the natural sounds

I first fell into fandom in 2001, as a real young kid, back in the heyday of Gundam Wing being the most populated sub-section in the anime category of fanfiction.net. I was surprised to find when I went rooting around two days ago that it’s still #11 on the number of fics written for it. 

I grew up on Gundam Wing fic but never watched the series - till now. I have a lot of thoughts about it. I’m glad I’m watching it as an adult and can make my own decisions about the characters and what they stand for. It suffices to say that fandom has had their own stock interpretations of the characters, and that’s taken on their own trope-y life of their own. Nothing wrong with that! But I am loving discovering these characters with fresh eyes, having stepped away from fandom for so long. And I have a lot of thoughts while I watch the anime, and will probably use this blog to vent a bit.

A last thing - I started reading the Ion Arc and Googled around a bit and discovered Sunhawk had passed away a month ago. I never had the patience for the Ion Arc when I was younger but the fans around me did, and I read her shorter works. Hell, I didn’t even realise until two days ago that Sunhawk was a lady all along. It hit me damn hard to see that she’d been writing fic for 20 years, and that right about the time I came full circle back to this fandom, she was gone.

it is a harry potter fanfic from like 2009, 160k words, 50 chapters

basically, adult Harry accidentally goes back in time and wakes up on his 11th birthday again, but with all his memories of the future intact

(the way he travels back makes no sense whatsoever but it doesn’t really matter)

harry decides upon 3 goals:

fuck up as much shit as possible

make a shitload of money

save some lives or whatever

it is

H I L A R I O U S

his go-to explanation for how he knows what’s going to happen?

he has a psychic scar

(hermione is SO PISSED about this)

(neville’s like “either he’s psychic, or he’s the greatest conman alive”)

everyone just sort of assumes harry’s insane and he doesn’t do much to dispute this

harry also decides to make it his mission in life to LOSE the house cup every year

“snape is my sole ally”

he also goes out of his way to befriend neville, ginny, and luna earlier this time, so they’re part of the gang throughout and it’s great

even draco is a friend!

(kind of)

(when harry’s not spreading a rumor that draco’s the lovechild of narcissa and snape, anyway)

harry’s motivation for everything he does in this story is basically, “oh, this will be hilarious”

either that or, “it’s probably a tax deductible”

because the way lockhart is written in this story is also amazing and harry ends up teaming up with him to merchandise The Boy Who Lived so he can have cash to burn

(so he gets a LOT of shit done via bribes)

it gets to the point where harry is able to convince everyone that he’s not the heir of slytherin…. because if he was, he’d have found a way to make money off of it

and everyone’s like “yeah ok that checks out”

in this timeline, neville’s boggart isn’t snape…. it’s harry as the minister of magic

harry also decides to make sure cedric lives by quizzing him constantly on what to do if he ends up in a graveyard

harry: by the way, that reminds me – cedric. graveyard.

cedric, not even really listening: run like hell.

the sheer magnitude to which harry does not give a fuck in this timeline is truly awe-inspiring

he mouths off to everyone, and i mean everyone. lockhart, snape, the dursleys, malfoy, friggin’ voldemort

everyone is like “what… what the fuck, harry”

(though by the end of first year it’s more like “… *deep sigh* … fine.

snape is so angry

it’s fucking hysterical and just about everyone ends up better off

here’s the link

Like I’ll be watching some movie and all of a sudden, some miswired synapse fires off and a bunch of neurons in the cerebellum go “MINE.”

And I’m like “no, guys, this is mediocre at best,” but it’s too late. They’ve adopted these characters and this universe and there’s no turning back.

I’m going to be thinking about it every hour, of every day, for somewhere between two weeks and five years.

My favourite flintwood fics in a more or less organised list.

Multi-chapter

- named for you (made for you) series by slyther_ing. My all time favourite so far. This, in combination with upethehillarts interpretation of Marcus and Oliver, sucked me into this ship within a few hours. It’s so freaking good. Highly, highly recommended.

- Between Living and Breathing by x_posed_again. Rated M. This is actually just one chapter but it’s pretty long so I’m putting this here. And oh, it’s freaking great.

