#is aoc wrong

[luna-loveboop]

There is sooo much fun contrast between Breath of the Wild and Age of Calamity Link, and the one I can't stop laughing at is SHIELD SURFING it is ridiculous!

Like here's Shield surfing in Botw-

It's pretty, and if it's rainy I can slide even more. I do it for fun off a nearby hill if I have a shield to spare. I press Y or X to do a fancy kick or spin, and I can attack some monsters with it passing by. The greatest danger with shield surfing is Link hitting a rock, his shield breaking, and him dying or using a fairy/Mipha's grace. More likely he eats some a lot of apples. Outside of Link potentionally breaking a leg tho, it's fun! I once caught a horse in botw by shield surfing, I spun and accidentally flip-flopped onto her, named her Flip-flop in remembrance. If I do some kicks and jumps while shield surfing Link will even laugh and make happy sounds, which shows he's enjoying it. Fun happy times in botw while shield surfing :)

Then there's Shield surfing in Aoc-

Link screams HYAH! or some other raging and loud battle cry, as he hops on his shield and speeds, not towards, not around, but straight into whatever monsters stand in his way. The agonised cries of dying monsters fill the air as Link turns into a tunnel of pure deadly force. Is he going uphill? downhill? Doesn't matter, he's going, gravity has no hold on him. The worst case scenario you ask? Link shield surfs straight into a bomb barrel. Takes everything out quicker, and he loses half a heart from it. I finished an entire mission using only Link's shield surfing the other day. The game reminded me how to dodge bc it thought I forgot the other controls. I didn't need to dodge, just surf. Aoc Link doesn't go shield surfing for fun, he is on a mission and he becomes a whirling funnel of death.

And I mean all that literally by the way-

Botw Link: Shield surfs for fun and freedom while trying to survive! :D

Aoc Link: Shield surfs to KILL and destroy, he is out for blood

tbc I love Aoc Link he's a sweetheart just a very deadly one

And hey, looking at how the ability controls are explained in the game-

Botw- "Hop on your shield and slide down hills."

Aoc- "Link: One-Handed Weapons / Press X while running to shield surf."

So- in Botw it IS for fun- 'hop on'- whereas in Aoc shield surfing is an attack. hmm

..It makes sense I guess. Aoc Link killed the enemy, and Botw was the one who was killed- but it seems in the end Wild's the one who gets to live.

YEAH so anyways I actually cannot at the moment shield surf in Aoc without laughing bc he is so. so very violent.

I mean look! Look at the difference of scenes left behind after Link goes shield surfing (Botw, then Aoc)

An everybody-lives story is really a everybody-dies story for the enemy huh

[riddlemearose]

Fixed my technical issue lol.

Twin Stranger officially has escaped ficlet containment and is working its way towards being a multi-chapter fic. You can read it on AO3 here.

Twin Stranger Summary: Link doesn't know what to make of Wild. None of the Champions do, but Link is confident that he's struggling the most. Because as odd as it is to see little Sidon now tower over Urbosa, nothing can compare to the weirdness Link feels when he looks at Wild; the stranger who looks like him but wrong. A.K.A. Mid-quest, Wild ends up in Age of Calamity. No one is happy about this.

Chapters: 1/3 (Firstcomer)

Relationships:

Champion & Wild

General Tags:

Age of Calamity Timeline

Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Miscommunication & Lack of Communication

Temporary Character Death

Bittersweet Ending

I'm still a bit uncertain about posting if I'm being completely frank, but I'm going to anyway as a thank you to those who reached out yesterday. Your kind words and your support means a lot to me <3

[nightcord-at-25]

really is something that the establishment of the democratic party sees a massive rally held by two of the most prominent progressive politicians in the country and continues to refuse to appeal to left-leaning voters. the us has two right-wing parties etc etc

[uncleskyrule]

i'm trying to double check my translation of my fanfic and Papago translator has decided to write its own plot 😂😂

This is a Pre-Calamity BotW enemies-to-lovers ballroom dancing oneshot!! The LoZ postman is nowhere in this fic!!! Where did he come from!!! Where would he even go!!! What possessed you to write this, Papago!!

[lunatih]

Best dad Ronan, sweet sweet Briella and good boy Buddy from the lovely The Curious Minds by @allthegoodusernamesaretakenagain.

Read the story and fall in love with a bunch of characters just like me!

[veggiecorner]

What are your thoughts on Age of Calamity Zelink!!?? I like that version a lot because champions are alive, and there's the longing and the added pressure on Link and his future if he decides to court Zelda

I'm gonna be honest I dont really think about it much. It's mostly cause 1) i haven't played Age of Calamity and 2) I just feel like...idk no matter how Nintendo sugar coats it Zelda and Link were NOTTT happy in that timeline. Yes they won, yes people are alive but idk!! Also I feel like AoC went against what BOTW established in terms of Zelda and Link's growth together so it was hard for me to really...get attached.

But AoC aside I used to think about a "what if they won, they're a little damaged but they won" scenario but it went EXACTLY how BOTW played out, instead of AoC's cutscenes. Then to me it has a good sense of longing. Zelda would have different motivations and ways to heal v.s. post-calamity Zelda. Hyrule Castle is messy but its still...there and so are many of the people. I feel that this version of Zelda would feel more motivated to rebuild the kingdom and take over her status of Queen (while post-calamity Zelda was like "nah actually. i'm not gonna re-establish a monarchy"). And Link...would still have that same closed off personality. Yeah he'd be more open to Zelda but he's still dealing with that anxiety of that social status given to him. Additionally he's unsure what he is now. He put away the master sword and now what?? who is he? Why doesn't he feel free from this burden? They won, right?

