#the imagery of a sinking ship hits every time

[tombstoneswerewaiting]

the ship has been sinking since album 1

[psalloacappella]

SSM21 Day 3. Nighttime

Pairing: SasuSaku Prompt: Nighttime Title:  this city’s burning, it’s not my burden Tags:  AU - War; Combat Medic Sakura; Soldier Sasuke; CW: War Imagery and Injury In these dim and flickering emergency lights, he says,

"Marry me."

Ao3 | twt | full series link | @ssskmonth

Nighttime can be many things:  Sunset sinking under the horizon line. A signal to gather the flock and circle them up, press the love in tight to keep out everything else. Dinner and drinks, books and cards, friends and trysts.

Sakura remembers these average evenings while she shivers, a bag of click-clacking bones, every tendon pulled tight, murmuring silent thanks to the tetchy-tuned radio and the sound of an explosive shell missing her tent.

Here, a stone’s throw from the combat zone, the terrifying, strident buzz of planes wind up as the sun goes down.

Day belongs to cleaning and wailing, turning over dog tags, and fitful sleep. Night belongs to the enemy. Night belongs to war.

Men from the front line haul him in, bringing with them the barbed, pinched tang of iron and smoke. Earth clinging to worn boots; faces smeared with blood. Uzumaki (best friend of her lover and now hers too, these three young draftees intertwined as ivy, organically-grown trauma) mouths words she can’t hear. Not against the new whistling of a shell sparing her frail medic tent yet again. Not against her heartbeat, currently slamming out a rhythm underneath her ribcage that threatens to burst through.

Accepts his hand on her shoulder, pats it with her own. Scored with antiseptic, rough to touch. Now they file out, dipping their heads with respect. Each set of eyes catches her for a moment then slips over, frictionless, torn from one tragedy to the next. They’ll bring more casualties in time, like a promise.

When they’re gone, it escapes. The low moan of a wounded animal, and it’s coming from her. She quells it, dipping two fingers into the hollow of his neck to seek a pulse. Taps against her skin, weak but alive. Places her head on his chest, seeing what she can hear, and her hand moves to his forehead.

“Sasuke,” she says sharply, patting his cheek. Lifts an eyelid, taps him a little harder than she should. Some stoic medic she is — each name recorded from tags hanging on the dead reminds her of her weakness. “Sasuke! Move your fingers if you can hear me.”

The immediate flutter of his hand brings her more relief than she’d like to allow. She wants to embrace him right here, but there’s a nagging in her gut, something not quite right.

He opens his eyes, stares into the pitch of the tent and beyond. Unfocused.

Sasuke’s torn up hand, mercifully with all digits intact, comes up to touch her hair. But not the way it should:  It meanders, clutches at her arm, walks along her shoulder to find it as if he —

“Sakura,” he croaks, succumbs to coughs. They hurt and he writhes from the recoil. Yanks her close by the hair, straining to speak around the blood and grit in his throat. “I can’t—”

Covering his hand with her own, she gropes for her penlight and finally shines it into his dark eyes,

(and beautiful, they were, for a time; she’d seen them up close on the floor of her flimsy tent, charcoal and smoldering but loving, comforting like the low-burning idle of a hearth)

“No,” she hisses. Watches the way his pupils stay resolutely wide and blank. “No, no no —”

And with a cry, she sweeps her arm across the small metal table, scattering the pathetic few tools she has left to the dirt.

Taking his face in her hands, she leans over him, whispering against his cheek: “Breathing?”

“Ribs hurt,” he growls.

“You can feel your legs?”

He nods in her grip, staring into nothing.

Choking back that noise again, piteous and fragile, she presses her forehead against his, tasting the salt of her own tears.

“Just tell me.”

“Concussion-induced blindness. As to how long—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says simply.

She withdraws and whirls around, wishing she had something to break.

“I’ll mow them down.”

The strangled way she says this leaves him silent. “Sakura—”

“No,” she interrupts, “I will. I stitch up my friends, send their tags home in coffins, hunker in the tent waiting to be blown apart. And all I get to do is cower here, night after night, wondering if when I’m finally hit I'll be terrified — or relieved.”

The radio crackles, and the stay-in-place! order moves through her as the lingering smog of decay. Her anger sparks, her words spit:

“I want a gun in my hands.”

“I’ll be shipped out.” Sasuke’s voice is steady, assuaging. “Come home with me.”

Sakura snorts, turning around to see him still lying there, pensive. Calm in the face of, or perhaps shellshocked by, this new tragedy.

“And just how would I do that?”

As if the possibility occurred to him in this single moment, in these dim and flickering emergency lights, he says,

“Marry me."

A casual tone, a moment of total absurdity as mortars continue to fall.

“You’re ridiculous.” Voice cracking in a delicate way, as fine china. “And concussed. Literally.”

He pauses, concedes the point in the haughty silence in a way only he can.

“Watch over me, then. Tonight, at least.”

She sighs, but doesn’t pause to consider it much at all, pulling up a chair and muttering. At least this vigil is for the living, not the dead.

Lacing her calloused fingers through his, they hang on tightly

(and the sky and all the shells are falling and they’re clutching close and she whispers I do, I do,)

— enduring such ancient fear rattling them to the bone, counting the minutes until dawn burns away this endless night.

[eyessharpweaponshot]

hi there!! are there any fics you’re reading right now that you would recommend? i need something good after the season we’ve been given so far 😣

hello there!

I agree, this season has been disappointing - especially considering it’s the last one. but thankfully, our fandom is full of amazing writers that serve us goods regularly. I have so much to recommend, it’s a joke. so prepare for a long fic rec. In no particular order, let’s begin:

1. Chasin’ You - @burninghoneyatdusk

okay. you’re gonna see a bit of a theme with me in these fic recs because the authors I mention are some of my favourites in the world - sam being one of the TOP TIER ones. this fic is a modern au, written about clarke and bellamy as exes (a favourite trope of mine) that have went their separate ways. clarke has moved away and hasn’t kept tabs on bellamy but he's soared to the top as a country star, his hit single being about her and what they had. if there’s any fic from this list you need to start reading, it’s this one.

2. Voices in the Water - @burninghoneyatdusk

It’s the canon version we all wanted. set on earth, clarke’s aunt (nia) forces her into an arranged marriage with king bellamy to unite the clans. but under it all, nia has tasked her to kill him. obviously, as clarke falls in love with bellamy, it’s the one task wanheda probably can’t complete. I'm in love with the imagery and descriptions in this fic. there are honestly some lines that sam writes that I want to frame and put up in my house. absolute brilliance.

3. All Because of You - @burninghoneyatdusk

*sheepishly raises hand* - hi, it’s me again, fangirling over another one of sam’s fics. if you have followed me for a while, either here or on twitter, you’ll have seen me screaming about this fic. I've pulled over while driving to read an update that came through to my email. no lie. I don’t say this lightly but it is definitely in my top 3 favourite bellarke fics of all time. sam DELIVERS with this one. bellamy knocks up his sister’s best friend when they’re both young and they grow together in raising their daughter. this fic flashes between present and future in the most seamless way and we see how in love they were back then but too scared to admit it, combined with how in love they are now that they are mature and older - but yet can’t seem to take the leap. I can’t tell you enough how good this fic is. I'm in love and it’s one of those fics that I would happily have as a book on my bookshelf, the pages worn and falling out from the amount of times that I re-read it.

*I just want to note that sam is doing a fantastic job at running @bellarkefic-for-blm. This is an opportunity for the bellarke community to directly support the Black Lives Matter cause through reading and writing fanfiction. For every fanfiction prompt a participating writer receives, they ask that you donate to an organization that supports the BLM cause. This initiative includes non-bellarke the 100 ships and requests for other content (e.g. gif sets, icons, moodboards, fanart). please check them out and request a prompt (this also includes updates for the above mentioned fics)*

4. Count Your Teeth - @icantloseyou-too

let me tell you, you guys will be well fed after reading this fic. It’s one of the most original idea’s and we get so much bellarke and the blake siblings in this one. bellamy is a treasure hunter and married to clarke, after leaving his thieving days behind him. that is until his past comes knocking and drags him back into that world again - and clarke along with him. absolute chefs kiss!

5. Cups and Sorcerers - @icantloseyou-too

again, such a unique plot with just the right amount of fluff. clarke is a witch who owns a coffee shop and she ends up meeting someone just as unique as her. I’m invested in this to an embarrassing degree and it always puts me in a good mood when this fic is updated. such a light and heart filling read and ciara does a fantastic job of world building in this fic.

6. Paint me in Trust - @pawprinterfanfic

I'm sure this fic needs no introduction. everyone and their mother has heard of it and if you haven’t read it yet, believe me, you’re missing out. a harry potter au that runs alongside the last few movies without being involved with the main characters. essie manages to make an already existing world so different, thrilling and gripping. it emotionally upends you and takes you along for the ride without any intention of letting you off. I'm just in love with it and rightly so!

7. When the Wolves Come Home - @pawprinterfanfic

I don’t know how people aren’t RAVING about this fic more because I certainly am. it’s massive for me to even say this because I love all of essie’s work but it’s my favourite fic that she’s written. I can’t describe the feeling I get when I read how she’s written bellarke in this. it’s a percy jackson au but you don’t need to have knowledge of that world to enjoy this. I actually started reading the books because of this fic. essie writes it so well and incorporates a lot of fantastic elements from greek mythology while also keeping me on the edge of my seat with bellarke’s journey. HERE FOR IT ALL THE WAY.

8. I’ll Find You in the Morning Sun - @cominguproses13x

I’ve never seen a fic talked about as much as this one. with 60 chapters, it’s bound to satisfy any hunger you have for bellarke. it’s set in a post apocalyptic world and it is beyond a shadow of a doubt, my favourite setting to read bellarke in. I've actually stopped reading this fic on chapter 5 because im currently writing my own post apocalyptic au as it was a trope on my bingo card and I don’t want any subconscious spill over, but I fully intend on reading the rest of the fic in one go once my fic is published and done. it deserves all the praise and hype.

9. For Blue Skies - @kombellarke

kayla’s fics make me actually weep. her writing style is just unbelievable and she sucks me into stories so fast. this one is no different. I live and breathe for bellarke as exes and this fic is one of my favourites. it’s a modern au with clarke as a mother and she cascades back into bellamy’s life without warning. perfect angst and anticipation. in love.

10. Love Like Fools - @talistheintrovert

the way I love talis with my whole heart. I'm always obsessed with her fics and the way this one was written was just magnificent. enemies to friends to lovers, roommates, angst, emotional comforting? SIGN ME UP. the perfect mix of all of those and I felt so good after reading this. always a fan.

11. It Had To Be You - @useyourtelescope

I had the honour of pre-reading some of this fic before it was published and I felt so privileged. a regency au with a prank war sprinkled in? perfection. hana honestly writes this so beautifully and I can’t recommend this enough. it’s so unique and we are all so incredibly lucky that there’s something in the bellarke fic world for everyone.

12. Veni, Vidi, Vinci - @carrieeve

Again, proof of the pudding that there’s something in fic for everyone. I’ve never read one like this before and it THRILLED me. murphy and bellamy working together to steal a Vinci? it was the fic I never knew I needed. the bellarke interaction in this was beautifully written and I am just completely obsessed. we really struck gold with the bellarke big bang works this year.

13. A Twist of Fate - @queenemori

let’s be honest, soulmate au’s are always wanted and needed in this fandom and kara does an excellent job of serving us this one. we got some team cockroach in here along with some top tier quality bellarke. what more could you ask for? if you haven’t read this fic yet, you need to. so thankful for kara being the absolute gifted babe that she is.

14. Power Over Me - @sparklyfairymira

okay, if you recently watched the witcher on netflix like I did, believe me, you NEED to read this fic. if you haven’t watched the witcher, this fic will make you want to watch it. the smut in this, the plot, the WRITING. absolutely phenomenal. have I mentioned how lucky we are to have such fantastic writers in this fandom?

15. There’s a Serpent Lying Deep Down in These Still Waters - @shaeheda

post apocalyptic au? SIGN ME UP. bellarke thrown together in unkind circumstances? SIGN ME UP. this magnificent human writing a fic? SIGN ME THE FUCK UP. I'm so in love with this fic already and I haven’t even finished it yet. as I've said, I've stopped reading fics in this genre until my own is completed but I’ve read enough to tell you that this needs to be on your next to read list. forever in awe of the talent here and this fic makes me feel so lucky to be part of something so great.

I hope this satisfies you for a while and that you enjoy all the bellarkey goodness that comes from these fics. I'm gonna drop some of mine below because why not? just in case you’re in need of something more.

1. I Found Peace in Your Violence

clarke griffin has it all. she’s popular, an artistic prodigy and has a wealthy family to boot. so when her perfect world comes crashing down around her, it’s time to sink or swim. she tests positive for the Homicidal Tendency Syndrome gene, also known as the kill gene. clarke is plucked from her comfortable life and placed into a school with people just like her - carriers, delinquents. when she meets bellamy blake there, he looks like everything they say HTS carriers are. a monster, a criminal. yet, he’s the one who protects her.

2. I Am Lost This Time

a void!bellamy fic that we all deserved to have happen in canon. an au where bellamy hears clarke’s radio calls from earth, sees her memories in m-cap and where she really is the key: the one that unlocks his memories and brings him back to her.

3. Purple, Blue, Orange, Red

bellarke are childhood friends and teenage lovers, reuniting in the midst of the same grief that tore them apart.

4. Devil Side

post apocalyptic setting and my favourite fic to have ever written. both of them coming together to survive and protect those in their family, including two small children. bellarke started out as strangers, who would have thought that they’d end up co-parenting in the middle of a world that is too dangerous to survive out in the open?

5. Waste It on Me

a soulmate/reincarnation au that I wrote based off my own breakup and feelings. probably my most popular fic and should keep you going in terms of bellarke feels.

[butiknewyou]

Hey! I’m really curious, could you tell us your favourite Taylor lyrics?

