlfriend." Monae kept her eyes on you, trying to read your face as she mumbled a soft 'nice to meet you'.

Her hand was held out towards you and you glanced to it. Letting her sweat a bit before you broke into a full smile. "I'm a hugger, honey." You gave her a warming hug, feeling her relax. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Monae. I would say I've heard about you, but Shawn likes keeping secrets."

She nudged him with a playful eye roll. "I told him to tell you about us sooner, but it isn't easy persuading him." Shawn laughed, mumbling a 'I had to prepare myself'. "But I have definitely heard about you. All good things and I've been excited about finally getting to meet you. And thank you raising such an amazing son."

You move aside to let them in, smiling as you allowed them past. "Do you need any help setting up? I wouldn't mind." Monae asked as she looked to you, allowing Shawn to take her coat and purse to hang up. You liked her already. Accepting her offer, you waved Shawn away to watch television before leading her to the kitchen.

Handing her an apron, you got her a few serving bowls and directed her to put all the sides in a bowl of their own. She nodded, starting off with the greens. As you slipped the ham out the oven, you began asking her about herself. Her family, her education, her goals, if Shawn is treating her right. Her answers were clear and impressive, reminding you a lot of yourself when you were her age. Determined & organized.

"Mama, your boyfriend is here!"

You rolled your eyes at your son's outburst, hearing Monae giggle from the other side of the table. "Here I come!!" Making sure everything was in place, you switched into your heels. Tossing the slippers into the hall closet as you passed it. The doorbell rang as you made it to the door, slowing you down.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed your hands over your dress. The bell rang again and you smiled, opening the door to reveal him in all his glory. His usual choice of a suit was gone and replaced by black dress pants and a burgundy sweater. He wore loafer styled shoes to match his pants, and that socks that peeked matched his shirt.

He held a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. Red roses and red wine. "Hello, Winston." You grinned, stepping aside to let him in. He took the gesture with a smile as he greeted you back, humming as he mumbled that it smelt amazing. You thanked him, closing the door behind you.

His gaze found you again, trailing over your body before meeting your gaze. "These are for you.." He held out the roses, licking his lips nervously. "..and I brought wine. Though I wasn't sure if you drank or not.. Not that you seem like the drinking type. It just seemed like something to bring to a dinner." You giggled at his rambling, taking the wine from him as well.

"Thank you, Mr. Duke. I do drink a bit of wine, every once in a while." You smiled, seeing him relax. Holding the flowers to your nose, you inhaled gently. "These are beautiful, Winston.." Looking up at him with your nose still in the flowers, you smiled a bit bigger.

He found himself smiling as well. Hands tucked into his pockets as he admired you. "Almost as beautiful as you.." He hadn't realized he'd said it, but you heard it. Your eyes lit up and you smirked at him. Opening your mouth to speak before someone cleared there throat.

"Pastor Duke, I'm glad to see you made it. I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Monae." They disappeared towards the dining room. Shawn throwing an amused glance over his shoulder to you. You chuckled, shaking your head as they both rounded your corner. That boy was something serious.

Dinner seemed to go by quicker than expected. Everyone becoming a part of whatever conversation went on. You and Winston threw glances at each other every so often, more so him than you. He tried playing it off though, doing it as he drank his water or using the moments you spoke as a reason to look at you.

You'd watched him closely as well, picking up little habits of his. Like the bounce of his shoulders when he laughed or the change of his voice when he spoke about something passionate. Shawn seemed to study him as well, as if he was discreetly checking for any red flags. Though the smile he wore as he conversed with Winston was one of liking.

When time seemed to catch Shawn's attention, him and Monae left with intentions of getting rest for work the next day. You gave them both hugs and a motherly be careful before sending them on their way.

Now came cleanup, which Winston insisted on helping with..

He'd rolled up his sleeves, helping to carry the dishes from the dining room and to the kitchen. Arms bulking a bit as he did so. You smiled as he washed dishes for you. His big body in your apron to prevent his outfit from being ruined.

Conversation flowed naturally.