- All I want to do right now by flintxwood. Rated M. Also only one chapter but pretty long. And damn awesome.

- starving by hexmionegranger. Rated M. Oliver is in denial.

- Boxing Day by ramathorne. Rated M. Oliver’s always been fond of Boxing Day. Good food, good cheer, and a day dedicated to Quidditch? It was his favorite, most treasured tradition.He should have known Marcus Flint would find a way to bugger it to hell.

- Catch Your Breath (And Maybe Mine While You’re At It) by tamerofdarkstars. Rated M. Between the weirdness with the Bludgers, the Dementors that aren’t staying put at the school gates, and the fear that drives the breath from his lungs whenever he thinks too long about how terrible he’s doing in Charms, Marcus Flint is having a hell of a year.And that’s not even mentioning that little skip his heart keeps doing whenever Oliver Wood tosses a grin his way.

- Nothing Left to Lose by flintxwood. Rated M. Harry Potter/Cashback Crossover. Not finished but very promising.

______________________

One-Shots:

- keep you guessing from slyther_ing. Rated E. Sexy times in the library.

- a kind of push & pull by syther_ing. Rated E. Sexy times again. I’m trash for this.

- A New Page by flintwoodandco. Rated E. Oliver needs to find a new place to live and a friend of a friend of a friend knows exactly who to ask. God, I love this fic.

- fight (flight) by slyther_ing. So sad, so good.

- pinned. by slyther_ing. Rated E. Sexy times thanks to Jealousy. Love it.

- make him wanna sin by slyther_ing. Rated E. Can’t get enough of one-shots like this.

- turn my insides out by princessm44. Rated M. Boys figuring out they like each other.

- Oliver Wood and Floral Print Couches by princessm44. Rated M. Marcus spots Oliver at a pub and somehow ends the night at his flat, sitting on a very ugly couch.

- You Should See Them In Practise by redfiona. Rated M. I’m so gone for them meeting again after a long time.  

- Wouldn’t Make Sense by x_posed_again. Rated M. Marcus plays an amazing game and Oliver finds a way to reward him.

- True But Not Nice by V (deepsix). Rated E.

- tactics and competition by Bontaque. Rated E.

- Your hands on me by  fireatwill52. Rated E. Detention in the forbidden forest. whoop whoop.

- It’s Never Too Late (To Leave Old Pictures in the Past) by SociiallyDiisoriiented. Rated E. Oliver’s dream of playing Quidditch for a living hasn’t come true and he finds himself working for the Ministry. Who knew that’s how he’d see Marcus again.

- Holiday Cheer by flintwoodandco. Flintwood and Christmas, what else do I have to say.

- Take Me On by flintwoodandco. The five times Oliver and Marcus kiss while drunk and the one time they know it’s not a dream.

- Worth Your Time by flintwoodandco. Rated E. Marcus and Oliver decide to have some fun at the annual Christmas Quidditch Gala.

- 5 Times Oliver and Marcus were Accidentally Discovered and the 1 Time They Actually Came out on Purpose by transteverogers .

- Stuck in Reverse (Fix You) by x_posed_again. Rated M. Marcus struggles to deal with the side effects of a concussion he sustained during a recent game.

- The Flavour Of Your Lips by flintxwood. Rated E. They’re just hooking up. No kissing. No feelings. That’s all it was.

- Betting On It by FangQueen. Rated E. ”Look, next match, I could make a couple more bets with some of the blokes, probably win most of it for you. I’ll do whatever I have to, I just need some time.” “Whatever you have to, huh?”

- Help Me, Oliver Wood (you are my only hope) by Rain_GellerBing. Marcus bought a Quidditch team after losing a bet and Oliver becomes his new keeper and captain.

- Open Practice by Rain_GellerBing. During a Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw open practice, Oliver and Marcus discover that they are more similar than they believed. How will this new revelation change their rivalry?

______________________

AUs:

- tied and true by slyther_ing. Soulmate AU, set in HP universe, rated M. I love slyther_ing’s writing do death and this is great.