Ps. I love your posts and interpretations of Taylor’s music 💕

omg this is SO kind thank you so much 🥺🥺🥺

before sharing my lyrics I want to say that I’m going to try to say lyrics from songs that aren’t on my favorites list because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to pick but I think every single lyric in red (the song), seven, cardigan, dear john, and my tears ricochet is one of her all-time best 🥺♥️ also I’m incapable of shutting up so I’m going to say what I love about each lyric

I’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night / rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife: I love absolutely everything about this and I rewind willow every time to hear her say it again. I LOVE the theme of being closed off until someone comes along and you take your walls down, I love the idea that they were part of each other’s journeys (ship on water), and I love that this ties into the recurring motifs of ships and water throughout the album. what an opening line.

leave the perfume on the shelf / that you picked out just for him / so you leave no trace behind : like you don’t even exist / take the words for what they are / a dwindling, mercurial high: did I just leave a whole verse here? yes because it’s one of the greatest verses of all time! this girl can Set A Scene. the imagery of the narrator putting all this effort into looking and smelling nice only for her mans to be like “babe would you mind not wearing such a distinctive scent? we’re trying to keep this on the DL remember?” the question that implicitly hangs in there: if you have to pretend your relationship doesn’t exist, does it really at all? and that last line omg...what hits so hard about this is that she is telling herself that the high is mercurial: changing and won’t last, but you can tell she doesn’t even really believe herself.

spinning like a girl in a brand new dress / we had this big wide city all to ourselves / we blocked the noise with the sound of “I need you” / and for the first time I had something to lose / and I guess we fell apart in the usual way / and the story’s got dust on every page / but sometimes I wonder how you think about it now / and I see your face in every crowd: this is the greatest verse of all time and let’s talk about why. that first line makes you FEEL how carefree she was, the novelty of a new relationship. how the city could have felt lonely or scary but when they had each other all of that faded. the way she glosses over how they fell apart because she wants to appreciate what they had, not be sad about the ending. “but sometimes I wonder how you think about it now” is so simple but lives rent free in my head because I think it’s one of the lines which most defines Taylor’s discography: it all comes down to wanting to be Remembered and wondering if they remember it too. “and I see your face in every crowd” gets to me because it is so very human to feel that mix of excitement and dread when you think you see someone you used to love, and then feel that sense of relief and disappointment when it’s not them.

if you and I are a story / that never gets told / if what you are is a daydream / I never get to hold / at least you’ll know / you’re beautiful: I talk about this lyric a lot because it has impacted me a lot. young taylor was all I LOVE YOU and I WANT YOU and IF I CAN’T HAVE YOU I MIGHT AS WELL CRAWL IN A HOLE but this song is so mature. she’s saying that sometimes, someone’s beauty is enough. you don’t get to have every single one of your daydreams come true. but sometimes, you can be grateful someone exists even if it’s not with you.

lights flash and we’ll run for the fences / let them say what they want / we won’t hear it / loose lips sink ships all the damn time / not this time / just grab my hand and don’t ever drop it: my favorite thing about this insanely good song is the bravado. she’s so confident that they can go unseen only for the recorder clicks to tell you just how wrong she was. but I love the bravery in the mean time: we can ignore the gossip and we can run away from them because when it’s you and me...nothing else matters. also the way the lights flashing is a sign of danger when in the first song on the album it’s a sign of what she loves about the city. I think this also ties into wildest dreams when they drive away from the crowds and have some Private Time: she started to realize that while the city was the place of her dreams in some ways, it wasn’t sustainable for a relationship because she literally couldn’t go outside without being papped.

and you got your share of secrets and I’m tired of being last to know / and now you’re asking me to listen cause it’s worked each time before: this gets me because she’s trying to take a hard line in this song but what it comes down to is that the reason they think they can treat her like that is because she’s let them before. this is a very hard lesson to learn: you ask yourself why would they think I’d forgive them??? only to realize...oh it’s because I have a million times before. yes, what they did was wrong, but you have to protect yourself so they don’t do it again.

and I can still see it all in my mind / all of you, all of me intertwined / I once believed love would be black and white / but it’s golden / and I can still see it all in my head / back and forth from New York sneaking in your bed / I once believed love would be burning red / but it’s golden, like daylight: did I cry the first time I heard this because I thought she said she was hating me, used inflashbacksandechoes? no ♥️ anyway this sums up the whole album. you can see how taylor thought love would be black and white/simple before in her daydreams: in mine, he chases her into the street and tells her he’ll never abandon her, and in stay stay stay, he agrees to stay but they never really talk about it. but in Cornelia Street, he doesn’t just chase after her, he calls her and explains his actual feelings and then they have a real conversation on the roof, and in afterglow, she gives a very sincere apology. you see how an intense passion (cruel summer) turned into a mature relationship (false god). my only problem with this bridge is that I worry that I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing after the high I felt when I first heard her reference red

she looks at life like it’s a party and she’s on the list / she looks at me like I’m a trend and she’s so over it / I think her ever present frown is a little troubling / and she thinks I’m psycho cause I like to rhyme her name with things / but sophistication isn’t what you wear or who you know / or pushing people down to get you where you wanna go / they didn’t teach you that in prep school so it’s up to me / but no amount of vintage dresses gives you dignity: no one else is willing to say it so I will: this is one of the best written songs on her first three albums. so many lyrics use great songwriting techniques and every lyric is sharp and pointed. the use of “look” twice in two different ways, how she shows what they think of each other, how taylor apparently went around like “hey Flamilla Snell how’s it going?”, the use of prep school to both make fun of her for being a snob and bring in what Taylor is teaching her.

I could go on forever but I’ll leave it here! Thanks again for your kindness and reading my posts 🥺🥺🥺🥺

[smokeybrand]

Mutiny

I’m not a fan of Joe Rogen. I find a lot of what he says to be problematic as f*ck but the way he says it, is FAR more damaging. Dude pushes some wild, dangerous, nonsense under the guise of “free speech”, disingenuous “debate”, and insidiously leading questions. Rogen is the Frat Boy version of Tucker Carlson in a lot of ways and that sh*t just doesn’t appeal to me. Beta males who think too highly of themselves listen to this due and take him seriously. These are people who are not self-actualized, who’s entire personality is based on their car or their sneakers or some other superficial bullsh*t they confuse for a personality, and that’s what Rogen’s entire show is; Superficial bullsh*t. So when he pushes dumb-f*ckery like “Don’t get the shot if you’re young and healthy”, these idiots who are either teenagers or have the mentality of teenagers, f*cking listen and we have a spike in cases. Because Joe Rogen said so.

The other day, this asshole bought into that whole “White Fear” sh*t, talking about how the Straight White Male is the most persecuted demo in America and i just groaned. This is the same exact sh*t Carlson does on his show, verbatim, just slightly less racist. It’s the current strategy of what is fast becoming the American Fascist Party, Republicans. It’s hypocritical f*cking nonsense and i hate it. How the f*ck would Joe Rogen, a Straight White Male with a whole ass podcast, be silenced or censored or persecuted/ He’s a multi-millionaire with one of the most popular platforms on f*cking Spotify. How the f*ck would any White person, especially Straight White Males, get silenced in the US? The bones of this country are built to uphold a very specific form of White Supremacy. Hell, cats talk about all these rights and liberties but, in the very beginning, those rights were only extended to White Male Landowners; basically Rich White Men, and guess who the f*ck Joe Rogen is? The constitution had to be amended to include every one else which means this country was designed to be a haven for objective White Supremacy. The fact that they replaced Straight with Rich is just a misnomer used to broaden that division and you have assholes with real audiences buying into that dangerous bullsh*t, disseminating that poison to their followers. And they just drink that persecution complex kool-aid, up. It’s f*cking absurd.

The irony in all of this is the fact that the country is getting younger and browner. Statistically, by the time Gen Z’s kids come of age, we’ll outnumber White people. The margin will be slight but they’ll be the overall minority in this country and that’s why we have all of this fear-mongering and treasonous tantrums. That system the Founding Fathers built to protect their power, is falling apart. It's all a matter of time. Why do you think they're fighting so hard to keep DC and Puerto Rico from becoming actual States? I can guarantee those cats who signed the Constitution never anticipated the influx of melanated people over the years, interbreeding with their lily White sensibilities, or the homogeneity desegregation would bring to society or the way Black culture ended up shaping the entire American zeitgeist or how the Internet just blew the doors off any illusion US citizens had about our true status in the world at large. I was born in 1984. Ten years before i existed, the South was still heavily segregated. My generation, the Millennials, were the very first to be completely free from the social consequences of the Civil Rights Movement. We were far enough removed from that to just see people, not race. I was exposed to so many more cultures, religions, and people, as a kid, than my ma had been when she was young. It wasn’t like, all of a sudden, we were singing kumbaya together, but it was definitely a start, one that has only gained more and more momentum as the Generations who came after mine, started coming of age in a world whose borders are just ceremonial at this point because of the Tech age.

I met my chick and made friends across the globe in a chatroom. One of my closest friends lives in New Zealand. Another stays in Finland. My birthday twin lives in England. She’s a year older than i am and has a beautiful family. My Puerto Rican sister met her dude around the same time i met my chick. He’s from Alabama. She moved from the island to be with him and they've settled down in Georgia where they share a beautiful daughter. My best friend became so close with an Asian girl from Australia, that he adopted her as his own sister. They spoke at least twice a week for the next fifteen years, all the way up until he passed away. The world is much smaller, much clearer, than it has ever  been before, and it turns out that it’s full of color. Color these Straight White Men are, apparently, terrified of. That’s got to be it. That’s got to be why they’re throwing these big ass tantrums and constantly fear-mongering about it. I don’t understand. When Brie Larson said what she said, it was the truth. There are THOUSANDS of films about White dudes you can watch. The entirety of film history is Straight White Males. What is so bad abut getting some chicks or People of Color or some LBGTQ representation in a few leads? Why can't we have strong Black performances in movies where we don't play the “magical Negro” or f*cking Slave? Why can't we have an all Asian cast when the principals aren't constantly fetishized? What is so terrible about giving a role to a Muslim that isn't linked to some ridiculous terrorist trope? Who’s really offended by this and why are they so goddamn fervent about it? Straight White Males, bud.

It’s because their grip on the reins is slipping. The power and the privilege they’ve had for so long, too long, is started to tip in the other direction. The playing field is, ever so slowly, evening out and these Straight White Males are losing their sh*t. They’ll talk about “being racist against white people” and “it's fine to interview everyone but hire cats who are qualified” with one breath but then absolutely savage voting rights directly focused on crippling the Black vote and desperately cling to the idea that 45 still deserves to be president, even though a steady stream of his criminal incompetence has been flowing out of the the White House since he’s left. The level cognitive dissonance is f*cking hilarious. It’s as bad as the GOP complaining about “cancel culture” while literally silencing Liz Cheney. Are you f*cking kidding me? I gotta sit here and listen to a very vocal minority complain about the direction of the MCU because they’ve decided to add a plethora of female and POC roles going forward into Phase Four. They keep asking “who's this for?” and it's obvious it's for everyone, not just Straight White Males. That, to them, means it's going to be bad. Just because the focus has shifted from three White dudes in leading roles, suddenly the MCU has lost it's way. It’s like, all of a sudden, just because the MCU wants to represent their audience as a whole, not just a narrow and shrinking part of it, we’re not supposed to trust in Feige anymore. Are you kidding me? The Green Knight is slated to be another massive hit for A24. The cat who wrote that film was bounced from studio to studio because he created that story specifically as a vehicle for Dev Patel and no major studio wanted to make it with him in the lead. Dev Patel is a f*cking Oscar winner and a brilliant actor but this movie, draped in surreal and beautiful imagery, driven by a visceral, bloody, focus, wasn’t going to get made because the lead this plot was specifically written for, happens to be brown. But Straight White Males are the ones being silenced? Okay, bud.

Joe Rogen is a symptom of a greater problem and it’s the problem of White Fragility. White Fragility fuels the worst of our society. It's the genesis of racism and bigotry. It drives Nationalism and is fertile ground for cults of personality which blossom into whole ass dictatorships. These motherf*ckers are in they’re feelings and will burn this country to the ground if it means they will stop getting their way. Brie Larson calls out the ridiculousness of the race bias in Hollywood? They attack. Arizona flips Blue because Indigenous people and Black folks come out to vote in droves? Voter fraud and four recounts, one months after the election has been called and Biden has already taken office. Jordan Peele says, out loud, to the entire country, that he’s not interested in telling stories with White people in the lead? Shadow banned from Hollywood. Dude was the toast of Hollywood after Get Out and Us. He said what he said and cat's been trapped behind the camera as a Producer ever since. It’s nuts because these people complaining about how hard it is to be and how unfair the current social climate is to Straight White Males, have called Twatter NPCs whiny, SJW, children, for years. Bro,you’re the same, just racist! You are the Trump to their Obama. You are the thermodynamic reaction to their Civil action. You assholes are arguing the same merit, just on the opposite ends of the spectrum so, if they’re whiny assholes, wouldn’t you have to be, too? The only difference is that the Twatter assholes have a zeal for inclusion while you Rogen Bros have a penchant for White Supremacy and, given the choice, I'd have to agree with the Blue Checkmarks in this regard.

Straight White Males have had the run of this country since before it was a country and look what they’ve done with it. Look where we are, right now, in the year of our lord, 2021. This is as far as we have come under their stewardship. It’s time for a new captain, i think. Sorry if that hard truth hurts your feelings. Now please steer us away from those very obvious rocks. I’d rather not violently crash into that reef and sink into a watery grave before we can get our hands on the wheel to right this ship, all because you assholes are in your feelings, thank you.

[friendlybowlofsoup]

Hellloooo~ I was wondering how would ROs react if MC that they thought has passed away but return to them after a few days

Hiya! Sorry again for the wait, I get busy here and there so I can’t always answer RO asks as efficiently as I want to, plus if I don’t take breaks from writing now and then, I burn out super fast  人(_ _*)

For this ask, MC cannot die normally due to their condition, but I wrote these as if they weren’t tainted in order to keep it spoiler-free. 

Also, I wanted to make it a little longer than usual! It’s been a while since I got practice for angst, so I wanted to see how much I could write. This won’t be the norm from now on though, I’d never get anything done if every ask took this long to write

(｡T ω T��)

Posting under the cut for space~

Edit: alright, format for mobile should be fixed

–

Qiu dreads to see his dreams turn to nightmares. His future with you, his endless time promised by your side—your smile, your voice, the patterns of love you traced upon his skin—they twist in his sleep, warping into taunts. Into mockery. Into shade. He’s haunted by the happiness that lingers in his sleep, by the fantasies that shouldn’t have been fantasies, and wakes with his own claws on his skin, his own blood vanishing from the sheets.

And then you return. Just like that. You return like air to inflate his lungs. Like a ghost returned to reap your dues. He recoils, jerks away from your touch, amber eyes wild and red and unfocused. Feathers you’ve never seen, wings you thought he’d tucked away for good, unfurl as he whips away, but you catch him before he can fly.

Maybe it’s your chi that brings him back, the clarity of it that no illusion could fake. Or perhaps his heart just knows. Either way, he bites hard into his lip and crushes you against his chest, curling you with him until you both collapse onto the floor.

And he cries. He cries, he cries, he cries.

