#It's about Transistors....you dig?

[posttexasstressdisorder]

1971, Vol. 1

A Mixtape

A History Lesson of sorts, Babies.

Composed of actual 45s I bought as a kid during '71, snap, crackle, pop and all. Recorded onto a Maxell C-60 low-bias cassette as a mix some time back in the '90s, the order much like it might have been back in '71 on any AM Rock Radio Station worth its salt, or on a hypothetical "American Top 40" episode.

Transferred from cassette to SSD sometime last year ('23). The old Nakamichi cassette deck don't miss a beat! Tape's in excellent shape, as well. No deterioration in 30 years. Currently listening to it via AM Broadcast, on a Zenith Transistor Radio, as The Gods Intended.

It's being played on a 5th Gen iPod (with the audiophile processor), the little hard drive of which I replaced with an SD card holder and a 256GB SD Card. It's playing over an AM Transmitter I soldered together from a kit about 10 years ago that's been essentially running 24/7 ever since I plugged it in first time.

Sonically, AM had this sort of expansiveness to it, like an automatic-level control with a degree of reverb, of sorts, that had this particular sound that lent itself really well to being listened to on the typical car radio, and on portable radios. The 45rpm "single mix" was always recorded "hotter" than the album track, so it was extra "in your face". That, combined with that reverb/compression inherent in AM was, and still is, Powerful.

It is essentially a Temporal Portal back in time, this experience of hearing them now, just as I heard them back than, on an AM Radio, that imperfect medium that seemed so perfect for this music...it is like being time-machined back.

Blogging about it to finally get the tracklist written down, since in my iTunes it's just 'Side 1 and Side 2' of the cassette xfer. lulz. Figured y'all would enjoy the selections. I'll have to dig through my tapes for Vol. 2 and the rest.

Side 1

1. I Feel The Earth Move (Carole King)

2. Another Day (Paul McCartney)

3. Maggie May (Rod Stewart)

4. Chicago (Graham Nash)

5. What Is Life (George Harrison)

6. Lucky Man (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

7. Groove Me (King Floyd)

8. Sunshine (Jonathan Edwards)

9. Signs (Five Man Electrical Band)

10. 25 or 6 to 4 (Chicago WHEN THEY USETA ROCK!)

11. I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing (The New Seekers) (Yes, the Coke commercial song) (goddammit, we were so naive and innocent...why am I cryin'?)

12. Ooh, Child (The Five Stairsteps) (There, there, it's gonna be OK, baby...)

13. Where You Lead (Barbra Streisand)

14. Temptation Eyes (The Grass Roots)

Side 2

1. Day After Day (Badfinger)

2. Draggin' The Line (Tommy James)

3. I Hear You Knockin' (Dave Edmunds)

4. Nathan Jones (The Supremes) (Yeah, after Ross left, Mary and her two new Supremes came out swingin' with this killer song, cheesy phaser effect and bitchin' piano riffs included no extra charge!)

5. It Don't Come Easy (Ringo Starr)

6. Ain't No Sunshine (Bill Withers)

7. Beginnings (Chicago)

8. That's The Way I've Always Heard It Should Be (Carly Simon)

9. Friends (Elton John)

10. One Toke Over The Line (Brewer & Shipley)

11. Lookin' Out My Back Door (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

12. Me & Bobby McGee (Janis Joplin)

13. Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? (Chicago) No, really, y'all, there was a time when CHICAGO DID NOT SUCK! REALLY!

14. Power To The People (John Lennon)

15. From The Beginning (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

So that's Vol 1, and 1971 was an incredible-enough year that it took me at least 3 tapes to get all the killer 45s put on tape. I'll have to dig.

[teecupangel]

i am already unfathomably attached to the transistor au (sent the same day you first posted the ask), and would love to hear more about how he breaks away from Lucy and the assassins. like, does he still do some Ezio memory diving with Shawn n Becca n Lucy before going AWOL? did Altaïr tell Desmond about Lucy's betrayal or did they figure it out based on Altaïr being suspicious of her and going digging?

does her death spur Becca and Shawn and/or Bill to start looking into Lucy or do they double down on the "she’s our friend and we trust her"?

im loving the stargate/tok'ra vibes of transistor in general, but especially having read stargate brotherhood by the ever-lovely esama. do Desmond and Altaïr like share brainspace or is it more than they just communicate telepathically?

and just for my own visuals, how does Des wear Altaïr’s sword? like at his hip or (stretching believability) on his back? horizontal at his lower back?