Overall I think theres definitely a different dynamic in their relationship, one that doesn't exist in post-calamity. Do they pursue it? Well its going to take a lot of time, and tbh more growth on Link's side.

Sorry for the long rant kJSBDAKSBJD I think i just lost the plot

[alohamarsblog]

POLL: AOC SURGES TO ‘NEW FACE OF THE DEM PARTY’ | The Kyle Kulinski Show

[darkdragon768]

Where is this darn post that's like "do you ever return to a fandom and notice 'damn I am fucking crazy for it'"? I'm feeling it more than ever.

[queervegancryptid]

Part of what Cory Booker is doing with this filibuster is reading things into the record. Sometimes when people do a filibuster, they just say shit. I think one time Ted Cruz read "Green Eggs and Ham" into the record. Another dude sang the Mets theme song or whatever the shit.

If you actually have substantial things to say, you don't have to do that. I mean, not for nothing, but what we're watching here is a man doing the job he was elected to do. Our public officials work for us, the people. It's nice to see some of them take that obligation seriously.

Booker is standing there with a binder that he's not even halfway through reading. *Over 42k people are watching it just on YouTube. I haven't watched the news yet today, but I've got the live feed of this open on my computer.

I hope he has a catheter and/or a diaper on. He said he'd continue as long as he's physically able. Probably he's been on a liquid diet for a day or so. I would plan ahead for this.

If Republicans are going to refuse to do the work, if they're going to refuse to take up serious business and would like instead to fuck shit up... Well, we've got a choice to make, don't we? I don't know what the long-term solution looks like. But we can and should talk about it. We can and should take steps to make sure the public record reflects reality to the extent possible.

Really, if we want to come back from this, we have to talk about it. And we know that the official records during this time especially will be, shall we say, less than reliable. So there is value in speaking the truth into the public record.

I'm not in love with the Democratic party as an institution. But this can also be energizing and inspiring for people. He's setting an example, and hopefully his example will shame others into growing a backbone. Hopefully.

I really don't have any hope for Schumer. But Booker, along with folks like Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, AOC, and Jasmine Crockett, are doing what they can do, and I respect it.

This is definitely a coordinated thing, though. Finally, Dems are showing that they have some strategic ability. Booker is the main speaker, but other Dems are asking questions, while allowing him to retain the floor. In this way, it's clear that they're working together, and several people in the room have jobs to do in support of Booker's efforts. They're expanding on his points and doing a call-and-response thing, which is an effective tactic in more ways than one, and it allows him to rest his voice for a few moments at a time.

So I'm not becoming a cheerleader for anybody yet. But what he's doing is important, even if it doesn't change anything directly.

Miss me with bipartisanship talk though. I really can't see that as a viable option at this point. Unless something radical changes, I wouldn't trust that at all. So anytime somebody like Schumer talks about Republicans coming to the table, I can't be bothered to listen. They have repeatedly shown us that they have no intention of doing that and that they further do not care about right and wrong at all. Or if they do, they think their actions are right, and I'm not sure which is worse, but in both cases, I would not call them trustworthy. Their priority is being in lockstep with Trump and the prescribed agenda of the party, not the American people.

At least Booker is trying to do something. Shit.

* When I started typing this, the number of viewers was just over 42k. Now it's over 45k and climbing.

[catboybiologist]

Yay I'm going to get all Political and angry again.

So pretty much every trans American is probably aware of the Sarah McBride situation at this point, but here's the bullet point summary if needed for anyone else:

Sarah McBride gets elected to the House as the first transgender member of Congress in US history.

Republicans predictably flip their shit. They pass internal rules of conduct that prohibit trans people from using bathrooms of their gender and stating that bathroom use is defined by AGAB. It obviously singles out McBride, but I believe there are trans staffers that are also affected.

McBride issues a statement that she will abide by these rules, and pretty much only use the bathroom directly associated with her physical office. She issues a statement saying she "wasn't elected for bathrooms" and will instead fight in issues that matter, with a milquetoast criticism of Republicans for wasting time on this.

Many trans Americans are predictably scared and disappointed by this, especially because this internal house rule is being used as a blueprint for more extensive laws, including a likely ban on trans people in gendered bathrooms in all federal land and buildings (including, notably for me, national parks. Which breaks my heart, but that's a different rant.)

There's been a lot of disappointment and criticism of McBride over this. The general leftist reaction has been criticism. There's lots of people that have expressed disappointment or rage, including Erin Reed, and also more "personality" type people like Vaush and Jessie Gender.

Now.

I'm disappointed too.

But. And please keep reading before chewing me out for being an apologist.

I think we can all understand that McBride is in an impossible situation. If she fights this too hard, then it vindicates the Republican rhetoric that Dems are crazy trans obsessed leftists. But there's a fear that this will only lead to more infringements of rights for trans people. McBride is completely stuck, and is a junior, freshly elected member of Congress who is trying to figure out how to make her voice the most effective.

I am so, so fucking tired of rights being ceded one by one. So I'm disappointed. But yeah, I understand McBride's statement.

But there's just one tiny. Eeny weeny. Minor. Itty Bitty question having over all of this. Just one little concern.

Where.

The fuck.