–

An tries to move forward, as she has always done, but nothing seems to stick, her being is stuck in suspense, like a vessel in a windless sea. It takes time. Healing takes time. Forgetting your love takes time. She wants it to quicken. She also wants it to slow. She holds your memory deep in her chest, holds onto the words she knows you said, and turns them over and over in her mind to engrave them forevermore into her soul.

So lost in herself, she never felt you approach. Your hands fall upon her cheeks, hands she still knows so well, and her gaze sweeps up. Like a ship roused to life, she jolts unsteadily, but you catch her, and she falls against you instead. Her body shakes, shrinks, and peonies bloom by your very feet as you sink her into your arms.

Her voice calls out to you, cries out, and everything seems to shift again. The world spins at her feet, the clouds spiral in the sky, because you are here, you are alive, and she can move again. Finally, she can move again.

–

Min He traps herself in her own skin. Rain, wind and deluge pour down the mountain—her gasps become thunder, her cries into lightning. She seeks a way out, a way out of the endless rebound of nightmares of you begging for salvation, a way out of the guilt, regret, shame for never being enough. The shrine is a prison, keeps her from the world, from the soaked earth that mourns your loss and desires her blood.

Then she feels you in her domain once more. Your soul, bright and lively and glowing even when drenched, calls for her and she flees that wooden cell. Wash and mud soak her hair, turning it to lead. Trees and brush snag on her sleeves, tripping her to the merciless ground. But she runs, she flies, until she sees you again.

Your skin splits when she kisses you, and bruises will blossom where her fingers dig into your neck, but it is a merciful pain. It speaks of gratitude, of promises, of a second chance she will surely, surely fulfill.

–

Kaski drowns. Your love was his sun, was his daybreak over mist, a break between the clouds he thought he loved so much. Without you, the dam spills over. Memories of past, memories of you, it all spills and mixes, bringing back the taste of singed fur, broken glass, and human blood. It becomes impossible to remember you without the sight of a black flame. Impossible to not see you lying in a pool of blood, dying a death that was not originally yours. He slogs through the dredge of emotions, gagging on tragedy he thought had long since healed.

You appear, one day, without notice. Green eyes, the color of moss, meet yours. He squints, blinded and head-splitting, reeling back even as you approach. But you catch up to him, as certain as the sun will always melt away the dew, and your hand rests gently on the inside of his arm.

He falls against you. His head slams into your shoulders and your knees buckles, but he refuses to let go. He refuses to even speak. He keeps you there, in his grasp, for hours and hours, like a drowned man sprawled under the sun, seeking to dry.

–

Xinyi doesn’t believe you to be really gone. Everything goes too smoothly, his village runs too nonchalantly, and though he cries and cries, the world never notices your absence. You were everything to him, more than a mere dream, more than some specter he had pledged his life to. You were real in his arms, solid when you kissed him, warm when you cherished him. You disappearance meant more than an unravelling of chi, more than rampant energy returning the earth, yet no one else seems to know that. He is the only one.

He’s not facing you when you find him, at last. His shoulders spike when you hold them, shiver when you breathe against his skin, and hunch when you whisper his name.

He sobs into your hands as the both of you slip to the ground. The realization of your supposed death hits him then, swirling with the relief that he had been right this whole time. But he knows now that if you were to go, it would be the same. It terrifies him, that normality, and haunts him, long after he confirms that you’re safe and returned.

–

Hiemi tells herself this was meant to be, that she should have known, that she was foolish to think otherwise. She seals away her tears, fights away the heartache, uses it all to fuel her broiling hatred for the world. You turn into a martyr for her long dead ambitions, the excuse she always needed, and though it rips her heart to know what she’s doing to your memory, her path is already so far along its journey.

That is, until you meet her along the road. She recognizes you instantly, your colors and patterns had not yet faded, and her steps stop entirely. You’re glowing with vitality, with vibrant, consistent shades—too solid to be a ghost returned to haunt her.

She wavers. Her limbs, normally nimble and quick, grow numb as anger gives way to fatigue, and you catch her, though just barely. Her arms squeeze your waist, her voice rambles until it grows hoarse, until nothing is coherent any longer, until it fades to silence and you’re both left holding each other in the middle of the road.

–

Go Ro must burn away your presence, yet it seems only your belongings remain unscathed in his shrine. Flowers wilt, papers set ablaze, but your clothes, your gifts, the places you’ve touched remain. Each day he reaches to destroy them, to turn them to ash, and each day, they survive. They sit there, glaring at him, and the more he destroys the rest of his shrine, the more mocking they seem to become, growing less as reminders of you and more into symbols of his weakness.

You return, just a mere couple days after your disappearance, to a shrine that smells of smoke. Black scorch marks are seared menacingly into the gate, and the flowers have all but dried up, save for the ones in the pavilion you had so tenderly cared for. You reach for them, for their tender petals, but you never manage to touch them.

Skin hot enough to brand. Eyes that drip scarlet gold. Lips that taste of blood, of teeth, of fire and ash and wasted camellia bloom. Go Ro hears not your need for breath, not your questions of the state of his shrine—his ears have searched for your heartbeat, loud and pounding against his, and presses and presses against you until it quickens, until it confirms that you are well, alive, and present.

–

Chun has seen a hundred deaths, enough to know how yours must have been. The imagery never fades. Did you unravel softly in the moonlight, thinking of her and those you loved? Or did you go clinging to life, holding onto flesh that vanished before your eyes, spitting at the image of the sun that is said to haunt the sight of the dying? One hundred possibilities spin endlessly in her mind, your death occurs over and over and over for her—each new one she encounters, your face shadows theirs, until she can hardly remember how you were when you were alive.

She thinks you are a cruel imitator. Some other spirit who has faked your countenance to take advantage of her, and she lashes out. She spits vitriol, blue-gray eyes turning to ice, and snaps her hands out of yours. It takes time, takes you to remind her of memories that only the two of you could have known, before she finally breaks.

And break she does. The cycle cracks, your death throes no longer gape from afar, and though it will haunt her forevermore in her dreams, at least when she wakes, she finds solace in your arms, in your grasp, in the reality that you have not left her at all.

–

Spider feels time slip between his fingers, coagulated and uneven, set askance by the void of your absence. Seconds are eternities, yet hours pass in blinks. He wastes away at the bar, at the corners of the street, at the harassment of others. His own blood, his own useless chi spill endlessly from his body, repelling all others, excluding him from crowds. He’d have given this all to you if he could. His worthless vitality, this unfriendly gift of salvation, if he had been there to save you, he’d had given it all up for you.

He’s half unconscious when you find him, hunched and beaten and bleeding. It hurts you to approach him—his chi peels away at your skin and eats the edges of your existence, but it hurts more to see him loll his head in your direction, eyes unfocused and cloudy. You nurse him back to health, even when no one will give you a room, when no one will sell you the medication, you bring him back until he wakes.

And he punches you. He hurls you both to the ground, his body heaving and hulking and straining as he pins you beneath him, reopening all the wounds you had so painstakingly tried to heal, but it is his tears that falls on you rather than blood. He sobs, clenching your collar with a weak, trembling fist, and his forehead falls against yours.

[quietlypondering]

Timeless | Chapter 4

Read on A03 Ship: Prinxiety Summary: In a society where superpowers are the new era on the horizon - Virgil is happy flying under the radar, as much as he can, with government issued blockers. Life was… Normal - Or, at least, as normal as he could be. Until one day, as cheesy as it sounds, a simple train ride would change his life forever. Word Count:  1642 Chapter Warnings: Suicide Mention, Nightmares (including burning/boiling alive imagery, suicidal imagery/ drowning imagery. All of this will be in Italics if you wish to skip.) Tags: Superpower AU, Angst w/ a happy ending, unreliable narrator A/N: Thanks again to my wonderful beta reader @kolurize <3

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Burning. Boiling. The sounds of water bubbling away brings him to his senses. Virgil blinks awake - a feeling of vertigo sends him reeling forward, and when he looks up, the smell of chlorine hits him like a truck. He keels over, eyes blurry, head stuffy, and realises he’s standing on the edge of a swimming pool. And it writhes beneath his feet, forceful and unrelenting. He feels the heat rise, almost catching his breath in his throat.

Without any warning, he feels his feet slip. His heart pounds in his chest as he begins to fall, grasping for dear life for some sort of edge. He does - barely - his fingers numb against the rough side of the swimming pool. Smoke licks at his feet as he holds on for dear life. He tries to yell, to scream, to make any sort of sound come out of his mouth, but it doesn’t. After all, it’s hard to scream when you’re dreaming--

--Virgil awoke with a start - his head pounding, unremitting, like it was the worst hangover he’d ever experienced. Even the dull light filtering through the window was causing his eyes to ache and burn and pulse at the back of his skull. His chest tight, his arms heavy - Virgil could barely gather up the courage to move a finger, let alone an arm, much less his whole body.

He rolled over in an attempt to shield his eyes from the light, but all it did was force him into a bout of dizziness. He gritted his teeth, pulling himself out of bed with all the strength in the world. Virgil let out a groan, pushing his palms into his eyes in an attempt to get the pulsing to just stop.

He trudged over to the bathroom - startled, momentarily, by the way his face looked in the mirror. Pale and ashen, and a thin line of dried blood ran from his nose all the way to his chin. He grimaced, splashing some water in his face and thoroughly scrubbing the blood away, hoping he would at least look a bit presentable.

Quietly, Virgil shrugged on his hoodie and slipped discreetly out the door. His hands shoved deep inside his pockets. The feeling of cool wind at his neck made him shiver, yet was oddly comforting against his clammy skin.

He found himself wincing at every other step as he trudged down the street, garnering several odd looks from passersby. One little old lady even stopped and asked him if he was alright. She commented on how ghostly pale he looked - but when Virgil didn’t bother to answer (out of awkwardness, or his feverish stupor), she quickly left him be.

By the time Virgil made the audition, he could barely even remember why he was there.

His movements were weak and lethargic, so much so that as he stumbled through the door, he evidently made such a scene that those sitting in the waiting area had their faces contort into a look of startled concern.

Truthfully, he could barely see. He made quick work of tripping over his own feet, and as if on cue, another pair of feet appeared just inches away from his own. A pair of arms caught him and when Virgil finally looked up, he saw a familiar face. Curly hair. Blue eyes. A look of quiet unease set firmly on his face.

“Are you alright?” It was Roman. Roman, looking a mix between confused and concerned, tilted his head slightly. “...Do we know each other?”

Virgil could barely even think straight (or ever, really, for that matter,). But, he managed to squint at him in his semi-conscious state and mumble, “No. Not this time” before his entire world went completely black.

Hot. Hot hot hot, burning against his skin. He’s yanked away from the edge of the pool by an unknown force, and thrust deep into the vat of boiling water. He opens his mouth to scream, but hot, scalding water just enters his lungs. He struggles to breathe, writhing, trying to scramble his way to the surface - but he just sinks. Sinks all the way to the bottom of the pool and - and then he’s falling.

Falling hard and fast through the air. His stomach drops, but as he looks around he sees nothing - nowhere to hold onto - he’s just falling. The wind catches his breath. He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut as tight as they will go - and then… nothing. He opens his eyes. He’s inside a kitchen - or, rather, just outside one. He recognises it, it’s the kitchen from his old house. 

There are voices that he can’t quite make out. Angry and bitter. He tiptoes closer, fingers just barely touching the door handle as he pulls and peeks into the room.

A kettle boils on the stove. Two people much, much taller than him argue. He hears no words, but he feels them, crushing and debilitating. There’s a pause. The two figures in the kitchen turn, two pairs of eyes stare at him - glower in his direction. There should be words, but there are none. His breath catches, and he shuts the door. The arguing continues, as it always had, and as the kettle begins whistling, he rushes out of the house.

He turns back. The whistling of the kettle still in his ears as he begins to run. He looks up at the sky, grey-black clouds tumble across it with purpose. With a gasp, he turns to find himself in a field. Beyond it is a sprawling dark forest - he watches as the trees begin to close in. The field becomes smaller, until it’s just a clearing, as if he’d changed the size of a camera lens. The space between the trees grows smaller, and he can no longer breathe, no longer see anything but writhing vines and rotting wood.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up - he feels eyes - eyes on him, like something is coming, like a sense of impending doom. The ground beneath him shakes, and when he turns - the sky is dark. Dark and clouded over, the only thing in the distance is a pair of too-bright headlights. As much as he tries, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

He looks down - feet glued to sodden wood train tracks. As he lifts his gaze up, he sees it coming, a large, black train. He opens his mouth to scream - Wait - No - but it continues forward in its unyielding course. He screws his eyes shut - arms moving to cover his head, bracing for the impact. But it never comes.

Virgil awoke shaken and confused - and hot, an unbroken fever bubbling beneath his skin. Distant hushed voices, something cool on his forehead, a touch on his arm. It occurred to him, briefly, that he in fact had no idea where he was. He bolted upright, immediately regretting it for the woozy, light-headed feeling that came across him.

“Oh- You’re awake. Are you alright?”

Virgil was not, in fact, alright.

He turned to the unrecognisable voice, squinting so he could attempt in vain to see through his hazy eyes.

“...You fainted. I’m sorry, I should’ve called an ambulance, but, well, I live really close and-”

It wasn’t until then that slowly, his memory began to filter back in, along with an inexplicable sense of dread. He frowned, trying to assess the unfamiliar location. Red bed sheets. Plush carpet. Desk. A bedroom? He turned, and it quite quickly dawned on him that he knew exactly who this was.

“What’s your name?” The person - now identified as Definitely Roman asked - and Virgil sat a moment with his mouth entirely agape.

“I’m… Virgil.”

“Roman. Roman Prince!”

Virgil felt a slow feeling of alarm creep into his chest. “Wait, the audition--?”

Roman shook his head. “..Sorry. We missed it.”

Virgil sat in shock for a moment. He felt his stomach drop. His chest tightened as he managed to say, “you missed it, too?”

“Well, yeah! You’ve been asleep for a few hours. I guess I wanted to make sure you're alright.”

While Virgil appreciated the sentiment - he couldn’t help but feel an incredible sense of disappointment. He’d made someone miss a likely important audition, all because he couldn’t keep it together for a few minutes. Shit.

Virgil panicked - screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to kickstart what little of his power he had left. Instead, as he was half way through working himself up, Roman placed a hand on his arm and gave him a pointed look. “It’s fine, you don’t have to do anything,” Roman said.

Virgil froze. “Wait, how do you…” Roman simply pointed to Virgil’s very obvious wrist, metal blocker wrapped around it, and grinned sheepishly. “...Oh.” He grimaced. Of course. “I’m still the one who caused you to miss it…”

“Look- Virgil, right?” Virgil nodded briefly. “Virgil, it was just a low budget show. There’s always the next one!”

There was a pause - Virgil could almost feel Roman studying his demeanor.