A few years ago, when I was living in the housing co-op and looking for a quick cookie recipe, I came across a blog post for something called “Norwegian Christmas butter squares.” I’d never found anything like it before: it created rich, buttery and chewy cookies, like a vastly superior version of the holiday sugar cookies I’d eaten growing up. About a year ago I went looking for the recipe again, and failed to find it. The blog had been taken down, and it sent me into momentary panic. 

Luckily, I remembered enough to find it on the Wayback Machine, and quickly copied it into a file that I’ve saved ever since. I probably make these cookies about once a month, and they last about five days around my voracious husband - they’re fantastic with a cup of bitter coffee or tea. I’m skeptical that there is something distinctively Norwegian about these cookies, but they do seem like the perfect thing to eat on a cold day. 

Norwegian Christmas Butter Squares

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 egg 1 cup sugar 2 cups flour 1 tsp vanilla ½ tsp salt Turbinado/ Raw Sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Chill a 9x13″ baking pan in the freezer. Do not grease the pan.

Using a mixer, blend the butter, egg, sugar, and salt together until it is creamy.  Add the flour and vanilla and mix using your hands until the mixture holds together in large clumps. If it seems overly soft, add a little extra flour. 

Using your hands, press the dough out onto the chilled and ungreased baking sheet until it is even and ¼ inch thick.  Dust the top of the cookies evenly with raw sugar.

And it is GREAT.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

There’s a betting pool going on who takes Luke’s virginity. The favourites are Han and Leia, but Wedge Antilles has pretty good odds, and there’s a small contingent of aliens who are convinced it will be Chewie (after all, who could resist that Wookie musk? Headcanon: most alien races consider humans soft and gross. Most alien races find Wookies absurdly attractive. Han Solo isn’t the ladykiller; Chewie is.)

Leia and Han scream at each other in every corner of the base. Everyone is desperate for them to fuck. They do not. The sexual tension is so thick that it could be cut into blocks and sold as wall insulation. More than once they are ‘accidentally’ locked in a supply cupboard in the vain hope that claustrophobia will act as the catalyst that enables their frustration to spark into true love – or at least nasty raunchy cupboard sex. It does not. All that happens is that the offender has legally changed their name to escape the Wrath of Organa. 

Someone paints a shirtless Han Solo on their X Wing. Leia is furious. Han is delighted: both at the highly flattering portrait (he has an eight-pack, he is shredded) and at Leia’s fury (you’re jealous princess/no I am not/you’re jealous, hey I can pose like that for you if you –). Hoth’s winter had nothing on the chilly silence that followed that suggestion. 

Luke and Leia both have very graphic dreams about Han Solo. Han Solo has very graphic dreams about the twins –  individually, together, he’s thirty fucking years old, why is his brain doing this to him.(Later on they will, individually, realise that due to Luke and Leia’s Force-bond they probably created a circle of Han Solo Sex Dreams: Leia had them, so Luke sensed her lust for Han which intensified his own lust for Han, which led to Luke having Han Solo sex dreams, which led to Leia lusting – and so on, and so on. For the sake of their sanity, they never share this revelation which each other.)

Luke is SO COLD. All the time. WHY DOES NO ONE APPRECIATE HOW COLD HE IS. He comes from a desert world. Of course he’s cold! What is all this white stuff? It was pretty for the first fve seconds but holy fucking Force it is so cold it burns and what the hell is going on with that? He bundles himself up in so many layers that he waddles rather than walks. Fearsome Last of the Jedi indeed.

I am torn between wanting Stabby to be grabbed and evacuated along with the Rebels and make it to the next base, and wanting Stabby to get Vader.

Compromise: shortly after losing the Millennium Falcon, Vader, storming through the Rebel base, is startled to feel a sudden jolt of pain from the artificial sensors on his left leg prosthetic: a sharp sensation on his ankle. Surprised, because he sensed no threat–is the limb malfunctioning?–he looks down, and there is a cleaning droid with a knife taped to it, a little painted-on Rebel lieutenant’s insignia, and the word STABBY written on it.

He stares down at it, completely and utterly taken aback for the first time in over a decade. Fearlessly, it chitters back at him, sounding very triumphant.