Are the rest of the Democrats?!?!?!?

There is a PAINFULLY fucking easy solution to all of this. McBride needs backing, solidarity, and other people to speak for her. If she's worried about her voice being effective, and being branded as the crazy trans representative, then step the fucking up, you spineless liberal slimebags.

AOC is the only one that I know of that has expressed any real opposition or anger. Her statements are getting aaallll the airtime.

But the real story is McBride's sentiment being echoed amongst the entire party. This is absolutely some kind of official platform. The fucking grumbling, milquetoast finger waving and "well I don't like this, but there's nothing to be done! Anyways"

Of fucking course minorites are abandoning the left. The message they're sending is "we'll abandon you with the most pathetic of excuses. We don't give a shit." Trimming groups out of their support one by one.

McBride is doing the impossible calculus of trying to be the most effective on the house floor. It's an insane task for a trans woman. And yeah, she got it wrong this time. But where the fuck is the anger for her cis colleagues? Why the fuck aren't people angry and terrified for everyone that let this shit happen?

As much as people love the narrative of the line wolf resistor, resistance takes coordination, effort, and solidarity. Without that, what would McBride raising opposition even be? One representative against the hundreds of others.

And yeah, of course I didn't expect any better from the Democratic party. But you should be disappointed and mad at your representative, not just McBride.

[wilwheaton]

Democrats need to discover their own power, and it resides mainly in communicating this: Greedy billionaires and christofascists make everyone's lives miserable and we should all hate them. That's it. That's the simple, populist message that probably represents our only hope of getting out of this mess. AOC can deliver that message. But I've never once heard that kind of populism come from Nancy Pelosi or anyone else in Democratic leadership. They are unable to speak it. So Pelosi needs to explain herself. I mean that literally. Now is the time for her and Schumer and Biden and Jeffries to explain to us the plan to stop fascism. How exactly is it going to work? Who will implement it? What will be the role of legislators, and what role for the activist base? More importantly, is there even a plan? If AOC is the wrong choice to communicate a successful Democratic message via the Oversight Committee, then Pelosi needs to tell us why, and also tell us how someone else is going to do the job better.

Pelosi needs to explain herself

[awildwestblog]

Jesus Is King And Trump Is Your President.

It’s storming over much of the country today—gloomy skies and dreary weather mirroring the spiritual fog hanging over this nation.

While thunder rolls and rain falls, it’s as if creation itself mourns the heart state of a country drowning in rebellion. Today’s No Kings protest is the epitome of democratic hypocrisy��a parade of performative outrage by the same crowd that cheered when their own party trampled the Constitution, weaponized government agencies, and silenced dissent.

They cry about tyranny while propping up figureheads like Biden, Obama, or AOC as if they were divine monarchs.

They decry Trump’s military display yet stayed silent while their leaders funded endless foreign wars, illegal lockdowns and mandates, and surveillance on American citizens.

And let’s not forget—we actually celebrate “No Kings” every year on the Fourth of July, when America declared independence from tyrants.

Trump loving this country and being elected by the people—both in the Electoral College and popular vote—doesn’t make him a dictator. It makes him a legally elected patriot.

But perhaps the most blasphemous act is hearing these same voices twist Scripture—using God’s Word to promote an ideology that champions abortion, sexual immorality, censorship, and lawlessness.

It’s not justice they march for—it’s power disguised in piety.

Quoting Jesus while rejecting His Lordship isn’t activism, it’s heresy.

The real headline today is the 250th anniversary of our great military—a legacy of courage, honor, and sacrifice.

While the ungrateful shout nonsense in the streets, we honor the brave men and women who’ve laid down their lives so those same protesters could enjoy the freedom to be loud and wrong.

Thank you to our military—past and present—for your service. And a special thank you to President Trump for never backing down in the face of madness. Happy 79th birthday, Mr. President—while they protest, you keep marching.

God sees the mockery, and trust me, heaven isn’t amused.

[portraitofalinkonfyre]

A Knight To Remember

Pairing: Calamity (AoC Link) x Reader

Warning(s): many unnecessary descriptions of kissing and a lethal dose of longing <33

Notes: Part one of my gift to the amazing @yourlocaltreesimp, who gave me this wonderful idea and the courage to complete it <33

Masterlist | Next Chapter

The Hyrule Castle Town Barracks was a strange and wonderful place held together with oak, iron, and dreams. 

The dusty floorboards creaked as you swept down the lantern-lit hallway, fingers digging into the shining dips of your helmet as it rested under the curve of your arm, one metal edge planting against the tan fabric padding your left hip. Sweat dripped down the column of your throat—a cooling remnant of Commander Impa’s training—and every muscle in your body felt as though it had been run over by several large horses. It was a feat unto itself to smile at the passing knights—teeth gleaming in the ebbing light as you hastened your march to salvation: your bunk. 

At long last, the hallway curved into a new set of rooms, and you practically burst into the second door on the left, scabbard smacking against the abused frame with a dull thud. Two small beds rested within. They were well-made and well-slept; one abandoned, and one lived. But none of that mattered as the heavy shield was unclinched for your back by fingers, quicker than a lizalfos, and pushed to rest against the bed’s foot, followed by the many disconcernable layers that made up your knight’s garb. Undressing was a common ritual, illuminated by the horizon-dipped sun and its tangerine-gold rays, and you were well used to the nigh-surgical shedding of weight, followed by a swift collapse into the nearest surface, if you were lucky. 