“...How do you feel, anyway?” Roman inquired.

Virgil barked out a laugh. “Like I got hit by a truck.” It rang hollow and bitter - and Virgil felt a pit growing in his stomach from the comment. He didn’t look in time to see Roman’s reaction, but...

“I know some people get weird about answering this but… What ability do you have?”

Instinctively, Virgil made to cover the blocker on his wrist with his large hoodie - but quickly decided against it. Roman already knew, anyway.

“It’s cool if you don’t want to talk about it-”

He pondered for a moment, mulling it over in his head before, without really giving himself much of a chance to decide, he said, “I can control time.” Another pause. “Well. Control is a loose way of putting it. It’s more like I can ride the waves and sometimes I get yanked underwater and can’t breathe.”

Roman frowned - and Virgil wondered if that’s all anyone ever felt. Damn Pity. “That does sound dangerous. No wonder you need that.” Roman pulled backwards on his chair. “My question is-- What’ve you been doing? You look like hell - uh, no offense.” Virgil swore he saw a twinkle in Roman’s eye.  “How have you been using it this much? Are you on some sort of quest? Finding a long lost love?”

Virgil turned away, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up. “S-Something like that. I suppose.”

Roman leaned back in surprise. “That’s pretty admirable, dude. If someone did that for me, I’d marry them on the spot.” He laughed, “Not that I can- well, nevermind.”

Virgil flopped back onto the pillow, an arm hiding his flushed face. Slowly, he moved his arm a little so he could peek at Roman out of the corner of his eye. “...What’s your power, anyway? You have one right?”

He watched as Roman mirrored the same movement he’d done earlier - pulled his sleeve over his blocker, almost instinctively - and he shrugged.

“It’s kinda hard to explain.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow. He could feel his mouth as it began to run completely dry. “Hard to explain?”

“Well I- I haven’t had it for long, as far as I know. It just kinda came in a few months ago.” He bit his bottom lip with what Virgil could only assume was embarrassment. “I haven’t told anyone about it before, really…” He trailed off meekly before adding, “apart from registering myself, of course.” He lifted his half-hidden blocker and flashed it to Virgil with a toothy grin.

“..So what can you do?”

Roman paused a moment to take in a deep, contemplative breath. An unmistakable look of discomfort passed on his face, before finally replying with--

“...I’ll show you.”

TAG LIST // @royallyanxious @kolurize @softanxiouspatton @purp-man  @hexatrash

[engekihaikyuu]

The Tokyo Battle - Review

I’m back on my bullshit (aka, hyper-fixating on the show) and I have more thoughts about The Tokyo Battle.

Check out the Read More if you’d like to see!

Nohebi’s Dancing & Choreography I don’t think I devoted enough words to describing how fucking lit Nohebi’s dance choreography is so here I am again.  Obviously the genepuro videos from opening night and from Tokyo opening night showcase some of it, but there’s also a LOT that’s not there.  The snake-like motions aren’t just in their arms, it’s literally their entire bodies and some of my favorite movements were when they’d all drop to the floor (except Daishou who’s sort of puppeteering them), and slither side to side.  And they’re not like, lying on their stomachs just writhing in a way that looks dumb, they’re on their hands in a low push-up, and on their toes.  So that when they need to move laterally from side to side, they are doing it by pushing with their hands and toes, and it looks very fluid and very cool.  

Another thing that gets showcased in their choreography is Daishou because he’s the most technically skilled on their team.  He’s very good at aiming his spikes and serves, and so typically, the entire team would lift him, and then spin him in place.  And Daishou also never keeps his body completely straight up and down, he’s twisted around a bit, so he’s always facing behind himself which just adds to the ‘twisted’ imagery as they bring him up.  And then they spin him and he makes a very snakelike motion with one arm before hitting the ball wherever, and then they just DROP him and the others often sink to the ground after that.  It gave me a heart attack the first time because it almost looks like they all fell, but it’s done on purpose and nobody’s getting hurt.  

There’s also that great moment when they keep aiming for Tora to try and get him to slip up and lose his confidence as the Ace.  So Tora is center-stage, and all the other Nohebi players basically slither and crawl on the ground toward him until they’ve basically swarmed him around his ankles.  And then they brace him so that Tora can lean in some pretty extreme angles in different directions to receive all the crazy shots aimed his way, and that’s very fun because at one point, Bishin is almost parallel to the ground leaning forward, keeping his body as straight as a plank to dive for a receive.  

Akkey (Sakishima) is very obviously the most acrobatic one of the group, and he definitely shows off wherever possible, but he does seem to keep the air-time to a minimum to stick to the snake choreography with his team.  Visually, Fukunaga remains the most acrobatic one on stage.  But I bet Ryuuya and Akkey are about the same level.  

One very fun moment that I like to remember is when Daishou is standing right behind Kenma and wrapping his snake arms around him and wiggling them all creepy and with a really sinister grin on his face, and Kenma’s just super creeped out and pulls away nervously.  

Dang Kenma Unrelated but sort of related, there’s a moment in the Nekoma vs Fukurodani match where the team is working to block Bokuto at every turn.  So Bokuto is center-stage and every direction he tries to move, a Nekoma player is there to block him.  He finally falls back on the floor, semi-defeated, and Kenma leans over him menacingly, putting their faces close together, and his arms are outstretched and his hands are like cat claws.  

And speaking of Kenma, I wanted to link my friend’s thoughts on Twitter (x) about the “promises” part of his narration.  She has some really great thoughts on promises as lip service in Japanese society and Kenma’s perceived disdain for most promises that are offered to him.  We thought about this together, but she articulated it better.  

DVD And a reminder, that the DVD/Blu-Ray for The Tokyo Battle are already up and running on most sites that ship that sort of thing, and you can find those links in this post: (x) 

Also when Bokuto first rips off his coat to reveal his rainbow battle armor, there was this wonderful little exchange.

Akaashi: Bokuto-san, those clothes... Bokuto: Ohh, Akaashi!  You noticed?? Akaashi: ...yes of course I would notice.

[amysantiagoisfone]

When I’m with you

Based on “I Like Me Better” by LAUV

special thanks for @sergeantames​ for proofreading and @detectivejacob​ for suggesting the song! 

Read on Ao3

(Psst, if you wanna suggest a song and a ship, my ask box is always open!)

--

Jake knew that this night could become a grand disaster from the moment Amy came into the restaurant. Knowing that the stakes were high on this date got his tongue tied and he wondered why he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about his feelings and just go on being miserable while Amy lived happily ever after with Teddy and their co-owned Pilsner brewery.

Yet here they were, no longer just colleagues, with eight kamikaze shots between them to crush down the barrier their computer screens back at the precinct built up.

“I’m just saying that you’d look bad with long hair!” Amy reasoned, her voice deafeningly loud after her second drink.

Jake stared at an old lady who shook her head behind his date’s back until she turned back to her own plate.

“And I’m saying that you’re wrong and that you would have had the biggest crush on me in highschool.” Jake continued, cocking an eyebrow while Amy took another bite of her plate, washing it down with water.

“Well, after a makeover, the whole awkward puberty phase, a haircut and another haircut- yeah, that can work” Amy grinned before she lifted her third shot, waiting for Jake to do the same.

“What are we drinking for now?” Jake asked. “We’ve already drank for haircuts on the last one.”

Amy let out a soft hum, looking up as if she was deep in thought. “To change,” Amy declared, their shots clinking as Jake’s smile softened. “To change,” He repeated, before he gulped down his shot.

--

“We are definitely too drunk to drive,” Jake observed, their hands intertwined together as Amy’s smirk grew mischievous.  

“I’m drunk enough to drive, baby,” Amy said in a sultry manner, wrapping Jake’s arm around her shoulders.

Jake looked at his date for a moment, taken back by the sharp imagery Amy’s voice guided him to. Her free arm wrapped tightly around his hip and the sharp scent of alcohol did more than graze his nose.  

Jake’s own head was spinning slightly, and even if his apartment was a short walking distance, he didn’t trust neither himself nor four-drink Amy to bind them to their rules at the moment.

Instead of flirting back with the endless remarks he could’ve thrown in after that, all Jake said was- “Taxi!” whistling and making a yellow car stop in front of them.

Once they got in, Jake told the driver Amy’s address, who was now resting her head against Jake’s chest, her hand tugging at his jeans mindlessly- or so Jake hoped.

He leaned his head back and swallowed the sour feeling of barf at the edge of his throat, but instead of the usual groaning and whining he’d be up to by now about how alcohol is evil and how his tummy feels like a washing machine that got electrocuted, he reached back and put Amy’s seat belt around her, lifting her head slightly so he could look at her.

“Ames? D’you feel like throwing up because I’d really want to have that window open if that’s the case,” To his relief, Amy shook her head no.

“Just sleepy. I can hold the vomit ‘till I get to my bathroom.” She assured, making Jake snort, his lips parting with a toothy grin. Who knew that caring for someone this much would be a great cure for being drunk?

“Yeah, I’ll just go and-” Jake mumbled, reaching over and opening the window anyways, just in case.

“Hey, Santiago,” Jake said, receiving a groggy “Yeah?” in return, her sleepy features mending into a smile as she looked up at him.

The way Amy’s eyes, usually wide and in-control looked at Jake, with a trusting, calm manner already gave him the answer to the question he didn’t have to ask. This date was as fun for her as it was for him.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, okay? I won’t get you up the stairs and we’ll both have to sleep outside.” Jake said, a bit of warning in his voice.

“You’ll stay with me if I sleep outside?” Amy asked, her voice softer than it was before. Dreamier, in a way.

“I could just take your keys and sl-” Jake started, only for Amy to interrupt him.

“No,” She cupped his cheeks, kissing him quickly. “Stay.”

--

“Ugh,” Amy exclaimed, placing the giant glass of water Jake gave her on the coffee table, now empty.

“How are you feeling?” Jake asked, leaning on the wall with his own glass, trying to melt his headache away.

Amy didn’t have to answer as her eyes widened and her hands rushed to her mouth. She got on her feet and practically sprinted to the bathroom, Jake following suit.

It was now Jake’s turn to “Ugh,” Before he placed his glass on the sink counter, kneeling next to Amy and pulling her hair back.

“Any better?” Jake asked once Amy pulled herself off the toilet seat, running his hand through her hair, his eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“Yup. I am never drinking again.” She promised, reaching up to the counter so she could stand up.

Jake’s hand slid to Amy’s arm, balancing her while clinging onto the edge of the sink himself, groaning as he helped her stand in front of the mirror, only now noticing how bright Amy’s bathroom lighting was, pressing his forearm against his eyes. “Ames, brush your teeth, you’ll thank me later.” Jake said, blinking quickly as he got used to the horrible light, closing the toilet seat and flushing it.

“Fine, mom.” She rolled her eyes while Jake leaned back against the counter, staying close just in case Amy feels worse again.

Her eyes seemed more focused than before now that she had less booze in her system, and Jake snorted, his shoulders shaking with his suppressed laughter.

“What?” Amy asked around her toothbrush, cocking an eyebrow at Jake as she brushed over her front teeth.

“You are such a lightweight, god,” Jake muttered, and the now-flushed Amy responded with a smack on his shoulder.

“Ow, mean!” Jake said, pouting dramatically as he rubbed over his shoulder.

Amy took Jake’s glass, gurgling the water in it before she spit it out. She cleaned her toothbrush and put it in its’ place, turning to lean against the counter, next to Jake.

“Thanks. For the date, and for this.” Amy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You too. I had fun tonight, and this goes on the good dates list…?” Jake asked, leaning his head to the side and waiting for Amy’s answer, which came as a nod.

“I think this is the only good date I’ve ever been through that ended well even if someone yarfed,” Jake said, Amy’s eyes widening as she shook her head, leaning it back with a strained moan.

“Oh my god, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” She got off the counter, starting to walk towards the door.

She didn’t get far before her head started spinning, so she sat on the toilet, letting out a heavy breath.

“Lightweight,” Jake repeated after he made sure Amy wasn’t hurt, leaning in front of her with a relieved sigh.

Once she looked up at him, Amy couldn’t help but let her hands wrap around his shoulders. Jake’s face was so close, all she needed to do was straighten her back to reach him.

The moment she did, Jake’s hands held her. One hand was on her side as the other stayed on her knee, fingernails pushing in against her dress slightly, probably out of surprise.

In her mission of getting closer to Jake, Amy pushed herself off the toilet seat, resulting in a loud bang as Jake’s back hit the open bathroom door. He ignored it, though, focusing on the fact that Amy’s fingers ran through his hair, her warm, fast breathing tingling his cheek.

“Wait- wait,” Jake said, squeezing Amy’s side so she’d listen to him. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We’ve both been drinking, and, and the rules-”

“Since when do you care about rules?” Amy said, cutting him off. She sounded surprised, and Jake didn’t blame her- He didn’t have an answer for that query himself.

He placed his hand on Amy’s arm, looking away from her. “I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret it.”

Jake shrugged, knowing that he couldn’t take his words back. There was one thing he didn’t know, though- whether he wanted to take them back. He waited for something between him and Amy to happen for so long that jeopardizing it for one night seemed impossible.

With the guide of Amy’s fingers on his chin, Jake looked up to see a smile on her face. A kind smile. A sure smile.

“And that’s how I know,” Amy muttered, her thumb grazing Jake’s cheek. “That I won’t regret it.”

Jake’s lips parted as he let out a sigh that got caught between Amy’s lips, both smiling into each other’s mouths.

--

“Hey,” Was the first word Jake heard that morning. Just a quiet whisper as he began to register the hand that held his shoulder, and the face that leaned over his own.

He smiled before his eyes even opened, busting his cover as sleeping.

“What time is it?” Jake asked, craning his neck to reach Amy’s lips, slowly turning to face her.

“Six thirty.”

“What?!”

“I know, I know! I shouldn’t have let you sleep in!”

Jake’s head pushed back, his lips in a grimace. “Okay, six thirty is definitely not sleeping in. You wake up like this every day?”

Amy smacked his chest, leaning her head on her hand. “Maybe you’d actually get to work on time if you didn’t wake up at a quarter to nine,” She reasoned.

“With the traffic in Brooklyn? I wake up at half past eight, babe.” Jake didn’t even think before he called Amy “babe”, as if it was something he did a million times already. Still, it put a smile on both of their faces.

When Jake leaned in to kiss Amy, she quickly got up. The blanket still wrapped around her, leaving him with his boxers and nothing more.

Amy picked up his plaid shirt from the floor before she shrugged it on, buttoning it up and making sure they were all lined up before she threw the blanket over Jake’s body.

His eyes, though, couldn’t get enough of Amy in his shirt, with a smile that caught him momentariously.