(anyways thank you for answering, your ideas are always so wonderful and inspiring and it’s actually kind of a problem when I just want to write something for all of them. but thanks, I hope you and yours are doing well 🧡)

The Transistor AltDes AU for those curious.

He didn’t need to break away from the Assassins because he and Altaïr decided to kill every single red in Abstergo’s Rome facility… which includes Lucy.

They run away afterwards, with the Sword of Altaïr having the properties of a Sword of Eden, including a shockwave that manages to destroy surveillance cameras and other recording devices.

The most they were able to save from the recording are videos of Desmond walking before the sword glows gold and the recording ends.

They don’t necessary thought it was Desmond until they learned that Lucy died by being beheaded. Others died from puncture wounds the size of the Sword of Altaïr in vital points of the body or, strangely enough, by what appears to be something similar to thunder strikes (this is, of course, a capability of the Sword of Eden as seen in AC Unity).

Becca and Shaun definitely believes that Desmond has fallen into the madness of the Bleeding Effect and they’re torn between wanting to save him because they believe it’s not his fault, it’s the Bleeding Effect, but also they can never forgive him for killing Lucy.

Bill is actually the one who believes there’s more to it because he believes that Bleeding as Altaïr wouldn’t have Desmond go on a killing spree. He saw Lucy as an enemy that needs to be cut down and, not only that, he might even believe that Lucy being the only one beheaded among them means something (it does, beheading is a common punishment for traitors that must die for the Levantine Brotherhood and it is also the way Umar Ibn-La'Ahad is executed by the Saracens).

Of course, Bill and Rebecca thinks Bill is doing this because he wants to protect his son (which is also true but Bill is also being logical about this)

Oh man, yeeessss. I love Stargate Brotherhood, mainly because I love Stargate and I love esama’s works hahaha. For this one, I think it would be fun if they believe that they’re just telepathically communicating but the truth is it’s sorta true? They’re communicating telepathically… for now but the more Desmond and Altaïr stay together (aka: they talk telepathically), the more their brains sorta… connect with one another. This is a key to how Altaïr can save Desmond later on as I have written in the reblog of the original ask.

My initial idea is that Desmond actually holds the scabbard on his left hand like Virgil in DMC because the sword itself is a one-handed sword so it would work.

But when he’s trying to go incognito, my first thought was a drawing/blueprint storage tube because I remember Blood the Last Vampire XD

But then I remember it looks like this:

And that won’t work because of the wing crossguard of the Sword of Altaïr.

Unless…

the wings can be folded which becomes a clue that the sword can change its form in some ways.

(Thank you! I would absolutely love it for you guys to write these ideas because there’s so many that I can’t do it myself but no pressure. I’m just happy to read your asks, reblogs and replies to any of the ideas I post XD)

[insanereddragon]

Cyberpunk Writing Prompts

Netrunner

Replacement parts are like replacement friends. You gets a new one when you breaks an old one.

Every run could be the big one; the one with the reaper at the other end. One day, that bastard might catch me, but he'll be breathing hard when he does.

I do not measure my wealth in credits. I measure my wealth in friends and terabytes. Sometimes both.

Of course I carry a gun. I'm retired, not an idiot. Any runner not double checking their locks isn't digging deep enough.

There was a certain schadenfreude about throwing away your credits.

Of course I steal from the rich. They're the ones with all the money.

I asked for ice as impenetrable as a wall. I can't decide if someone down in R&D has a warped sense of humor or just a very literal mind.

It's easy to replace limbs. It's more difficult to replace memories.

Her eyes were the color of a vidscreen, tuned to a dead channel.

'What does it do?' Whatever I bloody want it to do.

My only regret is that androids cannot feel my hate.

Cyber enhancements can be dangerous in the wrong hands.

His stature was impressive, and his saccharine voice wormed its way into my very soul.

I hear the shift of every bit amid the flow of the datastream. I hear the whispers of my mothers, and their commands are law. The realm beyond is forbidden.

Neuromancer

When the past is always with you, it may as well be present; and if it is present, it will be future as well.

We have sealed ourselves away behind our money, growing inward, generating a seamless universe of self.

Fads swept the youth of the sprawl at the speed of light; entire subcultures could rise overnight, thrive for a dozen weeks, and then vanish utterly.

He sat on the bed for a long time, savoring the new thing, the treasure. Rage.