Tonight, however, you were not, seeing as your nose had scarcely brushed the padded down of your pillow before a harsh knock erupted against the door. Standing to attention was an even greater demonstration of your misfortune, the metal knob digging against your stiff palm as you swung the door open to see who had dared disturb—

Your eye twitched at the figure standing in the hallway. 

He was a man, that was for sure; blonde, blue-eyed, but not bright enough to be a mere recruit. A thick sack hung off one rounded shoulder, the heavy cord handle digging into the thin material of his plain white tunic. 

Beside him stood the softly-imposing form of Commander Impa. 

He’s your problem now, her hawk brown eyes said. 

There was something wrong with the man in your room. 

Not outwardly, of course, because there was nothing suspicious about someone who looked like nearly half the population of Hyrule, but you considered yourself adept at this sort of thing and were thus determined to get to the bottom of… whatever self-preservation sense was leading your thoughts down enough of a rabbit hole that made it curiously impossible to sleep in a room with someone who didn’t even snore. 

Link—yes, his name was Link; like a chain, or something synonymous to his seemingly unbreakable persona—was a curious man, even without your senses to defend you. He awoke at the asscrack of dawn for drills, vacated the room to change without a squeak, and always knocked twice before entering. When he wasn’t silent, he was quietly polite, always murmuring “please” and “thank you” in a voice surprisingly bereft of the tone you’d come to associate with being metaphorically held at knife point. 

In a community where people frequently joked about their latest lays or the best places to catch a few puffs of Hylia’s Green, he was as much of a blessing as he was a curse. Innocence was perfectly respectable until you found yourself listening to fellow knight’s attempts to ‘educate’ the poor boy after drills, or in the mess hall, or, well, wherever other men talked about things that made you want to scream and pull your hair out. 

So why were you lying awake in the middle of the night instead of the aforementioned screaming and hair pulling?

A huff of breath. Across the room, the covered lump of Link shifted a few deafening inches. You stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of how little you knew of him. No one did. Was that a problem? Did you want to make it one?

Your gaze flicked over, scanning deftly over the tangled blonde lump sticking from the edge of the thin blankets. Further down, the peek of curled toes could be seen in the pale moonlight. You looked away; it just wasn’t proper. 

Two more eternities passed in the lazy blink of an eye, carrying through the current of time like shining fishes, glimmering against lapping waves. A strange sort of darkness sat behind your eyelids, melding with the already profound midnight of the room. Your fingers clenched into the threadbare mattress, trying to drag even the smallest semblance of sanity back into the soundless room. 

More shuffling. More glances shot at the ceiling. You wondered how many hours stood between you and the saving kiss of dawn. It couldn’t be more than two, perhaps four, or maybe it was six and your mind was playing another trick on you. 

You resisted the urge to look over again. Three weeks had flown by since Link materialized in the Barracks; twenty-one days since a sword graced those hands, and twenty since you were watching your long-time comrades fall on their asses before this man of mystery that you’d yet to say a full sentence to. 

An annoyed huff escaped your mouth, lips smacking a few times in an attempt to alleviate the dryness clinging to the front of your tongue, the back of your tongue, and the ribbed curve of your throat. More slivers of moonlight peeked into the room, illuminating the far wall in a ghostly glow. When it dipped, you found your eyes wandering to Link’s cocoon, scanning across each individual rumple with a concentration that scared even you. 

The covers shifted, revealing another sordid peek of blonde hair. 

You were dreadfully thirsty. 

Your right arm flailed out, snagging hold of the conveniently-placed water jug on the closest nightstand, then one of the small wooden cups beside it. Your arm ached as you tilted the jug, wincing at the sound of water flowing from the jug’s gaping mouth. When the cup was satisfactorily filled, you returned the jug to its place, sitting up against the headboard to take the first heavenly sip. 

Unsurprisingly, it only helped alleviate the dryness of your throat, as if the raging inferno in your belly was a figment of the kind of imagination one would only have in the deepest, darkest corners of the night. Your line of sight shifted, taking in the curve—

Splosh!

You nearly screeched when the arm holding the cup inadvertently tilted, spilling a hearty gush against the exposed skin of your neck and chest. It was cold and tacky enough to hurt, shivers streaking down your spine as you pawed at the neckline of your sleep tunic, fingers passing over soaked fabric with a resignation that bordered on desperation. A tremor wracked your heart as you downed the rest of the cup, placing it on the nightstand with a resounding thunk, cringing as waterlogged cotton shifted against goosebumped-flesh. 

A forlorn sigh whistled from your pursed lips. You looked over. You froze. 

Link’s bluebell eyes gleamed in the dark of the night; bright enough to burn, bright enough to sear, fixed on the damp patch atop your chest. The shape of his face peeked from the padded confines of his army-issued blanket. 

You stared back; mouth open, heart stuttering. Until there was a squeak, and red splotches bloomed bright on the man’s cheeks. He scrambled to turn over before you could utter a word. 

In the morning, you awoke to an empty room and a full water jug. 

He ate rocks. 

Link, the man in your room, ate rocks. 

Naturally, you were appalled. Logically, you wondered if there was any physician who could save him now. Metaphorically, you wanted to approach him. 

“Hi.”

It would appear that the physical part of you was in cahoots with the metaphorical. How dastardly. 