“So now I get the good side of waking up at six thirty,” Jake said, reaching his hand out for Amy’s, trying to coax her back to bed.

She let go of it soon enough, her tongue poking from between her lips as she went towards the door. “Get up or now or you won’t get breakfast!”

“Santiago, you can’t cook.”

“I can put cereal in a bowl with milk, Jake. There’s an NYPD shirt in that drawer over there that you can borrow.”

“I doubt that,” Jake muttered, mostly to himself, before he opened the drawer Amy gestured towards before she left the room.

--

“I still can’t believe you don’t even know how to make cereal,” Jake said once more, even after they were half finished with their bowls. They were both sitting crossed legged as they watched Arthur reruns, the only thing that wasn’t news this early in the morning.

“I put my cereal before the milk like a normal person, Jake.” Amy answered before she ate another spoonful of Cheerios, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“I just like the crunch, okay?” Jake reasoned, and he couldn’t help but smile as Amy did as well, shaking her head and looking down at her bowl.

This was something he could get used to fairly quickly. Amy in his clothes, arguing about cereal, the relaxation that dawned on him the moment he saw that she was okay.

“I feel like this isn’t the last time we’ll do this,” Jake said, smiling as he looked at Amy, finishing up on his own bowl of Cheerios.

“I’d say you’re right.” Amy turned towards him, kissing his cheek. She then leaned on his shoulder while Jake wrapped his arm around her, closing his eyes.

[scribeofred]

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47!

2. Whatis your latest fandom?

My latestfandom is Batman in terms of fic. There’s a wealth of reading material in it,and it is almost perfectly suited to my preference for brothers-relatedmaterial. There are also some very very very good writers to be found, and I’menjoying being able to consume in a large scale again, at least when I’m notsick of reading due to work.

3. Whatis the best fandom you’ve ever been involved in?

In termsof “this is my ideal place and I am never leaning,” absolutely Thunderbirds. It’salso a… very small fandom, and for a choosy consumer such as myself, that’sbeen a serious problem over the last year or two, what with the departure of alot of my favorite writers. Nevertheless, the world and the characters have embeddeddeep in my heart, and I’ll always be around somewhere in the fandom in one iterationor another.

5. Whichfandoms have your written fanfiction for?

A few! Ihave published fics for TRON: Legacy, Assassin’s Creed, FFVII, Star Wars, Sherlock,Thunderbirds, FFXV, and VLD.

As far asentirely unpublished fandoms… I have an enormous Merlin AU completelyoutlined, but I only wrote snippets of it. Too bad, because it was going to beSO GOOD. Alas, I am no good with monster projects, so it languishes, probablyforever. Unless I post the outline here. Hmm. I could do that…

7. Listyour NoTPs from each fandom you’ve been in.

Oh man. Well.Let’s see. Automatically anything incest or slash, they’re just not my mug ofpomegranate juice. Other than that, I’m relatively fluid when it comes topairings and tend to go in for anything that’s well-written and has dynamicsthat are to my taste, so I rarely hit upon pairings that make me nope entirely out.I tend to just not care about anything that doesn’t strike my fancy.

11. Whois your current OTP?

As notedabove, I am not a hardcore shipper. Favorite pairings come and go depending onmood and whether they’ve become boring due to overuse/overexposure/passage oftime or not. If I had to pick, I’d say I still default to Scott/Penny, though,because I’m still writing ’em.

13. Goon, who are your BroTPs?

Mostrecent fandoms only, in no particular order: Shiro & Pidge, Shiro &Hunk, Keith & Pidge, Keith & Hunk (VLD); Scott & Virgil, Scott& John, insert-all-possible-bro-combinations-here (TB); Dick & Jason,Jason & Stephanie, Jason & Cass, Cass & everyone, Jason & Damian(Batman).

17. Whatship have you written the most about?

I am stillinfluenced a ton by TOS, so as of the last five years, it’s Scott/Penny. They’rethe ultimate power couple, both heirs to enormous fortunes, and let’s face it:they look incredible on each other’s arm. The dynamics are lovely between them,very arch, very clever, and finding ways to make them relax around one anotheris just genuinely my favorite.

19. Anyships which you surprised yourself by liking?

Nyx/Araneafrom FFXV came out of the blue. I think I saw someone had written it once duringone of my only glances at the fandom’s AO3 section, and it lodged in my brain. Imean. I’ve read exactly one (1) fic for them and have written an equal numberof fics with them, and I don’t really think about them on my own time nowadays,but they did click with me, at least very briefly. I also super wasn’texpecting to like Shiro/Allura from VLD, but they touched hands in S2, and Idid that little flappy hand thing and made The Noise, and I knew I was InTrouble.

23. Whatfic do you desperately need to rewrite or edit?

See, I dothis thing. Where once I’ve posted a fic, I am disinclined to reread it withoutsome serious—usually external—prompting. Not because I hate it! But because I’vejust moved on to new ideas—that one has had all the hooks it had in my brainreleased by way of posting the story, and I don’t need to think about it anylonger. I’m not very interested in rewriting old material, although last week Idid reread Three Towels and a Tracy for the first time in a couple years, and Imade a few tiny tweaks to the AO3 version for improved readability. I edit soheavily while I initially write a story, though, that I really don’t leavemyself much room for editing/rewriting at a late date.

Arealistic answer would be “probably the first ten or so stories I posted becauseI know So Much More about writing, especially the technical elements, now thanI did then, and there are undoubtedly many missing/misplaced commas int them.”

29. Whatinspires you to write?

Sometimesit’s vivid mental images that I Must Put Into Words (an upcoming FFVII story);sometimes a piece of art or a song compels me to put words down. Imagery is abig thing in my writing, so it tends to be something visual that sparks aproject, although occasionally combinations of words just *sing* to be put downsomewhere. Truth told, I write for SS and no one else, so yeah, she’s myinspiration.

31. Doyou listen to music when you write or does music inspire you? If so, which bandor genre of music does it for you?

Music inand of itself rarely inspires me these days, with one notable exception, but I dousually listen to it while writing. Anything instrumental gets at least tried,but I lean toward film/game/TV scores (Hans Zimmer yaaaaaasssss), smooth jazz, epicproduction music, and some electronic music. If music is too much for onereason or another, I will pull up a soundscape generator—myNoise is amazing; I’vebeen all over the Black Hole soundscape recently—and let that run on animatefor an hour or two.

37. Doyou use established canon characters, or do you create OCs?

I alwaystry to write canon characters unless it’s necessary to create a person for aspecific scenario. OCs can be hard to connect with unless you’re very good at makingreaders care, so they’re a bit risky. I know I prefer to read about canoncharacters, though, so that drives my thinking when I create plots/scenarios.

41. Listand link to 5 fanfiction authors who are amazing:

@preludeinz is just… one of the best writers you’re ever going to find. The way she’sable to take literally any scenario or characters and make them interestingbaffles me even years into knowing her, and you will not find a better writer todescribe clothing. She’s as brilliant at handling character interactions as sheis at describing lasagna food. Also, her dialogue is A++

lurkinglurkerwholurksis another complete package. Everything about their writing is engaging andfeels so polished, and they have an enviable ability to capture characters’ voices.I’m constantly blown away by the quality of their work, and I’m waiting withbated breath for the next chapter of Nature and Nurture.

@headspacedad writes some of the best stream of consciousness I’ve encountered. The firstchapter of their story Falling took my breath away, and subsequent updatescontinue to knock the air out of me. Writing a character who’s lost a primarysense is no easy feat, but they make it incredibly easy, and indeed the storyis so rich with details that it’s 100% better that way.

If youwant a writer who’s going to challenge you with each chapter, each scene, eachparagraph, each sentence, pollywantsa is absolutely the writer for you. I’mperhaps a tiny bit traumatized by one particular work, but in general every storyis worth reading. There’s a sense of weight to each piece, a gravity that goesbeyond fandom trappings and sinks into your very bones, lives like mercury inthe bottoms of your lungs, dragging you down into the unshakable truths that areinescapably human. Real people make wrong decisions, destroy other people orthemselves; they are crude and profane and selfish and so very beautiful intheir imperfections, and polly will remind you of that with each tone-perfectword they’ve laid down.

Roundingout the list is @velkynkarma. Unusual stories and unique situations that I neverwould have considered reading are some of my favorite stories because of VK’sskill at finding the engaging threads to pull into the light. Space mouse vsCoran? Amazing. Keith + space mouse shenanigans? Incredible. Zarkon + eldritchhorror? Terrifying but so engaging. Slav and Sven AU? Worthy of popcorn. Heapsof Shiro angst? Sign me up. The high quality of both storytelling and technicalskill are not to be missed, and every new story and chapter updated is a TREAT.

(honorarymention: @deepwaterstars for being the sunbeam to my moonbeam

43. Whatship do you feel needs more attention?

Uh… I’mnot sure tbh. I’m not a “shipper,” and I tend to read gen fic as a wholesalerule. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more Virgil/Penny, I guess?

47. Doyou leave reviews when you read fanfiction? Why/why not?

Mmmm.See. This is the thing I’m trying to get better about. Because I tend to go ALLIN when I comment and drop a solid 300–500 words, and that takes time, even ifthe words are flowing. I find it hard to write something more modest, because Iknow exactly how much I drool over the writers who leave me enormous comments,and I want to give them the same feelings. I tend to only comment whensomething has truly moved me, especially since I’ve tried to move on from the unasked-forcritique-style reviews. Maybe one day I’ll find a happy middle ground.

ask me about fanfic!

[youusedme]

🔫 !

FIND MY MUSE  (accepting) /★/ 🔫 adrift in space 

@etrnty​

★—  HOW LONG HAD IT BEEN? 

Years? Months? Days? Hours? 

Time in Space was completely different, and compared to the time he was in ice --- when everything was so STILL. Many would assume that he felt nothing because he was in a stasis ---- but Steve could’ve sworn that he felt that first couple of hours when he was just FALLING; drifting. How weightless he felt in the powerful ocean that swept him lower and lower into it’s depths --- how HELPLESS he felt as he was submerged into dreams and thoughts. That was the very same feeling that this experience had emulated. 

With his head tilted back, body adrift in a suit with flashing imagery --- his ship damaged and beaten from the attack from the Kree. Luckily most of his team had gotten away, but there was when the saying rung true; the Captain was prepared to go down with his ship, and stayed on board while everyone escaped using the pods to the nearest station. Steve meanwhile stayed until they were all safe from the larger battleships. 

LOW OXYGEN flashed on every monitor. The gravity and tracking stabilizers were lost from the last attack -- And it was as though he could feel himself sinking into that slumber --- of which, he was unsure he would wake up from. 

His eyes were heavy, and he was dazed, barely staying conscious from the last hit that was taken. Loud sirens, tears in the metal creating vacuum in sectors of the ship ---- it wasn’t going to take long. 

It was then, in his defeated gaze, that he caught sight of a figure--- that seemed so ETHEREAL and UNREAL. His gloved hand reached for it weakly; most of his strength having left his body by now. ---- But how it glimmered and glittered like a thousand stars. It was as though his body was lifted toward the figure; his savior in the darkness. Unknown in his state as to what it could be--- the first thing that came to mind was that it was the heavens themselves personified to save him ---- His body moved so willingly toward it. 

❛  Are you.. Real?    -- Or is this a dream...❜

[caltropspress]

Notes on AKAI SOLO’s Eleventh Wind

Rhythm in poetry need not be “smooth” or “musical” (since that word has a questionable meaning). Be cautious of these descriptions as a so-called “good ear.”

—“Manifesto” from Russell Atkins’ Juxtapositions

I try to become really liquid with the shit—not even liquid. I try to become formless.

—AKAI SOLO

Always the same thing. A drop of hope glimmers, then a sea of despair begins to rage, and always the pain, always the pain, always the anguish, always one and the same thing.

—Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

I've been robbing motherfuckers since the slave ships.

—The Notorious B.I.G., “Gimme the Loot”

1.

There’s an “unfinished” aesthetic (I mean it gently, fondly) to AKAI SOLO’s work. His rhymes often start in medias res. The listener needs to become oriented to what he’s spewing, but he barely allows you to catch your breath. For anyone who’s ever been thrown [au]topsy-turvy by an ocean’s wave, you can respect the power of the primordial soup flow. Each verse is a wipeout. It’s Ron Wilson’s relentless drums on the Surfaris’ 1963 “Wipe Out” and the Fat Boys’ rollicking 1987 version all at once—joy pulled from despair.

2. “…a sunken system”

What is flow? In AKAI’s case, it’s something abrupt—both a step-up and a step-to. Is it free-form? Is it automatic writing gone horribly wrong? Is it asemic writing? Is it a Ouija-like push of the pen across the page? A flower doodled on scrap paper? Is it AKAI’s language acquisition happening in real time—a babbling? It’s not an infantile flow, though. Mannish boy? Man-child? It sometimes sounds like lips smacking of Mississippi mud. Think of AKAI on Shrine’s “Parables” (which begins with the lapping of waves—not the babbling brook): he takes “a deep sea soak in plasma.” The structure and borders of AKAI’s bars are liquid (formless); his words wash over.

3. “Pondering of the painter in between strokes.” (An Unknown Infinite, “Concrete Slides”)

Who’s out of pocket? Geochemistry tells us small pockets of water pulsate deep below the Earth’s surface. I find AKAI to be offbeat in both senses of the word. He’s both outré and outer space. Antediluvian and FEMA flood recovery plan. His bars rupture the very notion of time, of meter. To rap along with AKAI is to have an out-of-body experience—our neuroscience skitters and we gain an astral perspective on what the physical mouth is doing. Sheldon Pearce has called AKAI’s verses “impressionistic.” Plugging into AKAI’s music is to induce the Stendhal syndrome—beholding the sublimity of Claude Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, but—more accurately—Calida Garcia Rawles’ Singularity, seeing as how AKAI keeps it hyper-real. He “signs” nearly all his songs—another painterly touch.

4. The Earth is a great place to visit, but I ain't stayin’. (J-Ro, The Alkaholiks)

AKAI SOLO is for the antisocial kid who quotes Bruce Lee under their yearbook photo: Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless—like water. Water is everywhere on Eleventh Wind, even if the album title suggests other elemental forces. AKAI sometimes slurs, but not drunkenly—this isn’t some stumbling and staggering likwidation: it’s a reflection of your own grogginess, your own inertia from sleeping on his flow. There are oceans between J.M.W. Turner’s The Slave Ship and the “Big Pimpin’” of Jay-Z, but AKAI’s poetics bridge the two. He comes at us, off-kilter, aslant, like the uneasy and queasy cover art for O.G.C.’s Da Storm.