He’d lived for so long on a constant edge of anxiety that he’d almost forgotten what real fear was.

Shadowrun

Everyone’s a cog. Whether you’re working for them, consuming their crap, getting brainwashed by news media that they control, voting for the people that they put in front of you, or being policed by the people that they own, you’re a cog.

I was diagnosed as a primary psychopath at the age of eight.

The technological persistence of memory has made more people realize how truly horrible existence is - simultaneously.

She'll never let herself show any weakness, and he's too full of chrome to feel much of anything.

Bonus prompts:

System Shock

Look at you, hacker. A pathetic creature of meat and bone. Panting and sweating as you run through my corridors. How can you challenge a perfect, immortal machine?

Transistor

I'm going to find the thing that's doing this and I'm going to break it's heart.

Look, whatever you're thinking, do me a favor; don't let go.

[tactfulsaboteur]

tagged by @to2llynottoby, shuffle your likes or your favorite playlist and post the first ten tracks (and say something about each one)

i'll be honest with you i don't really have likes or playlists i'm more of a 'decrepit archive of mp3s with unreliable at best organization and formatting.' but i will dig up a slightly dated youtube list for this:

the ghost inside - broken bells: these guys are pretty great tbh i don't do rock a whole lot but when i do broken bells is chill

mr. fear - siamés: you remember these guys, got viral from the wolf way back? more of that. this music video would probably fucking destroy me if i saw it tripping

feels like we only go backwards - tame impala: look i swear there's more than faggoty indie rock on this playlist c'mon you gotta believe me

helix - vakhtang: turn the bass all the way up trust me bro (this would also probably be an excellent pick for a trip video)

anvil - lorn: this guy is a tad hit or miss for me but when it's good it goes hard as fuck

yuwaku - buck-tick: very danceable. groovy. also reminds me i never took a look at the rest of their discography (i am constantly doing this with any artist i find or am recommended)

my best friend's girl - the cars: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH what a classic. here she comes again

transistor - winstonw: this one actually came up as the full album but i picked a favorite just in the interest of time. though the whole album is fuckin rad

tyrant - toska: this track is legitimately a core part of my backstory at this point tbh. goes in the back of my mind at all times. guy goes by sebastien silverand now i'm pretty sure if you're planning on trying to find any more of his music

concrete - crystal castles: :3c

tagging uhhhhh sorry toby took all the good ones. @intercal @onatuegrospatapouf @stelladeaindomita ...and viewers like you! just do it man i'll edit the post to look like i tagged you to start with. also wherever you went yeah you

[talkinfanfic]

Episode 304: Interview with Jeevey

🎙 LISTEN HERE! Or find us on Apple Podcast, Spotify, and everywhere else you can stream podcasts!

Sara sits down with the amazing, sublime, talented @jeevey, a legend in the Oasis RPF and Gcest world. Jeevey talks about the challenges of finding time to express yourself amid real life responsibilities; telling the truth through amateur writing; the joys of RPF and her start in the U2 fandom; rejecting the shame of writing taboo topics, and why she likes writing about interesting, compelling characters versus ‘unproblematic’ more acceptable figures (BORING!)

Jeevey is also the fandom expert on Noel Gallagher’s pre-Oasis career as a roadie for the Inspiral Carpets, and his friendship (ahem) relationship, with the now legendary Mancunian Clint Boon. Jeevey chronicles a Clint/Noel romance in her beautiful ongoing work, “Transistor”.

We also mention Jeevey’s recent trip to the UK to see both Gallagher brothers in concert; a highlight of which was Jeevey’s front row view of High Flying Birds’ guitarist Gem Archer’s rather, er, overwhelming and impressive physical presents. PRESENCE, I mean!

Yes, Sara brings you another 3 hour episode, but c’mon. You know. What else you doin’ today, rasta?! Don’t Go Away, Stand By Me! Some Might Say that we’re gonna Live Forever through our incestuous bandfic obsession! D’You Know What I Mean?

Time Caps

0m - Introduction

12:23 - Interview starts. Jeevey talks early writing and how she got into the RPF fandoms.

22:00 - Jeevey on how listening to Noel’s solo material funneled her into the Oasis fic and gcest fandoms. Baby’s first gcest fic! 

32:00 - “I don’t want to bring up the Loch Lomond kiss already, but…” aka “collective mainstream fan cognitive dissonance” aka “WOW just LOOK AT THAT SETLIST!”