He picks it up.

Off in the fractal weirdness of hyperspace, Rebels on several ships are surprised to find an update on Stabby’s kill-update feed, and then thoroughly shocked at the accompanying image: the upward-pointing camera has captured an image of Darth Vader staring down at the droid.

It’s the fastest news ever to travel through the Rebel grapevine, the mix of triumph and loss that is, they are certain, Stabby’s heroic last stand.

Until a day later, when the thing updates again, this time showing an extremely confused Imperial officer. And another, and another, and another, day after day.

They cancel the funeral.

“I have altered the droid; pray I do not alter it any further.”

HE CALLS IT HIS APPRENTICE

“Hey!” calls a teenaged Poe Dameron, walking into the Droid repair shop. “I got this decommissioned BB-8 chassis they said to bring in here. It needs a new owner. Captain said I can have it if I can find a new mechanism for it.”

The Master Droid Tech looks at Stabby, then at the BB-8 chassis, then back at Stabby. Stabby turns his unsheathed ocular sensor to Poe and beeps adoringly. (This is a common if relatively new reaction to Poe Dameron, who has just graduated from his Awkward Stage.)

oops I slipped and podfic happened

Ängie - Bisexual Swedish pop & trap-hop artist often labelled as one of the most shocking and controversial pop stars of the last few years. She’s talked about falling in love with a woman for the first time at 15 and how she felt ostracized by friends and family due to that and how her music is born from a desire to express her sexuality. Listen to “Smoke weed eat pussy” and her first album “Suicidal since 1995.”

Beatrice Eli - The lesbian Swedish pop artist who blessed us with the gay anthem that is “Girls.” She’s been dating Silvana Imam for about four years now! She’s said she prefers the term lesbian over gay and I’m crossing my fingers that we’ll get new music from her soon!

Christine and the Queens - The stage name of Héloïse Letissier, a pansexual French pop/”freak pop” artist. While visiting London she was inspired by local drag queens and they became her backing band. She dedicates her music to them and to transgender people. Listen to “5 dollars” and “Girlfriend.” 

Cœur de pirate - The stage name of Béatrice Martin, a queer French indie/folk pop musician. She came out as queer in 2016 and was briefly involved with Laura Jane Grace. She sings mostly in French and released a new album “ en cas de tempête, ce jardin sera fermé” this year. 

girl in red - Lesbian Norwegian independent bedroom pop artist. Marie writes, records, and produces all of her own music. She released Chapter 1, a five song EP, on Spotify this year. “girls” and “i wanna be your girlfriend” are both amazing and gay. I can tell we have a lot to look forward to in the future from her!

Ji Nilson - Lesbian Swedish alternative pop artist who came out in early 2017. Listen to “In my Blood” and “Proud.” Ji Nilson said this about In my Blood: “I’m so in love with this song. I think people can relate to the feeling of ending something and kind of being ok with it, but someone you love will always, always be in your blood. You can live without them, but you can’t escape the love you once shared.”

Saara Aalto - Lesbian Finnish pop artist. She represented Finland in Eurovision in 2011 and 2016, and placed second both times. On her sexuality she said she was “Very proud to be a lesbian” and thats a mood. Her newest album “Wild Wild Wonderland” was released this year. 

Silvana Imam - Swedish lesbian rapper. She’s been in a relationship with fellow singer Beatrice Eli since 2014! She’s talked about how her music is seen as political because of her being gay and a woman and has said “I want to be the best of all rappers, not the best female rapper.” Listen to “For Evigt” and “IMAM COBAIN.”

Soko - The stage name & nickname of bisexual/pansexual French indie pop/new wave musician Stéphanie Sokolinski. She briefly dated Kristen Stewart and has said “I’ve always been open with my sexuality, meaning I don’t really care about gender.” Listen to gay anthem “Who wears the pants?”

Tove Lo - Bisexual Swedish grunge influenced pop artist. She unapologetically owns her sexuality and has been vocal about the double standards in the pop industry for men and women. Her very gay song “Bitches” got remixed this year and now features Charlie XCX, Alma, Elliphant, and Icona Pop.