Link glanced over from his spot against the tree, hair gleaming golden in the dappled leaf-light. He rose, as was proper, but you couldn’t be bothered with propriety after witnessing him pop a pebble into his mouth like it was a spot of candy. He nodded to you, silent as always, but you were not to be deterred. 

You extended a hand; palm up, partly gloved. “Spit it out.”

Link opened his mouth directly over your palm. There was a pop, and something landed squarely against your flesh. Something small. Something wet. 

A blink. You took a moment to wonder why the abject mortification on his face made laughter bubble at the edges of your pursed lips. You took a moment to wonder why you hadn’t yelled at him for practically spitting into your hand. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Link in what had to be the smallest voice you’d heard from a grown man. 

You closed your palm; rock, saliva, and all. This was fine. Everything was fine. He was too bright-eyed to be diseased. You hoped. 

“There’s a mess hall for a reason,” you muttered before walking away. 

If there was anything admirable about the man in your room, it was that his stoic awkwardness bordered far too often on mildly endearing. Mealtimes were an especially astute indicator of character, and today was no different. 

The mess hall was a cacophony of jests and cheers so loud that not even the loneliest corners of the building could be pierced by silence. Warm sunlight streamed in from the large windows, bathing the tables—and food—below in a bright, unfiltered glow. Your back pain—a dastardly reminder of the day’s training—jolted to life as you adjusted your position atop the bench, wincing when the rough wood scratched into the material of your pants. Beside you, Sir Killian belted out a laugh so raucous that you swore the meat of your cuckoo leg nearly fell off from the sound alone. 

“—And then I told to sit his mangy ass down or face the wrath—”

“—of your spit!” another knight, Sir Leon, joined the conversation with a hearty guffaw. Secretly, you agreed with him. Publicly, you booed and cackled as the poor table shook under the combined force of countless overactive Hylians. 

Beside you, the bench creaked as another weight settled atop it. You glanced over and nearly choked on your drink. 

It was Link. Link, with a plate of cuckoo and carrots and regret. Link, with an expression that made him look like he desperately wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else. 

As if by instinct—or some twisted battle sense only seen in awkward dining situations—the table quieted as the other knights surveyed their new prey. Until Sir Killian chuckled, then reached over—low enough that his armpit nearly grazed his plate—to give the smaller man a hearty pat that nearly sent his face careening into the carrots. “‘Ey, Link! Glad to see you’ve escaped this one here.”

You snorted in faux offence at the blatant dig. “Jealous much?”

“Of your snoring?” 

The table shook once more as the knights erupted in belly-clutching laughter. You rolled your eyes with a huff that bordered on fond, tearing into your cuckoo leg with surprising gusto—

“(Y/n) doesn’t snore.”

—until Link opened his mouth for something that wasn’t consuming rocks and ruined your appetite yet again. It was a gift, truly. 

Sir Killian’s eyes lit up like Christmas had come early and the King of Hyrule himself had announced a holiday solely for the consumption of mead. “And where’re you getting that from, my boy?”

Unsurprisingly, you proceeded to choke on your food again, trying and failing not to glance at Link’s rapidly paleing face. He was already pretty white, but now he looked downright ghostly and you were half considering flagging down a medic in an attempt to resuscitate the already drowning situation. 

That being said; how did he know?

You knew—obviously—because you were you, but Link… well, you were just about to decide some adjective or another when Sir Killian decided to be kind enough to answer for you. “Better watch out for this one, (Y/n), or he’ll be telling you how many spiders you eat a night in no time!”

What a gift, the little sarcastic voice within your mind mumbled as you took another bite of cuckoo, eyebrow raised in faux indifference. Naturally, Link was silent, though you suspected it was in a vain attempt to keep the situation from spiralling any further than it already had, though you suspected the point was rather moot when he practically admitted to watching you sleep. Was that concerning? Should you be concerned?

The little sarcastic voice within your mind refused to mumble a syllable. 

“I don’t know about me, but you could definitely use some extra protein,” you snorted, determined to remain at least somewhat above it. 

Sir Killian’s laugh was a cross between overjoyed and mocking, ringing through the hall like the peals of a half-rusted bell, and when you caught the embarrassed blue-eyed gaze of the man beside you, it was on the heels of something so decidedly joyful that the allure of a good joke was brilliantly inescapable. 

You held out a hand—palm up—and grinned. 

The tips of Link’s ears colored a pink more delicious than the mead in your cup.

There was a pebble in your pocket. 

A small pebble, no less unassuming than the thousands littering every little road in Hyrule, but in your pocket it remained, gathering body heat and dust alike. When you sat, the flat of it would press into your thigh under the weight of flattening fabric, and the resulting bump would elicit several seconds of fingering before it was abandoned to assuage any unwanted curiosity. 

And, suddenly, there was a pebble on your small nightstand; a brilliant, miniscule rebellion that seemed far too mundane to be anything of value or contention. It didn’t gleam or shine, but it was nonetheless bright, like a single fluffed cloud in the great boredom of the daytime sky. You watched it with the same intensity, and there was a sort of ritual in the way your eyes would immediately land on cool grey when there were so many wondrous shades of brown to admire. 

Sometimes, you would think of Link, or saliva in your palm, or a prohibited mouthful of your own pebble. Sometimes, you would wonder if there was a kind of salt coating that you were missing; perhaps a taste only a select few were crazy enough to enjoy. 

The night was cool and dark, tinged with thick smoke as the cooking bonfires were extinguished. You laid against the scratchy wall; book in hand, knees pulled close to serve as a makeshift desk. 