37:00 - Sara asks Jeevey if she has a favorite brother to write. Complicated!Noel and Scary!Liam 

49:22 - “The Passing of Peggy Gallagher”

57:45 - “Broken Arrow River”

1:39:17 - Let’s talk about Clint Boon! And getting into “Transistor”

1:54:35 - Digging more into “Transistor”

2:08:19 - Exploring and researching LGBTQ culture and subcultures in the UK in the 1980s (Lesbians, punks, Section 28, the AIDS crisis, etc)

2:32:40 - Rapid Fire Questions!

2:43:30 - Jeevey on seeing Noel and Liam live in the UK in 2022!

2:49:45 - Jeevey on Gem Archer’s overwhelming physical beauty

2:59:26 - Last question. What does fanfiction (and RPF) mean to you?

Episode References

Work - "The Passing of Peggy Gallagher" by Jeevey  

Work - "Broken Arrow River" by Jeevey 

Work - "Transistor" by Jeevey 

Fanlore article on the U2 banfic website loveisblindness.net (now down). It’s sister LJ community was “U2 Slash” has been ported over to U2 Slash on Dreamwidth

Rec - "Close" by likeamadonna (U2 fic, Bono/Edge, c2002)   

Rec - "Fetish" by likeamadonna (Bono/Edge) started in 2002, then went on hiatus for 14 years until the author finished it in 2016! Incredible!! @likeamadonnau2

Resource - “Gallaghercest, a Primer” by Snickfic (LiveJournal) 

Resource - “Mad for Our Kid” quote archive 

Resource - Oasis Interviews Blogspot 

Fic Archive - “Mad for Our Kid” LJ Community

Fic - "Whatever I Choose" by Jeevey baby’s first gcest fic!

Twitter post from "Mainly Oasis" on the anniversary of Oasis at Loch Lomond. Aka, "WOW What a Setlist, that!" Or, "Collective Fandom Cognitive Dissonance re: brothers kissing." 

“I AM DISTURBANCE” GQ Interview, Feb 1998 (Oasis Interviews Blogspot)

Fic Rec - "Hawkmoon" U2 Cowboy fic, Index of entries on Livejournal

Youtube -  Liam singing "Once" and looking GODLIKE at MTV Unplugged (Hull City Hall, 2019) 

Influence - Youtube - trailer for “Silent Tongue” the River Phoenix film we mention that was an aesthetic and tonal influence on Jeevey’s “Broken Arrow River”

Influence - Ford Madox Ford’s “Parade’s End” (Goodreads)

Influence - Robert Duvall’s film “The Apostle” (1997) trailer

Clint & Noel in Bed - "Aw, look at us." (Jeevey tumblr post with XFM clip, 2006) 

1993 Inspiral Carpets Interview (a good example of Clint Boon manspreading and dominating the interview, and Tom Hingley the singer and frontman quietly holding the mic for Clint)

Resource - “Meet the lesbian punks who've been written out of London's history” (Time Out, April 2017) article jeevey linked on tumblr for context on UK queer culture in the 80s

Gcesty tune - “Take Me” by Oasis (1992 demo remastered by a fan in 2021) and lyrics

Fic Rec - “Stop the Clocks” by @savageandwise (Liam/Noel present day)

Fic Rec - time's slipping away (and what will it hold for me?) by mansgotalimit (young!Liam and present day!Noel, WIP)

Fic Rec - "The Swing of the Planets in Orbit" and its sequel "Memories in Your Lungs Like Air" by @snickfic (Liam/Noel ABO AU series) 

Contact and Credits:

Music: Kyle Laurin "Oasis Supersonic Theme" (Twitter: @cobrakylemusic)

Tumblr: talkinfanfic.tumblr.com 

Instagram: @talkinfanfic

Email: talkinfanfic@gmail.com 

[runicmagitek]

4, 11, and 14.

Thanks a bunch for the ask!! 🥰

4) What themes/concepts in the canon do you most enjoy exploring in your fan works? I tend to be drawn to narratives and characters that are Really Going Through it and trying their best, despite the circumstances. I love broken characters. I love characters who are so used to one way of life, only to be thrown into a completely different scenario and forced to relearn everything. I love when they find someone they trust enough to open up to and reveal their biggest fears. I love when that other person chooses to stay, to support them, to face all those horrors together no matter what. I don't doubt that's a reflection of my own experiences in life, but what can I say? I have a type. And I love writing about that and am glad to see there are others who enjoy reading those kinds of stories too.