5. “…a ship came, seeking harbour, fleeing from torture & swords” (from Kamau Brathwaite’s “Noom”)

The content often defies logical reasoning. He spits non-sequiturs in a literal sense, in that he does not follow. He machetes his own path (cutlass, more likely). AKAI is Cappadonna with his words—his slang is editorial, and it floods similarly. Zilla Rocca has called Cappadonna’s work “a waterfall of energy and creativity.” The same, seriously, could be applied to AKAI SOLO. I’ll call it logorrhea—and I don’t mean that pejoratively. It’s the seasickness you stomach so you can see the sunset from hundreds of miles off land.

The songs on Eleventh Wind are essentially single verses. There’s no middle eight, only an interminable Middle Passage. And water is everywhere.

6.

AKAI’s lineage traces to the same cove you’d find Mr. Complex and Saafir washed ashore. Like those predecessors, his un-rhymes and rhythm-driven bars beat against the rocks, ebbing just when you think he’s flowing. He’s an H2O proof MC. He’s Black hydropower, and, like the ancestors, AKAI continues to speak of rivers, of swerve of shore to bend of bay.

On “An Ode to the Isolated,” argov’s production sounds submerged, certifiably Cousteau. We’re immediately in the deep, and the beat platforms AKAI’s aqua-lung breath control. He’s “in a den of dissonance dissolving,” which puts language to what’s happening sonically here better than a critic ever could. AKAI is “overwhelmed by your deep blueness”—the vast blue sea. These are pandemic blues. The Covid-minded lyric, “Masks donned as requested,” doubles as the masculine trap to swallow pain, smothering emotion in gritty sand, while still forward-facing a street persona. AKAI has acknowledged Eleventh Wind was, in part, generated from a depressive state.

7.

[Testimony of John Cranston, a sailor upon the Polly, describing a slave woman hoisted down to sea from the mainmast in a chair after being isolated for small pox, June 15, 1791]

Q: Did you not hear her speak or make any Noises when she was thrown over—or see her struggle? A: No—a Mask was ty’d round her mouth & Eyes that she could not, & it was done to prevent her making any Noise that the other Slaves might not hear, least they should rise. Q: Do you recollect to hear the Capt. say any thing after the scene was ended? A: All he said was he was sorry he had lost so good a Chair. Q: Did any person endeavour to prevent him throwing her [over]board? A: No.

8.

“Tetsuo” draws on Tsukamoto’s trilogy of cyberpunk perversity. How AKAI could feel “washed before the water touch the skin” is beyond me, as the skin crawls with maggots. The penetration of metal rods, but no tetanus—no lockjaw. Only body horror flow. He’s sketching futures—and all of them are nightmarish: “Surrounded by a blanket of ashes, / We all fall down like that one song said we would.” AKAI vaguely alludes to a plague rhyme of yore. And the uncertainties we’re living with come through even in his drafts, as the liner notes on PTP’s cassette release of the album provide a set of lyric options: “Surrounded by a sea/bed/blanket…” Choose your own misadventure.

9. From at least the sixteenth century onward, a major part of the ocean engineering of ships has been to...minimize the wake. But the effect of trauma is the opposite. It is to make maximal the wake. (Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being)

On “Tainted,” AKAI—young as he may be—identifies the foolishness of some of his peers: “N----s wanna toast on a slave ship / …sinking with the drink.” AKAI suggests they’re still on the slave ship, ignorant of the fact. When he goes off on a paranoid tangent full of what seem to be elementary internal rhymes, it’s anything but: “hitting a lark / in the dark / in the park / skill a shark / or a narc / ill a mark on his job every time.” This litany of monosyllabic rhymes sounds an alarm.

10. “Even though the vessels differ, we’re all still sailing. / …navigation through suffering.”

“Still Sailing” acts as a centerpiece for the water imagery on Eleventh Wind. It’s also a self-assessment of his style. The “wavelength irregular” puns on wave and owns the irregular flow; “my groove goofy,” he admits. His vulnerability is stunning, refreshing: “I was ensuring my work was worth something.” Such vulnerability is liquid, is flux, reflects reality:

In a dirt sea, all I am is a seed Reaching for what I mean to Rooted in what it is, galvanized by what can be.

Even AKAI’s other nature metaphors—like earth (be it rare-earth or “Real Earth,” no matter), seeds, and roots—are built on water ones (“dirt sea”). This is Wallace Stevens-level abstraction. “Flowing like katanas of grass / Landscaping through with blazing sound waves” does it again (“flowing”/“grass”). And, of course, the mention of flowing katanas invites a Liquid Swords comparison. With the even cuts of AKAI’s sharp lyrics, it’s warranted.

I want to feel like Vast Aire, “like Moses with a staff that parts the Red Sea,” but it’s not so simple. Meaning is slippery on the album—hard to get your footing, your sea legs. Listeners are pulled into rip-tides and torn asunder, repeatedly. AKAI’s songs are raw—not in a hardcore way—in a work-in-progress sense, the way some of the most sincere songs humans have recorded are at times unfinished ones. Like Dylan’s “Santa Fe,” for instance, where the words converge into a slurry.

11. “Your water heavier than it’s supposed to be and they know that.”

On “Candor,” AKAI speaks on the burden of family discord, a “dilemma with me and mines.” In venting, he channels and subverts LL Cool J: “Don’t call it a comeback / These are just preliminary steps / On your back like structural racism is.” Where LL foregrounded his pugnacious masculinity, masking his insecurities (all the while calling for his “Mama”), AKAI is more likely to allow his tears to rain down like a monsoon. Candor has its origins in kand, meaning “to shine.” AKAI’s words offer glimmers of clarity, of openness.

12. “Depression stirs me before the morning chirps.”

Eleventh Wind closes with “Nebula”—gases flow, dust is bathed in glowing starlight. Again, we’re persevering: “Sound like nil singing / Feeling like nebula unraveling / Feeling like infinity expanding.” The consecutive gerunds emphasize AKAI’s desperation. He’s nihilistic here, nonexistent (“nil”) and grasping for meaning. In that way, he’s not so different from us approaching his music. Whether people are hot or cold, irate or aloof, he turns to water for comfort: “When I want to feel the heat I don’t get from people, I resort to water. / When I want to feel the cold I know people for, I resort to water.” AKAI SOLO doesn’t just bless us, he christens us.

Images:

The Fat Boys & The Beach Boys, “Wipeout” music video (screen shot) | The Surfaris, “Wipe Out” 12” (Decca, 1963) | Fat Boys, “Wipeout!” 12” (Tin Pan Apple, 1987) | Jay-Z, “Big Pimpin’” music video (screen shot) | J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840) | Originoo Gunn Clappaz, Da Storm cassette cover (Duck Down/Priority Records, 1996) | Claudia Garcia Rawles, Singularity (2018) | The Alkaholiks, Likwidation album cover (Loud, 1997) | James Neagle, Frontispiece for the Dying Negro (1793) | Screen shot from Tetsuo II: Body Hammer (Shinya Tsukamoto, 1992) | Hokusai, Feminine Wave (1845) | Carina Nebula, NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team | Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise (1872)

[ghost-chance]

A New Lease on Life 2: Death Was Only the Beginning

A quick note regarding dialogue and odd words: Symbols at the end of a word or statement mark vocabulary terms or references defined at the end. If a word is followed by a dash or ellipses, it's translated or defined at the end of the chapter. I try to define most of the stuff that's really odd, heavily altered due to pronunciation, and local slang that non-local readers might not pick up. If you see a - or ~ at the end of a SENTENCE, it means the sentence or paragraph has been 'explained' in the same way; this will become necessary once Amber starts letting her oddities (and going through crisis-induced 'relapse' speech which is heavily brogued) but the relapses aren't really a frequent occurrence until the end of Part I.

This chapter dedicated to Volunteers. You put your life on hold to bring life to others, all without any thought of compensation. My old community is one of countless forever changed by volunteers, from search and rescue to donations to rebuilding. Thank you…our debt to you can never be repaid enough. Also dedicated to the real-life inspiration for 'Aaron,' whom I owe my very life to.

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS! Including but not limited to Tornadoes, Severe weather, Town destroyed by tornadoes and severe weather, shock, graphic imagery, corpses, violent death, mentions of religion.

Suggested Listening: Linkin Park "Iridescent"          

2: Death Was Only the Beginning                  

             Willsdale, Missouri, Sunday May 8th, 2011          

The sound of violent retching woke Amber with a start; sometime during the night she'd apparently fallen off the sofa and now lay sprawled on the carpet in a pile. As sleepy disorientation faded into exhausted annoyance, she glanced off to her right. Sure enough, the bathroom door hung wide open spilling bright light out into the cramped hallway. "Good thing ya got short hair, Willis," she muttered, crawling back on the lumpy sofa. "I ain't gotta feel guilty 'bout not holdin' it back for ya."

"Fuck you, O'Brien—" her friend's guttural retort was interrupted by another round of heaving.

"I told ya that whisky'd kill ya," she reminded matter-of-factly as she swiped a long brown braid back over her shoulder. "Yer usual beer's water compared to Scotch whisky; smells like goat piss, too." Clutching her stiff back, she stumbled off the sofa and limped into the tiny kitchen seeking coffee. A note tacked to the fridge told her their host had already headed to work, and the bitter perfume of coffee filled the dog-scented air. As she dug through the cabinet for a mug a tiny, half-blind and completely neurotic black and tan Chihuahua danced at the back door, growling and barking at her. "Quiet, Nina—Uncle Aaron's hungover." Not surprisingly the dog simply snapped and growled again, then scattered when Amber came to open the back door.

"Let the damn thing out!" Aaron groaned into the toilet. "My head's KILLING ME!"

"Again, not my fault - I tried'a warn ya." Since Nina wouldn't willingly come within several yards of anyone but Ma Willis, Amber propped the back door open and returned to the coffee maker, grinning when the neurotic dog rocketed out the back door like the vet was on her heels. The door shut and her mug set up, she took a cup of water and a bottle of Mtn Dew in for Aaron. "Why on Earth your cousin thought gettin' you drunk was a GOOD idea, I'll never know."

"Oh, come'ere you sweet, beautiful bitch!" Aaron rasped; knowing he didn't mean her, Amber shoved the soda at him and left, laughing under her breath. Some things never changed, and his Mtn Dew addiction was among those things. So too, she contemplated with a crooked grin, was the way the three best friends got along by harassing one another.

The Terrible Trio started with Amber O'Brien, only daughter of a Scottish immigrant and completely unable to fit in with the locals even after she took on their twang. It quickly became a duo with the inclusion of Mercy Ross, a bristly beauty with an affinity for cows and a horrible homelife. Then in High School the two odd friends met Aaron Willis - a son of a local and the very definition of a Country Bumpkin. Years went by and the three friends only grew closer, grew more obnoxious toward one another, and grew into a fixture in town. Even after Aaron's family left Willsdale for nearby Glenville after Graduation, they still kept close contact until he moved into a double-wide trailer near Amber's home.

Supposedly Aaron Willis was completely disinterested in love, sex, and the like - he'd never shown any interest in anyone and spent years oblivious to Amber's puppy love crush on him - but deep in her heart Amber was sure he'd never be attracted to her even if he weren't apparently asexual. That ship, after all, had long sailed...she wasn't the sort to pine after someone who couldn't return her feelings and it became clear in time that they would have been horribly suited. Still, even if romance was an option, Amber was sure she wasn't Aaron's 'type' - she was plain, barely 5'3, and morbidly overweight. Her brown hair started going grey in her teen years—supposedly a hereditary thing—and she couldn't walk a straight line if she was paid to. Love had never been in the cards for her, and ever since she was hit by a van during college, neither had meaningful work.

'God almighty, quitcher whinin' O'Brine!'- she reminded herself fiercely. 'I'm alive, I'm not dyin' in an RCF, I've gotta roof over my head, food in my cabinets, an' two kickarse friends. Things could be so much worse than monthly booty calls, sexual frustration, an' an end-table ass.' Mid-rant Aaron collapsed at the rickety wooden table, burying his head in his arms.

"Please tell me Ma left donuts," he mumbled.

"Nope, just pizza," she grinned, poking his springy blond curls. "Your favorite…but it's got pickles on it."

"Sacrilege!" he spat rushing to the fridge. "She didn't—she wouldn't!" A moment later he slanted a suspicious glare at her over the rims of his glasses, his off-kilter blue eyes narrowed. "Quit pickin' on the hungover person. Pickles on pizza…you need yer head checked."

"We a'ready know that, Sugar," she grinned, snagging an éclair from the box. "Thanks for the YouTube footage, by the way: 'Drunkard milks bull,' sure to be a hit."

"I WHAT?!" he squawked. "Oh, HELL NAW! You post that an' I'll piss in your garden! On your roses!" The two friends bickered good-naturedly for the rest of the morning, never realizing that their world had changed forever.

Hours later Amber's beat up Red Civic pulled up to an empty driveway…a driveway with no standing building behind it.

Once Aaron's hangover had abated they'd returned to Willsdale, blasting Quiet Riot and Black Sabbath the whole way. As they crept over the city limits, though, the now silent car deafened the occupants stunned by their surroundings. It wasn't quite sinking in…how could so much have happened in one weekend?

The once-bustling small town was nearly gone, and what was left in its place could only be described as a war zone. Vacant cars lay crumpled along the road between downed utility poles. Fallen, splintered trees littered the landscape. There was debris everywhere—hanging in trees, pinned under fallen structures, blowing along the ground—Amber never even noticed tears streaming from her eyes or murmured reassurances from Aaron. Every structure they passed was demolished, every landmark they knew was erased. The power station, the cemetery, the house always surrounded by suicidal free-range guinea hens...all that remained was rubble-strewn dirt and asphalt. She knew what she'd find there, and she hated to see it, but before she knew it, she'd pulled into her own driveway.

Her house, the tiny shotgun shack she'd lived in for years, was reduced to a pile of timber and siding, her struggling garden buried under a ton of shattered brick and shingle.

"Amber," Aaron called repeatedly as she wandered from her car to what was once the front step. "Amber, wait!" She shook her head deliriously as she dug frantically through the debris pile over the porch; in her shock-addled mind, all she could think of was getting inside and curling up on the sagging plaid couch. It never even registered that not only was the sofa probably ruined, the house itself was no longer standing. Cursing, Aaron scrambled over fallen timber and fractured supports to tear Amber away from the ruins.

"No!" she cried frantically, fighting to get free. "It's my home! I've gotta—"

"AMBER!" he shouted, framing her face in callused hands. "Amber, it's gone! You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep this up!" Memories flashed before her eyes, blocking out the familiar blue eyes staring into her own. Without warning, dry, chapped lips met hers fiercely as strong arms held her like she was about to be ripped out of them. When he finally let go, she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing brokenly as they slid to the sodden ground. As if mocking them, the clouds broke open anew; thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and torrents of rain mingled with hopeless tears.