Both of you throwing out small things about yourself, getting to know each other better. At one point, he'd insisted that you relax and let him finish putting up the food so he could wash out the containers. Since you'd done all the work to prepare the dinner.

He throwing his usual glances at you, smiling as he spoke. Telling little jokes that you'd giggle at. They came naturally because he was actually funny. You hated to say it, but you'd never seen yourself as being a first lady. It seemed like it came with a boring relationship and constant church affairs. But the more time you'd spent around Winston, the more that mindset faded.

The topic of marriage came about, and you shared that you'd never been married. Shawn's father was a old friend of yours, and you both decided to do the co-parenting thing. Now, he was happily married and you were still searching for your candidates. But you definitely hoped to find your soulmate one day, whether you married of not.

"Have you ever been married, Mr. Duke?" You sipped your glass of wine, sitting on the counter. The slippers you tossed in the hallway closet earlier were back on your feet. Those heels resting in the closet in their place.

"No ma'am." He shook his head, glancing to you before focusing back on the dish in his hand. "I've never just had that perfect chemistry with anyone. That feeling of this woman could be the one.. Until recently.." He licked his lips, glancing to you with a small smirk.

You grinned, sipping from your glass to hide it. Crossing your ankles as you tilted your head, batting your lashes twice. "Ooo, a love interest? Would you care to share who that special someone is, Mr. Duke?" Sitting up straighter, you smiled. He chuckled, wiping his hands dry on a clean towel.

He walked to where you were, leaning against the counter opposite of you. A hand adjusted his glasses as he looked to you, smiling. "Actually, you've caught my eye. And all night, I've been trying to find a way to ask you if.." He cleared his throat, standing tall as he found your gaze. "Would you allow me to take you out for a date? My treat, of course, and any day you'd see fit."

______________________

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[whatthefoucault]

A Chronological List of Works by me, whatthefoucault: the Everything Edition

So it turns out I’ve actually written a very good number of words.  Almost all of the superhero things I’ve written fall into the same timeline/continuity, which I like to call Earth-212, adjacent to a few canons and then sort of also has a life of its own. I wasn’t sure how best to organise this, but here’s an attempt at placing all of these works into a vague chronological order, though almost all of them can be read independently and the reading order doesn’t really matter. Largely stucky, with some other Cap Fam shenanigans, and also a lot of entries for frostmaster and other Revengers business, some Hawkeyes, and various others. Heed the tags in each fic, but bear in mind I’m here for softness, recovery, finding one’s place in the world, and that’s largely what I’m here to write about.  If this list of everything-in-chronological-order is overwhelming and you want to get more specific, here’s:

Cap Fam

Revengers

Miscellaneous

The Stargazer’s Field Guide To Constellations

By the time Bucky happened upon him, doubled over on the front steps of the library, Steve was already as green as a plate of creamed spinach.

And My Heart Beats So That I Can Hardly Speak

Steve doesn't dance, but this was a special occasion.

(A Few Inches Too Far) Underneath The Mistletoe

It was purely by chance that Steve happened upon a scruffy little sprig of discarded mistletoe on their way back from dinner with the Barnes family.

So Take It From Me, Captain America

"Ok, Captain America PSA number four, take one, and... action."

Sextown, U.S.A.

The message was vague on details, but the urgency in Wade’s voice told Steve it was serious, and that he should come alone.

“Help me, Steve Rogers,” he pleaded. “You’re my only hope.”

Steve had to admit that that got to him.

(It would be three months before Steve would see Star Wars for the first time. Needless to say, he was not amused when he did.)

... In which two supersoldiers form a very special bond across several time zones, many states, and more all-you-can-eat breakfast than anyone should ever eat in their life.

Advanced Seminar In Postmodern Cultural Analysis, Lesson Five

In which Steve Rogers and his very good friend Wade Wilson hang out.

The Sand And The Sea

Clint and Kate have not talked about that thing that happened.

Bring Your Silver Arrows

After that thing that happened with Kate, Clint's going through some stuff.