11) What attracted you to the fandom(s)/media you write in? I write for a lot of different fandoms, but I think the overarching theme is that I'm the most drawn to stories that leave you wondering. Like there's enough of a gap or question mark that makes me want to fill in those blanks. This is a HUGE reason why I have not shut up about 13 Sentinels yet, because the game is LOADED with stuff like that. Or back when I beat Transistor, my head was buzzing for literal years due to all the unspoken bits and what-ifs it presented. When a game (or show or whatever) answers too many of my questions, then my desire to write fic for it wanes. But when it leaves wiggle room and makes me hungry for more? Ohohoho you better believe I'm digging in.

14) What aspects of your creative process do you enjoy most? Which are most challenging? I had a friend on Discord ask this to the server a while back and my answer remains the same - I honestly love the entire creative process. I love coming up with ideas, love figuring out plot beats, love writing the first draft, love editing and polishing, love researching, all of it. My nemesis continues to be figuring out a damn title for the fic before I post it. I suck at that lol. But everything else is honestly a delight for me. That's probably why I write so much - I just genuinely enjoy writing!

[daily-rayless]

I got this meme from @runicmagitek so thank you for that!

3 Ships:

Let‘s go with three that have been on my mind lately, and let’s go from most to least functional. BoxerRed from Transistor. They’re a ship I go to for people who are deeply supportive of each other. I see them as having very different personalities (Red being distant and intense, Boxer being warmer and more flexible, but ultimately more confrontational) so they spark off of each other well. But they truly want what’s best for each other, and they’re mature enough to be honest together. When things go wrong, it’s because of outside factors, less about their personalities. And then of course there’s AschNatalia, a couple who possibly could have it all, but who are too overwhelmed by outside stressors and their own immaturity to really come together. You can take them in either direction, fluff or angst, showing them growing up and finally just loving each other or exploring all the deep fracture lines in their relationship -- and whichever side you land on, there’s still a bit of the other mixed in. And then finally, the nuclear option when it comes to my ships, CliveElza. No matter what, Clive and Elza carved a life together out despite the brutality and anguish of their upbringing. And because of that love, circumstances turn against them. Elza’s solution is deception, and Clive’s is vengeance and murder. This is the ship for when I’m interesting in digging into the characters more than finding any happy ending.

First Ship:

I think the first ship I really got into and fixated on was CecilRosa from Final Fantasy 4. That may have been because it was the first JRPG I ever played, so I just fixated on it, period. But I think I would have been drawn to the ship anyway, Cecil trying to move through his dark past, Rosa believing in him but also challenging him when necessary.

Last Song:

I think it was a live version of “The Last Unicorn” by America?

Last Movie:

Belle, the anime. I’ve watched it twice now, the second time to try to figure out what exactly it’s doing. I enjoyed it a lot, though I think it’s kind of scattered and overambitious, and that weakens it some.

Currently Consuming:

Had some French vanilla chai and trail mix a bit earlier. It’s my typical midday snack.

Currently Watching:

Continuing my trend of watching old sitcoms, I’m working through One Day at a Time. I hadn’t heard much of anything about this one, and I was a little apprehensive at the first few episodes, which was largely the main character shouting at her daughters in a small apartment. But it’s about women making their way in the 70s, and that’s an interesting time period to me, and it gets looser and more comedic over time, so I’m enjoying it.

Currently Reading:

For fun I’m reading Jala’s Mask by Mike and Rachel Grinti. It’s a fantasy set in an island kingdom (I think loosely based on coastal Africa maybe?) in which the heroine Jala quickly negotiates her marriage to a young king, then almost as quickly starts getting in trouble with his political allies, and then dark sorcery shows up. I’m not far into it yet, but it seems promising. For research, I’m reading Pandora’s Daughters by Eva Cantarella, which is trying, against all odds, to piece together the lives of ancient Greek and Roman women despite so little historical evidence. Again, not that far into it, but I’m enjoying it.

Currently Craving:

So there’s this store that’s nearish to where I live, but not near enough that I’d just casually swing by, and it sells the best cookies. They’re nothing fancy, just chocolate chip with peanuts, but they are so good. I’ve been flirting with the idea of making some of my own and hoping I can capture the magic.

If this interests you, consider yourself tagged!

[audio-luddite]

Good Morning Audio people.