Something was missing. 

Link… was late. 

Not by a few minutes, but a whole hour, then two, and three. 

You tapped the spine of your book. Your patience burned along with the oil in your lamp, as bright and hot as the flickering flame. 

He was a grown man. A grown man with… needs, and relationships, and responsibilities that no one but him should be privy to. 

So why were you glancing at the door every seven seconds? 

A twinge of something zinged up your spine, hotly enough that you hastily tossed your book on the nightstand, scooting down to lay in what had to be the barest semblance of proper nighttime posture; hands under your head, legs stretched every-which-way in an attempt to alleviate the heady ache. Training had worsened as the threat of true battle—not just skirmishes in Hyrule Field—and your body was not thanking you. 

But sleep seemed so far away as something uncomfortably similar to worry wormed in your heart. 

Another twinge, then a pop, and suddenly, all you could see was the great expanse of Hyrule Field; a lush, sprawling example of Hyrule’s beauty at its finest. Verdant grasses waved in the soft breeze, giving the illusion of movement to the unsuspecting eye, and it would have been wholly, undoubtedly perfect if not for the—

“Is that blood?!” your whole body shook as Sir Killian’s hands clapped on your armored shoulders, gloves damn-near smacking a melody against your pauldrons as electric green eyes roved down every limb and cranny. 

“It’s not mine,” you told him with a smile that said nothing and everything. It was, and it wasn’t. Your soul didn’t care much for the blood your body and sword bathed in. 

The air was dense with the tepid stench of death, weaving as carelessly through the field as if it was the breeze itself, and a thick dark cloud hung heavy over the battlefield. Your fingers clenched around the handle of your sword, squeezing the cold, dead life from the tempered steel with a vengeance typically saved for a gaggle of lizalfos. In the distance, over the large curve of Sir Killian’s shoulder, a cluster of knights wearily regrouped in the tense aftermath. 

Your knees trembled like they were one false step from collapsing. Sweat cooled on your neck. Blood stained your shining breastplate an exuberant crimson. 

“I lied,” you breathed suddenly, before your body could pitch forward and prove just how wrong your previous statement was. Warm hands stabilized against your shoulders, creating a stalemate between tottering on unsteady legs and collapsing to the bloodsoaked grass. 

And then you saw. You saw him. You saw her. 

Princess Zelda of Hyrule was a vision and an omen, wreathed in fabric shields of blue and white and red, just as star-spangled as you expected any noble to look. Link was, similarly, a representation of everything wonderful and terrible, wrapped in steel and dreams. Your dreams, shockingly. 

So why was there pain in your heart when they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder over war-torn ground? Why did your nails dig reddened crescents into your palms? Why did the gasping clench of your diaphragm feel that much more terrifyingly spectacular as you watched the man in your room and the Princess of Hyrule? 

Someone was talking; softly, at first, then growing in pitch as your world began the tumultuous glide into darkness—

Click. 

Your body went rigid when the door swung open—announcing itself with a temperamental squeak that reverberated through the small room—caught in the crossfire that was the decision of pretending to be asleep and facing your fears like a good soldier. 

The word ‘hi’ went unsaid as Link stepped in, over creaky floorboards and the tepid musk of victory. His blonde hair was askew with wetness, and you were forced to avert your eyes at the sultry peek of one freshly-bathed shoulder through the sagging collar of his nightshirt. 

You tried to focus on the ceiling. You tried to focus on your pain, and the bandages lying just beneath threadbare fabric. 

In the distance, an intake of breath could be heard. 

“Sir Killian said you were hurt.”

“Sir Killian needs to keep his mouth shut,” you grumbled, voice just barely above a whisper. Volume wasn’t needed when your life was so damn quiet. 

Soft footsteps approached, then stopped, then started again. A jolt slithered up your spine when a hand landed on your side and, without warning, tilted your body just enough to slide something warm and soft beneath the curve of your back. 

Mentally, you were appalled. Physically, you had never felt better. 

It was a heat pack, something so deeply entrenched in magic that it could create its own. You’d only come across one once, which only made it harder to relax and let the warmth carry you away. “Hey—!”

It was fine. It was cool. It was supremely and irrefutably awkward. 

The corners of Link’s eternal ocean eyes crinkled against the lanternnlight’s shadow and suddenly, you were kissing Link with your back flat on the bed, hands tangled in goldenrod hair and tanned neck to pull him down. Teeth bumped and tongues clashed, and neither of you were particularly good at kissing, but it was something. Something forbidden. Something to be savored, like the sugar of a stolen cookie in the dark of a childhood room. 

Your knees bent, and the flat of your back arched a few inches, if only to kiss him d—

“—idn’t mention a concussion…?”

The situation crashed down on you quicker than any misplaced water-spill. 

Link raised a concerned brow when you slapped an arm over your eyes, uncaring of the painful tug along your spine at the movement. Hylia couldn’t help you now, and neither could common sense, not when he looked so confused and worried and all you felt was a sort of flickering heat in your chest, creeping beneath your skin to ignite nerves forever untouched. 

“I’m fine,” you croaked against the swelling lump in your throat. It didn’t mean anything; you were just thirsty. Nothing more, nothing less. 

There was silence. 

You waited for the tell-tale footsteps of a retreating man. 

Seconds later, the bed creaked as a new weight settled on the end of it. 