Continental Breakfast Not Included

Sam had definitely asked for separate beds, but they had been driving since before sunrise, and it was almost midnight.

This Is Going To Make For An Interesting Expenses Claim Form

The scene before him as he rushed to the bathroom door, one pant leg still flapping awkwardly underfoot, would have to anyone else been highly out of the ordinary, but they were superheroes, after all.

The Season For Plums

One day, a man went to the market to buy plums. 

Notes From A Dirty Attic

I don't know what I'm doing.

My name is Bucky. I come from Brooklyn. I died in the war.

Particle-Wave Duality

While Bucky is napping, Steve reads to him.

Blackout Nights And Tight Spaces

It was cold, then sleep, but it was different this time. He was dreaming.

Caprine Management

In which Steve meets Bucky's new friends.

Everyone’s A Winner

Little did the Grandmaster know, when he settled in by the pool, that his evening was about to become much more interesting.

The Art Of The Co-Operative Endgame

The Grandmaster surveyed the board as Loki prepared to make his move, and - oh, this was interesting, he thought - there was a very good chance indeed that Loki might actually win.

Moonshakes

"Hey Scrappy," said the Grandmaster, "what do you think of the new guy, uhh, Loki?"

Gamalost

In which the Grandmaster has found the right companion with whom to share one of his very favourite things.

or

When Loki falls out of the sky and into the Grandmaster’s lap, he gets everything he hopes for and more. The more comes in the form of cheese. A lot of cheese.

Two Seat Sofa, Hensta Light Brown

"So..." Steve hesitated to finish the question, "are we dating?"

(In which Steve and Bucky come home.)

I Guess That This Must Be The Place

He closed his eyes, and prayed his words would project over the distance, somehow:

Count down from a hundred, and then come and find me, my sunshine.

... in which the Grandmaster embarks on an intergalactic road trip in search of his love.

A Constellation Of Sunlight, Beneath The Cherry Tree

It was well into the night when they lay together, but it was not until the morning that they made love.

Rugbrød, Fløtemysost, og Molter

There were some things the Grandmaster needed to know about Loki, and it seemed, from the shift she felt in her bones as she awoke, that this was the morning to address them.

No Less Than Three Kinds of Cheese

The sun was out and the park was beautiful, but it was still too cold for a picnic.

Sugaring

Every morning, Steve sets out from the little cabin to tend to their maple trees. 

Solskinnsboller

The fact that no bakery in the entire staggering metropolis he currently called home had ever so much as heard of solskinnsboller was tragic, but Loki was nothing if not resourceful. He would just have to make them himself.

Butter, Sugar, Flour, Eggs

"What was my grandma's name?" asked Bucky, apropos of nothing.

Syzygy

It was cloudy enough that most people chose to forego the beach that Tuesday, but such things would not deter the Grandmaster and Loki from a day out.

American Globs

Objectively, he knew everything was fine. He knew they were fireworks, and that they were beautiful, and back in the day, he and Steve used to sit under the stars together and watch them light up the sky with wonder and delight.

But time had passed since then.

It’s Like Right Now

Nat and Sam visit a street food market.

Me And My Baby Gonna Touch That Leather

"I think we should fuck," said Bucky, as Steve began climbing back under the duvet.

Say The Magic Word

"Hey, if you're going past the kitchen, do you think you could get me another coffee?"

Two Brooklynites and One Big Apple

“You did good out there today,” Captain America said, brushing a layer of detritus from his unfathomably broad shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

“Not if I see you first,” replied Miles, fingergunning with one hand as he sent a web rope fwipping off into the distance with the other, catapulting himself away at tremendous speed.

… in which two superheroes battle with bad guys, embark on community art lessons, and a friendship forms along the way.

The Nemophilists

“Conspicuous,” said Steve, apropos of nothing. Bucky was putting away the last of the clean dishes.

“Conspicuous?” asked Bucky, nesting the heatproof glass bowl precariously in a short stack of significantly smaller cereal bowls.

“Yeah,” said Steve, scooping last of the leftovers into a container that, it turned out, was a tablespoon too small. “I’m.”