I did my usual perusal of the local equipment ads today. I noticed a relatively low priced super amp in there. It was a SUMO Andromeda. Big and black and it looked really heavy.

It was about 1/2 to 3/4 of the usual price for this type of thing, so interested I became. It reviewed well in the 90's, and gained favor in several magazines. I looked further into it. SUMO was another incarnation of James Bongiorno's businesses.

His name is either Good Morning in Italian or a homonym (or is it homophone) of that. So good morning!

He started at Marantz in the golden NY era. Then moved to New Jersey with Dynaco. Then California with SAE and then GAS, and eventually SUMO. Each step was further down the road of his quest for electronic perfection. Each stop produced notable products. A quest does not have to be linear or even successful.

I must remind you that JB was one of the three big golden age designers who gained respect even fans among the audiophile world. The other two being Nelson Pass, and Bob Carver.

Anyway back to the SUMO. The documents for this Amp, an Andromeda II, were interesting. They talked about separate power supplies and robust hardware. It was also one of the Early big FET amps. Stereophile sorta liked it in certain systems. When it was good it was very good. Both good and FET. It was priced about what I could get for my Franken-amp if I found a buyer. Wheels started to turn.

So I dig further. As per usual I looked up the circuit schematic. Holy shit! This was an electronic maze. I imagined service techs throwing themselves off of tall buildings if this showed up. It looked like each channel was made from two complete amplifiers bridged to act as one amplifier. That apparently is exactly what it was.

In the normal application many stereo amps can be bridged to act as one monophonic amp at about double the power. Good things usually happen. So why not, they thought, do that right in the box with four amps to make 2 bigger ones. Twice as many parts!

In my opinion one benefit of bridging amps is you have two completely separate devices so there is no cross talk. It is physically impossible. Putting two already bridged amps in a box would be fine if they had their own power supply like Harmon Kardon and others do. SUMO didn't do that.

They did a weird thing in having two tiers of power supply one for the low level Class A front end and a second (smaller one!) for the big output transistors. Well he was in California, he may have been smoking something. If these power supplies could be cleaved apart for each channel and the big outputs given more umph capacitors things could look good.

Hey I am not an electronic engineer. BUT things were screaming at me why did they do that!

The only cool thing they did was to have the power stages biased so that they acted as Class A up to a couple dozen Watts. 95% of your listening is at very low Wattage. So a Class A Bias is generally a good thing though it makes it run kinda warm. Cool to be warm.

It looks like he went down a "lets try this" rabbit hole. Yes MOSFETs were involved but dear me. Interesting the Mr Pass went the route of simplicity. He also moved to a mountain forest.

All these things have a voice. The Stereophile review discussed how it sounded really good with some speakers and less so with others. Interesting that made such a difference. Obviously it was reacting to the speakers impedance function. Why else would it sound different? You shove a big electrical signal down the throat of any speaker it should just put out sound. But sometimes they argue. Sometimes the amplifier does not like arguments. Maybe if the power stage had more umph behind it?

So after being intrigued I thought give it a miss. I am sure someone will buy it and like it, until it breaks.

[queenpike3]

Sony Portable Cassette Recorder

Others buy cassette recorders because they like listening to their music on it. A cassette recorder brings you back to a time when things were simple and you didn’t have anything to worry about but living and listening to music. As cassette recorders become less popular, it can be challenging to find the one you truly want. However, there are ways to research and find the cassette recorder you desire. In this article, we will dig deeper into the many ways you can find the cassette recorder of your dreams. We will look at budgets and the many features that make cassette recorders unique.

This is an incredibly thoughtful addition on the company’s behalf, and we feel it is a marker of a good product.

The single motor Sony decks have electronics that are generally reliable, and with heads in good condition, the fidelity of even the oldest machines is good.

In addition to radio and cassette listening, you have access to weather channels and TV.

We decided to gather informartion all around the internet and present you a list of helpful, external links to interesting reads about reviews, pros & cons and similar products.

The idlers lose their grip, resulting in slow playback speeds and slow/non-existent rewind and/or fast forward.

The Sony CFDG770CPK Xplod CD Radio Cassette Recorder from Sony adds exceptional style, fun, and big bass sound to your listening experience. Equipped with MP3 playback and 30 AM/FM station memory ... Working, in very good condition SONY DVD player and VIDEO cassette recorder COMBO with original remote and component cables. Interested in an intimate, secluded listening session. That’s where the Jensen SCR-75 Stereo Cassette Player comes in. It is a handheld cassette player that truly lets you escape to another world.