             Sunday, May 15th, 2011          

Over a week later, Amber and Aaron were still sheltered at City Hall with countless other refugees. Neither had a home to go to, now, and Aaron wasn't able to get word out to his mother with the phone lines and cell towers down. Though he didn't understand, Amber wouldn't contact her family - her mother and father, or even the cherished and gruff grandparent she affectionately called "Gran'Da," insisting it was pointless. With every tearful story and gut-wrenching news report on the radio, the truth became clearer. The night after they drove up to visit his mother an EF 5 tornado spawned outside of town. By the time it fizzled out, it had destroyed much of the town, many of the outlying farms and homes, and left hundreds dead or homeless. Amber's home was gone, Aaron's home was gone, and no one could get ahold of Mercy Ross; Aaron worried what this might mean, and heaved a weary sigh.

Search and rescue teams descended on the ruined town with a vengeance early on, working their way through it with military precision. Everywhere, codes had been spray painted on crumbled structures and vehicles. How many survivors, how many dead, what hazards were present…just overnight, Amber's life had become an endless parade of neon x's, scribbled codes, and body bags, interspersed with canned soup and crying children. Every hour of every day it rained more and more, and Amber sat in a quiet corner staring blankly at the wall.

Aaron Willis watched her forlornly as he helped hand out bottled water. She'd been afraid of storms longer than he'd known her and he was used to witnessing anxiety attacks over the smallest rainstorm. Now, though, now she seemed almost empty and never spoke. Something was dreadfully wrong with his friend, but he had no idea what he could do. It was heart-rending to see her so dull and lifeless. Worst of all, he'd kissed her—finally given in to his years-old hidden crush and kissed her—but for whatever reason, she didn't realize the significance. She probably thought he was just trying to comfort her, he reasoned darkly, absent-mindedly crushing an empty bottle into nothing. Frustrated and helpless, he threw himself into making himself useful in any way he could and making call after call that never went through. When the rain finally let up that afternoon, unbeknownst to the rest, Amber left her corner and slipped away.

At first, she just wandered aimlessly, hopelessly lost in the town she'd spent her whole life in but following some lure only she saw. Everything was changed, everything was gone, but she felt nothing at all. Surely she should be feeling something, she thought blandly as she walked past a bloodstained, crumpled truck wrapped around a tree. Surely the horrors around her and the circling vultures should be jarring at the very least.

A battered wooden sign came into view as she crested the hill. Though most of the letters had been stripped off by rain and grit and the building behind was half-toppled, she knew without a doubt where she was. After all, she spent the last several years scrubbing the school from top to bottom every weeknight; she'd know it with her eyes closed. She drifted through the shattered glass doors in a daze, scanning the trashed hallways without notice. Her feet led her to the library and a familiar shelf she'd spent her teen years reading top to bottom. Debris was brushed aside halfheartedly until she found her target.

Dark of the Moon. It was a poetry volume long out of print and rarely found outside of libraries, and while she was a student, the book spent more time in her backpack than on its shelf. Such a shame for such a wondrous book to be lost forever, she thought hollowly as she gently leafed through now fragile pages.

Movement out the window caught her eye; thunder rolled, clouds menaced and a jagged grey tear loomed overhead. Off to the southwest was the monster she'd feared most of her life, and it was heading her way. The numb woman watched the horizon in disinterest, uncaring of the strange disembodied ticking sound or the sudden feeling of calm that washed over her. Rain pelted the cracked glass windows and wind howled, kicking up clouds of debris from the already battered landscape. A deafening, grinding roar like a fork in a disposal shattered the air as the tornado drew nearer. Amber stared it down never flinching as her ears ached from the pressure.

Perhaps...perhaps this was her only choice - the only way she'd ever find peace. If she was in her right mind, she would be horrified by the thought...but she wasn't in her right mind at all. That foul monster stole her home, stole her town, stole her very life, but there was one thing it would never steal…

Heedless of the broken glass underfoot she dropped to her scarred, aching knees. Head bowed, she prayed—prayed for the safety of her friends and family, prayed for the souls of those touched by the tornadoes' destruction, and prayed for peace in the afterlife. The window exploded inward and shattered glass rained over her head but her only regret was that she'd never found a love worth living for.

A bedraggled team searched the school for survivors. "HEY!" shouted the tall black man as he clambered toward the woman kneeling before the shattered windows. He checked Amber's neck but recoiled at the bloody wound at her forehead; the body was long grown stiff and she had no pulse. "Why on earth did you come here?" he wondered aloud. "Why didn't you seek shelter?"

A block of cloudy green glass lay nearby, the corner stained with blood - a glass brick. Her cold corpse told a vile story of a woman in shock who was taken by surprise and died from head injury, and showed plainly what happened when humans pitted themselves against nature. At least, the man considered with a grimace, it was likely quick - she died on her knees, possibly praying for her life, but at least she didn't suffer.

His brown-haired companion noticed the book cradled in her arms and wrenched it free, wincing at the way the body fell to the floor from the motion. The book's title wasn't ringing any bells. "It's a shame," the first-responder remarked as they eased the stiff body into a black bag and zipped it closed. Someone would come by later on and cart her to the morgue with the storms' other casualties for identification. "This book clearly meant something to her, though - she thought it was worth dying for. It'd be a pity to leave it behind when the building will just wind up razed." Moments later the team had moved on, a neon orange code on the tiles of the front entryway Amber's only memorial.

             A vast, dark place somewhere beyond Time

            'Wha…where am I?' Amber thought distractedly as she scanned her surroundings. The last thing she remembered was a book…what book? Oh, right; Dark of the Moon, that poetry anthology that she'd coveted for years. Why did she covet it, though? Was it not hers? No matter how she tried, the details of her life were slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers.  

   She existed in a vast expanse of bleak, black nothingness, her only company the incessant ticking of a legion of unseen clocks. How did she get here? She couldn't recall—everything was a blur! Confused, she wracked her brain for answers that continued to evade her. In a deeply engrained stress habit, she reached to pull one of her twin braids over her shoulder, intent on tugging at the loose tuft at the end.  

   Nothing happened. Though she knew she'd moved and her brain had sent the proper signals, she had no braids—no hands—no body! 'What's happened to me?!' she thought frantically. 'Did I…no, it can't be…I didn't…die…?' She trailed off, her uncertainty solidifying into begrudging realization. 'I'm dead. I'm farkin' dead. Well, this sucks. But if I'm dead, why'm I so alone? This place is dead even for the Afterlife. Unless…' Not for the first time, she wondered if her beliefs hadn't been rightly placed. If there was no God, no Heaven or Hell, then where was she? Of course, she reasoned, if that was true, why was she even conscious that she existed? Without a body of her own, how could she exist?

Unbidden, familiar words filled her memory in between ticks and tocks.

This is the vestibule to Hell, where those who would make no choices in life are condemned. Neither warm nor cold, believers nor blasphemers—you see them in the hills. They chase a banner they will never catch.

'Of course,' she realized bitterly. 'Inferno—Niven and Pournelle's take on Dante's Divine Comedy. I read that danged book to tatters, an' it never e'en occurred to me. I must be in the vestibule in a lil' bronze jar. Great….at least my fat arse finally fits in a 'one size fits all' container.'* But if I'm in a jar, that means I can get out!' Focusing with all her strength, she repeated the phrase that had been Allen Carpenter's saving grace. 'Fer the love'a God, get me out'a here!'  

   If she hadn't been stuck in a little bronze jar in Hell, she'd have heard crickets; instead, she only heard the maddening ticking sounds. Amber winced, going over the phrase again in case she'd misspoken; maybe her would-be rescuer had passed her by over rudeness? 'Um…please?'  

   Her tiny empty world was sucked into oblivion as she hoped against hope that she wouldn't wake up at the feet of Benito Mussolini.** 

Translations

- "Quitcher whinin' O'Brine!" - 'Quit your whining, O'Brien!'

Up next: "One Life Ends, Another Begins"

                     Notes:        

*Amber calling herself fat is a self-defense mechanism—an unhealthy one. It's always much easier to call yourself fat and insult your own behind, for example, than to hear someone say the same thing about you. Remember, real beauty isn't dependent on your waist, your hips, your butt, or any other impermanent BS like that.

**Waking up at the feet of Benito Mussolini. This is a reference to Niven and Pournelle's book Inferno. When Carpenter found himself out of his little brass bottle, he woke up at Benito's feet staring at his own navel, convinced it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. You really should read the book regardless of that scene—it's a hoot!

[bosstoaster]

do you have any good shiro fic recommendations?

I’ve been sitting on a couple of these, but yeah.  Let’s do this.

a hollow nest to dream in @lightshesaid and Quadriviuum (I don’t know if they have a tumblr oops)From the Voltron Gen Big Bang, this has been open for me to comment on for days now and I’m a bad person who hasn’t, so get a rec instead.  This is a gorgeous, amazing fic.  Taking place after Shiro’s disappearance from the Black Lion, this cycles through universes and time and space in a way that’s stunning to read.  Gorgeous.  Read it now.

All the World Will Be Your Enemy@bosstoaster (lol self rec)

There will be a couple of these, indulge me.  Shiro escapes early and ends up captured with the GG.  This leads to him becoming a Space Pirate.  No, really.  This is my current baby so I’m going to show it off whenever possible.  I loved a look into Shiro’s head if he got just one extra push.

Prince of Memory@velkynkarma

Shiro begins to get different memories from his captivities.  Ones that are painful, yes, but lead him on a different journey.  One to bring home the Last Words of his fellow captives.  Poignant, beautiful, touching.  Picking a favorite fic from Velkyn would be tough, but this is a serious contender. 

All Too Familiar@oldmythos

Shiro can’t sleep.  There are many reasons he can’t sleep, but there are also many people looking to help him out.  Adorable, heartwarming, with a couple of dashes of angst like a good hot sauce.  A++ stuff.

Ten Years On Series@bosstoaster

Okay the last of the self recs, I’m sorry about this.  Shiro wakes up after the events of season 2 and finds himself ten years in the future, where everyone had to learn to get on without him.  Number three in the series is Teeth Ready for Sinking, which is the deepest examination of the situation and the highlight of the whole thing, in my ever so humble (lol) opinion.

From the Inside@queenvallkyrie

Uliro.  Voltron is hit with an attack by Haggar that leaves everyone feeling vulnerable and violated.  Shiro is there for the others, and then Ulaz is there for him. Short but gorgeous.  Valkyrie is amazing in general and does a lot of Shiro focus, so keep an eye out on her others stuff.  Especially if you like Uliro.

Parasite Knight@velkynkarma

Just how does Shiro’s arm work?  How did he get it? What does it run off of?  What happens when that runs out? Warning for this being a dark one, but it’s so, so, so good.  To say much more would be to ruin it, but this fic is amazing and it delves so deep into the very core of Shiro’s being and his relationship with the crew and I just love it.

what the living won’t let go@mumblefox

For the Voltron Gen Mini Bang, Shiro ends up as something like a ghost after the events of season 2.  He goes on a personal journey, seeing the team afterwards, and then goes through something bigger.  Galaxy big.  Universe big.  Time big.  The imagery and breathtaking scale in a relatively short read is reason enough to rec this forever.  Try it for yourself.

Nobody Learns@sassafrassrex

Another great Shiro-centric writer (tho some fics I’ll remind you to mind the warnings).  This one is Matt POV but Shiro is probably tied for the most important character.  It goes through Matt and Shiro’s time at the Garrison, up through the Kerberos mission.  Sass and I have a lot of agreements on Shiro’s personality, especially pre-capture/Voltron, so if you like my stuff you’ll like hers.

Something Strange@ashinan

Andy does a lot of lovely Shiro shipping stuff.  If you dig Sheith or Uliro you should definitely check it out.  But my fav of her Shiro-focused stuff is this little gen piece.  Shiro can see ghosts.  No one else in the team of cryptid/ghost-hunters can.  This is not usually a problem, but sometimes it is.  A little big of horror, but mostly campy and fun like a good campfire story.  

Unafraid@butteredonions

Yeah, we knew we were getting to Miss Onions eventually.  So I’m really biased.  Super biased.  Crazy biased.  This fic was for me, lol.  But it’s SUPER cute and my favorite of Onion’s AUs (and that is a hefty title lol).  Hufflepuff!Shiro preps for his seventh year, only to find Hogwarts is prepping for the Triwizard Tournament.  Featuring everyone in fantastic roles with amazing parallels.  So good.  Please read.  Please love it.  Please help me convince Onions there needs to be more of it.

The Throne in the Hall@butteredonions

The crown jewel of Shiro-centric fics.  100 percent.  This fic is a battle between Shiro and a Galra Commander.  It’s nearly 13k of some of the best action I’ve ever read in any medium ever.  It’s an engaging character study, showcasing the depths of Shiro’s skills and perseverance.  It’s gorgeous imagery and breathtaking writing.  It is the best Shiro-centric fic on AO3.  Period.  I love every fic on this list, but it still holds that place in my heart.

Smile Wide@sassafrassrex

Shiro learns to survive in the world of gladiators.  Brutal, vicious, fantastic.  This is the only non-compete fic on this list, and it makes it because I think it stand on it’s own anyway.  Give it a shot.

Chasing Rabbits, Chasing Hope@hufflepirate

Pacific Rim AU.  Voltron is an experimental five-pilot Jaeger.  It has it’s own, unique challenges and issues.  Shiro struggles under the pressure, and Coran offers advice, his ear, and tea.

Special shout out to @demenior who writes great Uliro, Shiro getting wrecked, and some of the darkest Shiro-centric fics in the business.  I don’t feel super comfortable linking someone straight to Little Monster, which would be my pick here, but here’s her AO3.

There are so, so many more good Shiro fics I’ve read and lost.  I’m terrible at keeping track.  Always feel free to add on!  But here’s a starting point.

[joannalannister]

What do you think it is about ASoIaF that inspires people to the extent that we see in the fandom? I mean, there are tons of incredible people like you analyzing writing for it; you have websites and podcasts and essays written and complex theories and whole books published devoted wholly to the series. I have never seen this level of devotion before. It's incredible, but there are so many amazing books out there; why these books?

Hi! Well, to be fair, I think there are a number of other SF/F franchises that are as popular, if not more popular, than ASOIAF, and that inspire this same kind of devotion. But why ASOIAF? idk why anyone else feels the way they feel, but I can tell you why I love ASOIAF. GRRM wrote in one of the autobiographical sections of Dreamsongs:

By the time we got to Weathertop, Tolkien had me. ‘Gil-Galad was an elven king,’ Sam Gamgee recited, ‘of him the harpers sadly sing.’ A chill went through me, such as Conan and Kull had never evoked.