Nemophilist: (n.) One who is fond of the forest.

The Shape Of A Snake In A Defensive Coil

In which Loki's not very well, and the Grandmaster volunteers a solution.

Long Hair Problems, And How To Outsmart Them

“So I guess we’re not getting up early to line up for brunch?”

The End Of A Century

This is the story of a sister and her brother.

As the shadow of the war fades and gives way to new conflicts, Becca Barnes battles the constraints of the twentieth century: an education, a marriage, a career, with the ghosts of her youth never far from her memory. As the twenty-first century barrels on through its awkward teenage phase, Bucky Barnes builds a new life, with new friends, and a burgeoning relationship with his lifelong companion Steve, the erstwhile Captain America, as they struggle to find their place in the world. The last time Becca saw her brother was on the eve of war; neither of them expected, some seventy-something years, a hip replacement, and one new arm later, to be reunited.

This is a story about family.

And Our Dreams Are Making Us Nice Stories

Steve had been adamant that a party was unnecessary; however, his friends had insisted, bundling into his little Brooklyn apartment with pizzas and a selection of local microbrews and seven-layer taco dip and two dozen supermarket cupcakes emblazoned with the most neon buttercream he had ever seen piped into the stripes of little American flags.

A Ghost That The Others Can’t See

"What'd you tell her about me?"

"Only the good stuff."

From the Mighty Forest of Vacherin to the Belegen Fields

When it came to special events, the Grandmaster did not do understated.

The Littlest Balsam In Brooklyn

In which Bucky and Steve get a tree.

When Life Gives You Limoncello

In which Bucky has baked a pie. 

Blessings

At last, the shape of life after everything had begun to come into focus. Bucky and Steve consider the next steps, and some friends come to visit.

Kinugoshi

When the Grandmaster had suggested somewhere special for lunch, Loki was not expecting a small, four-table restaurant in an unremarkable suburb of Kyoto, but there they were.

Stargazing

"You know what? Let's get out of the city," Steve suggested after dinner.

(In which Steve has a very quiet birthday.)

The Mighty Hrothgar

"Uhh, I dunno about this place, stardust," the Grandmaster said to Loki, his tone hushed. "I've introduced myself to, like, five dogs, and none of them have said a word. Why don't they like me?"

The Fundamentals of Sciurine Linguistics

Sam Wilson was sure about three things: the words Captain America were enough to nab a table for two at the most popular noodle bar in the East Village on short notice, everyone loved a good noodle bar, and ramen was up there with corn on the cob and chicken wings as the worst possible food choice for a first date.

Eight Evenings In The Kitchen

The Barnes-Rogers Hanukkristmas season was always going to be one spent almost exclusively in the kitchen.

Light Showers And A Gentle Breeze

They had been under no illusions that there would be a guarantee of snow, but nothing could have quite prepared them for the abundant, relentless sprinkle of rain.

In which Bucky and Steve go somewhere quiet for Christmas.

Nine And Three-Quarters

"I don't get it, stardust," puzzled the Grandmaster. "It was supposed to be right here. Between Platforms 9 and 10."

Strollin’

"Hot dogs?" asked Steve.

"Hot dogs," agreed Bucky.

The Greatest Thing

In which the Grandmaster plays an early afternoon slot at his very first Midgardian jazz festival.

On A Quiet Morning In The Last Forest In Brooklyn

“We said we wanted to keep the guest list short,” protested Steve. “Just close family, and close friends. Nothing expensive, nothing... tacky.”

“As if you’re one to complain about tacky,” countered Tony. “I got my invitation by group text. Who does that?”

...in which Bucky and Steve get married.

The Witches Of Føroyar

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, nestled in a little cottage just beyond the rocky shores of a tiny, windswept island, lived two very special people indeed. The green witch drew his power from the moon and the stars and the deep, dark night sky; while the gold witch shone with the power of the sun, dazzling and bright. They loved the island and the mountains and the stormy sea, but most of all, they loved each other very much.