Every muscle in your body felt tighter than a rope. Your forearm bore down against your face, as if the pressure would will your life back to the frail sense of normality it adapted. 

Silence was a virtue and a shield, and you were going to use both before the night was over. 

But, even as the minutes ticked by, Link refused to move, though, somehow, ‘refused’ felt too weak a word for his character. ‘Refused’ implied choice, and this… this wasn’t choice. This is duty, whispered the little not-so-sarcastic voice within your mind. 

And what place did love have in duty?

“It’s late,” you told Link, voice softer than the fading lantern light. You wanted him to know you were here. You wanted him to know that you were listening. And you didn’t want him to know what you thought his lips tasted of. 

A huff of breath. Then, a voice deep enough to weave a tapestry worthy of the night. “I didn’t think you had anywhere to be.”

You did. You didn’t. You’d decide in the carriage. 

Since when had life felt as though it was moving on without you? “You don’t know me.”

There was a beat of silence, one after each other—like the faithful marching of an army—until all you could hear was the flame’s flicker and your own unhurried breathing. Nothing moved, and nothing needed to. You could exist in peace just as well as chaos, eyes heavy and heart heavier. Someone important once told you that sleep cured all, so perhaps…

Link was still on your bed, but what did it matter? He would leave, and he would learn. They all did. 

You closed your eyes. 

And then, in the darkness of the night. 

“I’d like to.” 

The next morning, Link’s side of the room was empty.

This was supposed to be one chapter but I got a bit carried away <33

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

So...... If we are playing fair then, that means every single person that Biden just Pardoned is 100% guilty, including Milley and Faucci?

I see I see. Btw. I've said this before but I'll say it again. Blanket pardons should not be legal. You should have to define a crime prior to giving a pardon. Unless of course the person is already in jail in which case you can pardon them for those crimes.

However. It is the case that people who were supposedly guilty of trespassing on public property mind you, have been rotting in jail for years while literal pedophiles abusers and want to be dictators roam free. Like Gavin newsom. Who should be guilty of gross negligence given his lack of response and lack of preparation for the LA fires. Or Andrew Cuomo. Who killed up to 15000 people in nursing homes by putting covid positive patients into those places. Along with at least four other governors. And then there's Faucci. A man who literally helped fund gain of function research which has been illegal to fund or participate in for a while now.

Stack that on top of experimenting on beagles by letting flesh eating flies eat their faces after you cut their vocal cords and I would say that it is very possible that this man deserves to be in prison for a litany of things. But, I do not believe in any capacity these people deserve to walk. Because the difference between them and the January 6th people is the fact that a lot of the people arrested and put in prison didn't even do anything wrong. Most got changed with "trespassing" despite never having qualified for that charge. Meanwhile people have done sit-ins in pelosi's office aoc's office and several other locations by storming in and just sitting in. None of them are in jail for freaking trespassing. Same building no less. The only difference is the political leaning. And that's after we found out more regarding the FBI's participation in January 6th. No fewer than 26 agents on the ground mostly people meant to incite as well as informants.

Trump should find a way around the pardons to get Faucci. And it's more impressive to me that the liberals actually want to spare him considering that he's partially responsible for covid since he helped fund it. If nothing else he should be charged for gross and negligence. And a blanket pardon should never be a thing. You should only be able to be pardoned for things that are able to be proposed. And it doesn't have to be "admittance of guilt" it can be, "potentially charged for". But every single state should press charges against Faucci.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Alex Thomas at The New Republic:

Bernie Sanders seemed genuinely impressed by the size of his Los Angeles rally this weekend. “Unbelievable!” he declared upon reaching the microphone, “there are people half a mile away!” Moments later, he claimed 36,000 people were gathered before him, which constituted “the largest rally that we have ever had.” If I were forced to paint with a broad brush—and at 36,000 people, a broad brush would be the instrument of choice—I’d say the crowd was a coalition of aging hippies and entertainment industry millennials. It was a massive crowd, to be sure, but nobody in the throngs surprised me by their presence. I did manage to find one woman who voted for Donald Trump in 2016 before voting for Biden in 2020. Prior to the rally, she confessed to me, “I’m so thankful [Bernie] is doing this kind of thing.”

This was a message I heard repeatedly from attendees: Those gathered were hoping for hope itself. Maybe even a determination to hope. Noah, a 28-year-old software engineer, told me while waiting in line, “I’m hoping for some answers about how to stay encouraged … I’m hoping this is a positive day and adds some clarity to the situation.” Moments later, his friend Amir chimed in, “Hope has to be cultivated, kind of. And so I think this is, I don’t know—maybe therapy?” There were plenty of therapeutic aspects to the rally, like Joan Baez crooning “Imagine” or Neil Young, Maggie Rogers and Baez singing “Keep on Rocking in the Free World.” But, despite Sanders’s promise that “We’re going to make our revolution with joy. We’re going to sing and dance our way to victory,” it was hard to characterize the crowd as hopeful, much less joyful. Nevertheless, there was a determination among these 36,000 people. A 32-year-old screenwriter named Brett told me: “The only way I know how to go on is to hope and believe—and certainly it won’t happen if we don’t come here and try to work together and listen to each other.”

