#insanest ship of all time i love it

[kermit-coded]

ain't no one doing it like grif and simmons. they love each other. they hate each other. they're best friends. simmons would kill grif for a corn chip. grif literally has some of simons's organs. they've canonically fucked in a storage closet while under the influence of alien sex pollen. they don't talk about it. their slow-burn is old enough to vote. grif can tell the difference between real simmons and clone simmons based on a years old in-joke. they're word of god canon. they're acknowledged by the narrative but only as a joke. grif's va said they would have a baby together as soon as science made it possible. they're not canon are you crazy??? they're canon and always have been.

[narvin]

for oc asks - 7, 22, 25, 27? any oc or all of them whatever u want :)

gotta go for sol bc they're the insanest <33

7. Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

i'd sayyy inquisitive, passionate, and willful. 5 would say quiet, utilitarian, and dogged. 6 would not be able to answer for a long time bc they have no understanding of their identity anymore <3

22. Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to?

i think they are just not a person that others look at and think of pet names. ferren has known them too long to bother and cassie isn't secure enough to try. they don't use pet names except that they call their tardis "ship" and "old girl" and "love" if no one's listening

25. Safety or possibility?

possibility for all, early lives because they've only ever known safety and later lives because they feel constantly unsafe regardless

27. Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)?

they are very much a vengeance type. they don't even try very hard to pretend otherwise. if they were put in dalek they would not stop torturing it i can tell you that much. they'd kill that thing with a hammer

[cuntstable]

i'd love to hear any of those ask game options that you feel like answering re: cr*tical r*le and/or da

TY!!!… also whoah….. cringe role…. thats a name i havent heard in a long time….. ill start with da though and keep it short because good lird the floodgates opened….

CULLEN… like he is extremly unlikable in dao (even outright creepy and disgusting) but like in da2 and inquisition hes really nothing to me. a shitty templar that goes through an unconvincing character redemption. whatever. but like the fans make soooo many excuses for him and for what…… can a white boy who let human rights violations happen under his watch still get woobified and called a golden retriever boyfriend? 🥺

the hill i will die on forever is that dragon age has some of the insanest craziest best video game yuri out there. like not a lot of it but whats there is god tier….. ISABELA AND MERRIL…… MORRIGAN AND LELIANA…… SIGRUN AND VELLANA….. even sera and dagna are cute. always more content for the yuri warriors please god. its lacking

anyway getting the non controversial da takes out or the way. i will never forgive cr for the beaujes war. ever!!! not the show itself. not the jester x fjord warriors and NEVER the caleb x jester. fans. that constantly tried to paint beaujes fans as toxic and over overbearing for…. celebrating a popular f/f ship. like i think beaujes was genuinely the nail in the coffin for being invested in shipping for me like NEVER AGAIN…….

anyways the build up and characterization for it was so good and interesting i stand by this, but the way they kneecapped it out of nowhere… for the most boring alternatives they did nothing with too…….. and the excuse of ”it was just lust”…. like not even giving it a proper send off…… yuri warriors lost that day genuinely. and the fans just rolling with it and the way the rest of the show went equally downhill from there…. its all just incredibly cursed but i guess i can thank cr for making me far more skeptical a jaded towards shows and fandoms LOL. never again will i buy into the hype for stories and character arcs that will not be delivered </3

[manwalksintobar]

First Elegy: Rotten Lake // Muriel Rukeyser

As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered the wrecked season, haunted by plans of salvage, snow, the closed door, footsteps and resurrections, machinery of sorrow.

The warm grass gave to the feet and the stilltide water was floor of evening and magnetic light and reflection of wish, the black-haired beast with my eyes walking beside me.

The green and yellow lights, the street of water standing point to the image of that house whose destruction I weep when I weep you. My door (no), poems, rest, (don’t say it!) untamable need.

*

When you have left the river you are a little way nearer the lake; but I leave many times. Parents parried my past;the present was poverty, the future depended on my unfinished spirit. There were no misgivings because there was no choice, only regret for waste, and the wild knowledge: growth and sorrow and discovery.

When you have left the river you proceed alone; all love is likely to be illicit; and few friends to command the soul;they are too feeble. Rejecting the subtle and contemplative minds as being too thin in the bone;and the gross thighs and unevocative hands fail also. But the poet and his wife, those who say Survive, remain; and those two who were with me on the ship leading me to the sum of the years, in Spain.

When you have left the river you will hear the war. In the mountains, with tourists, in the insanest groves the sound of kill, the precious face of peace. And the sad frightened child, continual minor, returns, nearer whole circle, O and nearer all that was loved, the lake, the naked river, what must be crossed and cut out of your heart, what must be stood beside and straightly seen.

*

As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered how the one crime is need. The man lifting the loaf with hunger as motive can offer no alibi, is always condemned.

These are the lines at the employment bureau and the tense students at their examinations; needing makes clumsy and robs them of their wish, in one fast gesture

plants on them failure of the imagination; and lovers who lower their bodies into the chair gently and sternly as if the flesh had been wounded, never can conquer.

Their need is too great, their vulnerable bodies rigidly joined will snap, turn love away, fear parts them, they lose their hands and voices, never get used to the world.