I knew exactly what GRRM was talking about, because I’ve felt it too:

“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.”

There’s poetry in GRRM’s writing, there’s rhythm and flow and a sorrow that makes me ache:

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood.

That’s the thing about ASOIAF – GRRM makes you feel it. (How many anecdotes have you read of people throwing their books across the room in rage and horror and despair after the Red Wedding? I’ve read quite a few.) GRRM is able to inspire such strong emotion in me. 

I was saying earlier today how I don’t really have any other fandom besides ASOIAF; I just don’t care. Like, all y’all talk about how easily y’all fall into ~feelings~ and characters and ships, but that’s not me. I watch or read the thing, I’m entertained for a while, it’s fine, and then it’s over; that’s it. (Honestly, some of y’all have wanted me to get into your other fandoms and it’s not that I don’t want to have fun squeeing with y’all, but I don’t know how. idk how y’all care about so many books and tv shows and movies, idk how to care like that.)

So the remarkable thing about GRRM, at least for me, is that he makes me care. ASOIAF matters, because GRRM literally spends years on characterization and worldbuilding and themes, all while telling a damn good story. 

If you watch GOT, you can see the skeleton of GRRM’s story, all the plot points GRRM is trying to hit, but the meat of that story, which comes from characterization and themes, has been boiled away. The result is that there’s nothing left to sink my teeth into, nothing to savor. (I think GRRM would approve of my food metaphors.) GOT has no emotional resonance for me, whereas ASOIAF is all about the emotional journey we’re undertaking. I’ve referenced Stephen King before, and I’ll do it again - it’s not about the endgame, it’s how we get there. The journey, not the destination. That’s something ASOIAF stresses - it’s the journey that matters, because we’re all headed for the same destination, after all; valar morghulis. GOT hits plot points like an arrow to a target. GOT is about the destination; ASOIAF is about the journey. 

ASOIAF emphasizes themes that I love:

identity

choice

justice and vengeance, and the complex nature of each

heroes and villains and what does that even mean

moral ambiguity

human heart in conflict with itself

body as battleground

the horrors of war

the importance of family, and how family means different things to different people

love and hate

truth and falsehood

what does it mean to be a true knight

exiles, outsiders, underdogs

faded glory

life and death and decay and rebirth

Romanticism in the classical sense of the word

the long autumn

the weight of history, the people who came before and those who will follow after 

duty and honor, and how they can be in conflict

disillusionment

sacrifice

light and darkness

what is a monster

empathy versus dehumanization

freedom versus constraint (think of the anti-slavery narrative and how that is relevant throughout the story, in every pov)

HOPE (”MEN STILL SANG, EVEN IN THE MIDST OF BUTCHER AND FAMINE”!!!! SLAYS ME!!!)

a love and celebration of humanity

an exploration of the human condition and what it means to be human (“see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone"), of isolation and loneliness and *sigh, where are you twow and ados* reunions and fellowship

feminism

beauty, appearances, outer beauty vs inner beauty (GRRM’s love of BATB comes in here)

These are themes that transcend the fantasy genre, something “old and true” that speaks to us, that are timeless. 

And I love the motifs GRRM uses to convey these themes - towers, and swords, and bodies and body parts (the Hand of the King, hands, tongues, fingers, noses, genitals), and white knights and black brothers and shadows (living shadows!!!) and birds and the long seasons and gah, I love it all, I love how GRRM uses all of this kind of imagery to explore ASOIAF’s themes and ask deep questions and inspire such passionate thinking (just throw the words “jaime” and “hand” and “redemption” at the fandom if you don’t believe me about passionate arguments)

And I love the thesis of ASOIAF, to hold fast to your principles and to do the right thing, even when doing the right thing is hard and when you won’t be rewarded for it - to stand against dehumanization in all its forms. 

And the characters, the characters, the characters!! I honestly think GRRM spends years on these books because he puts his own blood, sweat, and tears into them to bring them to life, as if they were truly his own children. He works so hard on characterization. 

And sure, the major characters are great, but I’m thinking of the minor characters especially, the ones that, if ASOIAF were a 1990s tv series that ran for 10 seasons, these would be the characters that would appear for one episode. 

Take the Widow of the Waterfront in Volantis. She cut that slave tattoo out of her, she cut off her tears. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.” It’s haunting. Why read fantasy, if not to meet people like the Widow, and Chataya, and Arianne, and everyone else? But GRRM makes meeting these people worthwhile, he makes them memorable, he makes them distinctive, and they all give ASOIAF such a rich flavor. 

And ok, I admit I’m definitely part of the classic Tolkien school of fantasy lit where you Must Have Maps. If I crack a new fantasy book and it has a detailed map, that is already +1 in my book, because it tells me two things: first, we’re going on An Adventure, and two, the author at least tried to worldbuild. 

Good worldbuilding is super important to me, and GRRM is a great worldbuilder.  There’s a sense of something waiting over the next hill, and the next, and the next. It’s someplace different, someplace full of wonder, someplace grander than the place I call home. The clothes are different, the customs are different, the flora and fauna are different, and I want to see it, hear it, smell it, touch it, taste it. And GRRM doesn’t let me down, tbh. Reading ASOIAF is a sensory feast. (And man ok, slightly off topic, but if y’all ever read The Armageddon Rag, GRRM can make you hear that shit, I mean, really hear it, GRRM is amazing.) In ASOIAF, you can feel the silk of the gown Viserys gives Dany, and you can smell the western market and flea bottom, and you can hear the men selling fresh rats on the streets of King’s Landing, and oh god, the drums, BOOM DOOM BOOM DOOM, of the Red Wedding, and the tinkling of Jinglebell’s sad little bells, and Patchface’s creepy song, and the taste of the weirwood paste, bitter and sweet and like the last kiss his mother ever gave him, oh god. (And do you know how many lemon-flavored deserts I’ve had, chasing after Sansa’s famous lemon cakes, let’s not talk about it.) 

Reading ASOIAF is like going through the wardrobe - what’s not to love? I want to go somewhere else, and GRRM delivers. Why read fantasy, if not to gaze up at new stars, and trace out new constellations, and marvel at the way humans everywhere try to push back the darkness by telling themselves stories, be it the story of Orion or of the Ice Dragon up there in the heavens. 

GRRM does such a good job on the worldbuilding that we can seriously have super lengthy academic discussions on politics and economics and warfare and geology and all that other stuff that people do in real life. 

But it’s not just the depth of the worldbuilding, cuz that wouldn’t be enough by itself. GRRM doesn’t just go through the motions, he’s not just hitting targets - he makes you earn it. For example, Stannis really wants to be King, and it’s not enough to just try to storm king’s landing. Why do you want to be King, Stannis? the books ask, and we find out it’s because he has a duty to the people, so he goes to the wall. What did it mean that Tyrion was Hand in ACOK, what did he accomplish, what did he learn, and will he be Hand again in a future book? What do those vows of knighthood mean, and is Brienne the only one true to them? What of Sam, failing to release the ravens at the right moment? When the time comes, will Sam fail again, or will he release the ravens at the critical moment next time, and how much more meaningful is it, when we saw fail the first time? 

In short, I’m devoted to it because GRRM’s devoted to it. He’s a master of his craft, and it shows. I’m only responding to it. 

(Honestly, he never should have allowed an adaptation until this was all over, and then he could have adapted the episodes himself. The best GOT episodes were the ones written by GRRM.) 

[antiques-for-geeks]

Game Review : Beach Head

US Gold/Access / 1985 / Originally £5.95 / Commodore 16 & Plus/4

Access were in at the start of the home computing revolution. They’re one of those companies that you probably know the games better than the company that made them; Raid over Moscow was one of theirs, as well as Leaderboard and later, Links. Before any of those arrived though, there was Beach Head.

The game was based on some classic World War II style Pacific Ocean theatre action. Everything about the game suggested it; the cover art bathed in the imagery with it’s fighter planes strafing the beach as the landing craft deposited their human cargo ready for the onslaught. The map that greets you at the start of your campaign could be of any Pacific atoll. You can almost hear Douglas MacArthur shouting “I shall return”.

General Douglas MacArthur, yesterday.

The game was a hit, and was picked up for distribution in Europe by US Gold, conquering this side of the Atlantic. Players who didn’t have a Commodore 64 or Atari home computer soon wanted in on it so US Gold commissioned conversions from other developers, with Ocean notably handling the well received Spectrum version. That sold well too.

So when the Commodore 16 and Plus/4 came along in 1984, US Gold decided to treat owners of those systems to their own version of the game. Beach Head was given to Anirog to convert, who were gaining a bit of a reputation as platform specialists. The game arrived in 1985, two years after Access had released the original.

Firstly, the developers had their work cut out. Anirog had to contend with a target machine with far less resource than the other systems Beach Head had been converted to. Compromise was inevitable.

Just missed ‘im. This happens a lot.

On other systems, Beach Head is made of four stages - you start with a fleet of eight ships and from a map screen you can choose to take them through an underground cavern, threading your boats between mines and torpedoes to make the later levels easier to complete.

This is then followed by the first shooting gallery section; your fleet has been intercepted by enemy ships and you must launch a defence against incoming bombers who will eventually sink your ships if you don’t shoot them down first. Once the enemy is out of fighters (or just bored, it’s never clear which) this then turns into a second shooting gallery round where your attention passes to trying to sink the enemy’s fleet of shops.

Do that and it’s back to the map screen and charging your ships towards the beach and unleashing your tanks over an obstacle course so they get a chance at the fifth level - destroying the big gun at Kuhn Lin in another shooting gallery level. Inexplicably on this level, the enemy gun takes a long time to aim at you and bizarrely, you have to shoot targets at the base of the weapon. This is what causes the gun to blow up - maybe this is what happens when “we’re tired of experts” extends into the military.

Anyway, can you start to see where this is going?

On the Commodore 16, Gone is the map screen and the underground cavern where you thread your way through mines and dodge torpedoes to bring your boats through. Most significantly, the final level is truncated, removing the tank advance, which was a favourite for many players. Anirog focussed on the three which shared the most in common. What remains is still the core of the game however - protect your fleet first from incoming planes, sink the enemy fleet before they sink you, take on the big gun.

Being so significantly cut down was of course necessary for the small memory of the Commodore 16. It could have been done as a multi-load, but then the flow of the game would have been compromised. Plus/4 users, with their 64k of memory get the same thin gruel as everyone else, the size of that market unable to support two separate versions. It could barely support one, but that is for another time.

With the reduced footprint, it is still not enough.The graphics measure up to the C64 original, the sound is serviceable, but there has been a significant compromise in terms of playability.

Your gun turret - your main interface with the game is incredibly difficult to control. You can aim it just fine, adjust the height just fine and a fire just fine. But not all at the same time.

On other versions, combining actions was taken for granted. Sink a ship in the sea-battle level and you’re already moving across the screen changing your weapon’s angle as you go. It’s part of the game. Every fraction of a second counts. However here, try combining things and the turret just stops. Then there is the disappearing turret; when this happens, you really don’t have much idea of what is going on. It’s like conducting a war via seance. Except you’ve not got the plant in the room banging the table leg with their foot when the fake medium wails “is there anybody there”.

This bizarre situation just about works with static targets once you get used to it, but when defending the fleet from incoming fighters and taking on the big gun? It just doesn’t work. You end up just resigning yourself to keeping the gun in one position and elevation and keep firing, hoping that the planes fly into your shots like a blundering toddler into a set of closed patio doors. The element of skill is removed from the game completely and it becomes a weary battle of attrition with you hoping that you don’t lose too many ships to make it to the later levels.

The fighters gone, a ship starts shelling me. God knows what is going on. Press fire and hope for the best.

Why there is a such a glaring hole in the game is inexcusable and smacks of the kind of half-arsed platform exploitation that US Gold were infamous for. Compare this to literally any other game on the Commodore 16 and it really feels like an unfinished budget title rather than something crafted and worthy of your £5.95.

But! Bill Herd who designed the Commodore 16 and Plus/4 said they were never intended to be games machines. They were meant to be more basic machines that extended at the top end into the business market. They were meant for text editing. Give Anirog a break! Oh yeah? Played Trailblazer?

Buying it today

From what we can make out, it does not seem to appear that often so does have a certain uniqueness to it. The C64, Atari and Spectrum copies are ubiquitous but other platforms a lot less so. It was re-released on the Americana label, though this seems to be rarer than the full-price version. Expect to pay anything up to £10.

Commentariat

Tim : Sad to say, but Beach Head has not aged well. While not a bad game, it is very much of its time regardless of the system you play it on. The game is a nice walk down nostalgia lane and in some ways is one game you yearn to return to, but when you do it’s not as good as you remember. This stands in stark contrast to Raid over Moscow...

Liking this version is doubly hard. The cut-down nature of the game I can understand, being fundamentally unable to play I can’t. Don’t waste your time or money unless you are a completist or masochist or both.

Score Lord : How did you get my number? Don’t call again.

Meat : Back during Christmas 1983, my next-door neighbour’s big present was a Commodore 64. He and his brother were given the machine and also had two games, Gorf which came on cartridge and was great for a quick blast and Beach Head which came on cassette which to begin with, they couldn’t play. Their Dad having only seen a Spectrum and thought he’d save a few quid using by a household tape recorder instead of the necessary Datasette. The idiot.

When we finally got to play it, we loved it. So much so that the following Christmas I got the Spectrum version for my poverty-spec gaming experience.  Imagine my surprise when I found out a version of Beach Head existed on the equally poverty-spec Commodore 16.

After eagerly loading it, I was hoping for a smart conversion that played to the strengths of the machine. The reality could not have been further from the truth. Disappointed was not the word. Just for comparison I checked out the Spectrum version again and yeah, the problem wasn’t rose-tinted glasses.

Between them, Anirog and US Gold had managed to take a decent game and make it both uncontrollable and dull. Send for the Inspector, a crime has been committed.

Score card

Presentation 5/10

You get the full-price experience for the time, which is quite nice. At least this is an area where they could be arsed.

Originality 2/10

Coming in 1985, the novelty factor of the original was two years passed. With the compression of the game, it’s lost even more in these stakes. It’s now basically just a shooting gallery game, with the fun sucked out of it.

Graphics 4/10

Not going to win any awards, but tidy enough. Hold on, are those blobs supposed to be ships?

Hookability 1/10

You can’t really play it effectively.

Sound 3/10

There isn’t much, but what there is has been done satisfactorily.

Lastability 1/10

No hook into the game, no point in playing.

Value for Money 1/10

Not worth £5.95 of anyone’s cash in 1985 and certainly not worth that today.

Overall 2/10

A conversion so wretched that at the time you’d have been better off putting the money towards a second-hand C64 and picking the title up on budget. Today, it’s for the collector only.