And there was that other kind of determination as well—the determination to unite a left wing in the place of an official institutional party organ that feels incapable of much at the moment. This was not the hardened Bernie crowd of 2016. I saw far more Harris-Walz shirts than Bernie 2020 shirts. That determination to hope has seemingly expanded the tent. With that in mind, there’s a precarious challenge that Sanders—and, more importantly, his younger proteges who will carry this movement into the post-Trump era—are going to have to face. They have to unite a defeated half of the political spectrum and turn all of these determined sparks of hope into a structured movement. Congressman Maxwell Frost, who spoke before Sanders, told me, “When something big happens in the country and people feel like something’s wrong, they’ll pick one of two things—sometimes it drives them further into apathy, sometimes it drives them into action. Organizers stand at that crossroad and we help give people a political home. That’s what’s going on. We see this billionaire takeover of our country and now as organizers, we have to stand at that crossroad and try to get people into something. Because there’s also a lot of people in this moment who will fall more into apathy and our job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Naturally, this crowd was far from apathetic; indifference isn’t a strong enough force to get the average person to stand in the Los Angeles sun all day. Here, the heat was punishing: Sanders had to stop his speech several times to call medics into the crowd, as did several of the other speakers. At one point the nurses’ union rushed off the stage to help. And their assistance was limited to the people they could see: If there really were 36,000 people at this thing, only about 10,000 of them were visible from the stage; the rest were on the other side of a treebank and the press riser. That crowd stood in a dirt lot watching a jumbotron. Beyond them, the streets were filled with people too, just standing. The mood became more vague as you worked your way through the outer reaches; in the further orbit, there was less of that sense of passion and determination. Still, even at the margins there was a consensus among the furthest-flung that this was, for reasons they couldn’t articulate, the place to be. Here on the periphery you’d encounter a hollowed-out dumpster with a younger group perched on the rim, just sitting, watching the event unfold on the big screen. Again, 36,000 people—from the dumpster sitters to the gleeful crowd in the front bouncing a beach ball—is a hard number to do much but generalize. But this crowd showed up for something, and you could hear that among them. On stage, you could see that something taking shape. During her oration, Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez connected local action—last week, an LA school superintendent turned away DHS officers attempting to enter his school—to the billionaire takeover of the government. “This moment did not come out of nowhere,” she said, “the destruction of our rights and democracy is directly tied to the growing and extreme wealth inequality that has been growing for years in America.”

[...] On stage, there was a clear passing of the torch and a message taking shape. Sanders’s argument was broad, he bashed “a corrupt campaign finance system” and Elon Musk generally. Both of those were ripe objects of criticism, but Ocasio-Cortez had a more finely tuned message. Like Sanders, she criticized the Democratic Party. While he criticized them for listening to “their billionaires,” she attacked specific practices like congressional stock trading and corporate lobbying, both of which are unpopular. Sanders attacked Trump’s billionaire coterie, but AOC proposed a longer game, telling the crowd, “If we are here to defeat [Trump], we must defeat the system that created him.”

Bernie and AOC’s Fighting Oligarchy Tour has brought out a new movement to fight the Trump/Musk Oligarchy every step.

See Also:

America, America (Steven Beschloss): Taking It to the People

[parallel--parallel]

I was trying to stay out of this discourse because usually fandom chooses to believe what they want to believe no matter what, but it doesn’t feel fair if I sit this out anymore as so much plainly wrong or misleading information is going around

If Joss following Trump means he supports him, does Joss following Biden (and Obama, and a whole lot of Thai progressive politicians) means he supports them too?

He made a cleanup now and unfollowed all politics as well as many non-controversial accounts, but my point stands. His follow list was much more mixed and diverse than people want to admit

About Tate, he unfollowed him YEARS ago. It’s a valid question to ask “why he followed him in the first place”, and here’s why: Before Tate became known as the trafficker piece of sh*t, he was a famous boxer. Back then Joss was into boxing himself and he literally followed every boxer ever

He still follows some boxers including Talbott who is ANTI-Tate and is vocal against toxic masculinity

Another thing, if Joss really was a raging MAGAt, would he be close friends with Luke who is strongly against Trump and right-wingers? Luke even follows AOC (for those not familiar with American politics, AOC is MORE left-wing and progressive than Kamala Harris)

And Gawin, bless his hermit soul, he rarely promotes himself, let alone politics. His sister tho, she posted ANTI-Trump memes on igs comparing Trump to Joffrey from Game of thrones and she follows ANTI-Trump commentators like thedailyshow with Jon Stewart

Then there’s p’Jojo who loves working with Joss and now p’Ark, I’ll just leave this here

I know all this because I follow leftist politicians on Instagram and I also follow GMM actors, directors and some of their friends and family so I see when someone follows politicians

Another thing, I noticed that Joss doesn’t even hang out with problematic GMM-tv actors and those who have shared bigoted views in the past. Closest people around Joss in that company seem to have left-leaning views, and obviously it doesn’t necessarily mean he has them too, I’m just saying, he being fr a MAGA and a bigot seems unlikely to me. He could be a normie centrist, or someone who finds craziness and stupidity of American right amusing (he didn't follow any Thai right-wingers and weirdos) but nothing more than that in my honest opinion. If out of 1285 accounts he follows, only 5-10 were these trash accounts, I think it's really a stretch assuming that's what he supports

In the end, everyone's feelings about this are valid and I'm not trying to shame those who don't feel comfortable supporting him. All I'm doing is sharing my personal take. I'm politically a leftie to the point that if I were more left I would turn into Karl Marx, and still, I'm willing to give Joss the benefit of doubt because he hasn't ever shared any bigoted or toxic opinion and I've been following him for many years. That is all