Walking at night, they are asked Are you your best friend’s best friend? and must say No, not yet, they are love’s vulnerable, and they go down to Rotten Lake hoping for wonders.

Dare it arrive, the day when weakness ends? When the insistence is strong, the wish converted? I prophesy the meeting by the water of these desires.

I know what this is, I have known the waking when every night ended in one cliff-dream of faces drowned beneath the porous rock brushed by the sea;

suffered the change : deprived erotic dreams to images of that small house where peace walked room to room and always with one face telling her stories,

and needed that, past loss, past fever, and the attractive enemy who in my bed touches all night the body of my sleep, improves my summer

with madness, impossible loss, and the dead music of altered promise, a room torn up by the roots, the desert that crosses from the door to the wall, continual bleeding,

and all the time that will which cancels enmity, seeks its own Easter, arrives at the water-barrier; must face it now, biting the lakeside ground; looks for its double,

the twin that must be met again, changeling need, blazing in color somewhere, flying yellow into the forest with its lucid edict: take to the world,

this is the honor of your flesh, the offering of strangers, the faces of cities, honor of all your wish. I say in my own voice. These prophecies may all come true,

out of the beaten season. I look in Rotten Lake wait for the flame reflection, seeing only the free beast flickering black along my side animal of my need,

and cry I want! I want! rising among the world to gain my converted wish, the amazing desire that keeps me alive, though the face be still, be still, the slow dilated heart know nothing but lack, now I begin again the private rising, the ride to survival of that consuming bird beating, up from dead lakes, ascents of fire.

(from A Turning Wind, 1939)

[thelonguepuree]

First Elegy: Rotten Lake

As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered the wrecked season, haunted by plans of salvage, snow, the closed door, footsteps and resurrections,           machinery of sorrow. The warm grass gave to the feet and the stilltide water was floor of evening and magnetic light and reflection of wish, the black-haired beast with my eyes           walking beside me. The green and yellow lights, the street of water standing point to the image of that house whose destruction I weep when I weep you. My door (no), poems, rest,           (don’t say it!) untamable need. * When you have left the river you are a little way nearer the lake;    but I leave many times. Parents parried my past;    the present was poverty, the future depended on my unfinished spirit. There were no misgivings because there was no choice, only regret for waste, and the wild knowledge: growth and sorrow and discovery. When you have left the river you proceed alone; all love is likely to be illicit;    and few friends to command the soul;    they are too feeble. Rejecting the subtle and contemplative minds as being too thin in the bone;    and the gross thighs and unevocative hands fail also.    But the poet and his wife, those who say Survive, remain; and those two who were with me on the ship leading me to the sum of the years, in Spain. When you have left the river you will hear the war. In the mountains, with tourists, in the insanest groves the sound of kill, the precious face of peace. And the sad frightened child, continual minor, returns, nearer whole circle, O and nearer all that was loved, the lake, the naked river, what must be crossed and cut out of your heart, what must be stood beside and straightly seen. * As I went down to Rotten Lake I remembered how the one crime is need.    The man lifting the loaf with hunger as motive can offer no alibi, is           always condemned. These are the lines at the employment bureau and the tense students at their examinations; needing makes clumsy and robs them of their wish,           in one fast gesture plants on them failure of the imagination; and lovers who lower their bodies into the chair gently and sternly as if the flesh had been wounded,           never can conquer. Their need is too great, their vulnerable bodies rigidly joined will snap, turn love away, fear parts them, they lose their hands and voices, never           get used to the world. Walking at night, they are asked Are you your best friend’s best friend? and must say No, not yet, they are love’s vulnerable, and they go down to Rotten Lake           hoping for wonders. Dare it arrive, the day when weakness ends? When the insistence is strong, the wish converted? I prophesy the meeting by the water           of these desires. I know what this is, I have known the waking when every night ended in one cliff-dream of faces drowned beneath the porous rock           brushed by the sea; suffered the change : deprived erotic dreams to images of that small house where peace walked room to room and always with one face           telling her stories, and needed that, past loss, past fever, and the attractive enemy who in my bed touches all night the body of my sleep,           improves my summer with madness, impossible loss, and the dead music of altered promise, a room torn up by the roots, the desert that crosses from the door to the wall,           continual bleeding, and all the time that will which cancels enmity, seeks its own Easter, arrives at the water-barrier; must face it now, biting the lakeside ground;           looks for its double, the twin that must be met again, changeling need, blazing in color somewhere, flying yellow into the forest with its lucid edict:           take to the world, this is the honor of your flesh, the offering of strangers, the faces of cities, honor of all your wish. I say in my own voice. These prophecies           may all come true, out of the beaten season. I look in Rotten Lake wait for the flame reflection, seeing only the free beast flickering black along my side           animal of my need, and cry I want!    I want!    rising among the world to gain my converted wish, the amazing desire that keeps me alive, though the face be still, be still, the slow dilated heart know nothing but lack, now I begin again the private rising, the ride to survival of that consuming bird beating, up from dead lakes, ascents of fire. — Muriel Rukeyser, from A Turning Wind (1939)