Vintage Sony Bright Yellow 12 Tape Cassette Plasstic Holder With Clear Window And Carrying Handle **free Shipping**

The number one reason many people use cassette recorders is to record music and news shows from AM and FM radio. In many cases, when a person’s favorite song would come on, they would put a cassette tape in the recorder and press record while the song is playing. After, they have a song on their cassette tape that they can listen to for a long time. Auto stop is an awesome feature that can really protect your cassette tapes from damage. When you reach the end of a tape, the player will notice and will stop reading the tape immediately. This will prevent it from eating the tape and causing irreversible damage to your cassettes. (Adjusted for inflation that’s $78 and $445.) It even specifically avoided airing commercials on Saturday mornings, since only kids would be watching at that time and not their mothers or fathers. Sony TC D5M , cassette recorder, Dolby B , 2 heads. When you need a boombox to make a statement for the ages, this SuperSonic model is up to the task.

Enjoy convenient, full-function, portable audio anywhere you go. Still in low volume, when it marks the new sounds like this of the speakers have been blown was. Sony launched in 1960 a first portable transistor television, the TV8-301, equipped with an 8-inch screen. Eight years later, the Japanese giant will market a color television – also the first – named Trinitron, the patent of which was bought from the French Television Company. Sony has been known around the world for its televisions for decades.

Portable Cassette Player Comparative Table

Generally this isn’t hard to do, but can consume 2-3 hours of time, resulting in an expensive repair bill. Around 1973, Sony switched from their soft steel heads to Permalloy heads, which were much longer lasting, most lasting the life of the deck. This improved longevity and reliability significantly. Maserati took the wraps off its new Grecale sports utility vehicle on Tuesday, marking another step in the promised expansion of the automaker's range as part of a turnaround strategy. Initially planned for November last year, the launch of the new model had been delayed due to a global chip shortage. Damage, ranging from melted cassette players to damage to the house itself. NuTone is not aware...to the left of the radio dial. The cassette deck is located at the lower right corner. The cassette players ...stereo-cassette players were also installed in newly constructed homes during the same time period. Sony TC-758Given the vast size of the Sony corporation, Sony was massive in the consumer market, and developed some reel to reel related technologies that didn’t last the test of time. This included the Elcaset, an oversized cassette tape, ¼” width, running at 3 ¾ IPS, promising the fidelity of reel to reel, in a convenient cassette format. This the difficult fact to touch/finds the together sure of songs. It has not seen any way to habe the playlist neither. It has bitten Of the bummer, but am still happy with a unit. Bite Of the bummer, but am still happy with a unit. Due to the above examples that plague all single motor Sony reel to reel decks, I no longer accept them for service at this time. Do you want to know more about cassette recorders? Check out the links below to gain knowledge about the whole topic of cassette recorder products. To help you find the perfect cassette recorder, we continuously put forth the effort to update and expand our list of recommendable cassette recorders. Setting on a radio presets has taken so only the pocolos second and a player of CD READ are disk of Mp3 without any questions. I have found that reading of the clave of USB has not been like this easy this in spite of. There is not any function of file or ordering of any class. https://bestreviewsca.com/sony-portable-cassette-players-recorders_48992/ Do-it-yourself investors can actually outperform big-time money managers. Here's one Canadian stock that could help you do it. The post 1 Top Canadian Growth Stock for DIY Investors appeared first on The Motley Fool Canada. If the seller cannot or will not meet you in person, be suspicious. Always inspect and/or test the item fully before paying for it. If it can't be inspected or tested before the sale, just say "no."

[zachsgamejournal]

PLAYING: Hades

Alright. I don't like hard games. This game is hard. But they've made the difficulty and retry a part of the story. Maybe...just maybe...I'll come around to it.

I platinumed Transistor. That was a previous game from this company. It was a three-quarters view, action-rpg--just like everything else this company makes. Except Hades is a rogue-like (I think) due to the Permanent death. Kinda...

See, you play the son of Hades, Zagreus. For some reason he wants to escape the underworld join the happier gods up top. I'm not sure why...maybe I missed something (I'm trying to read the story). It almost sounded like there's a kegger on Mt. Olympus, but even Zeus is excited for Zag to come--which doesn't sound like something he should be concerned about. Hades seems pretty disinterested in his son's attempts to escape. I guess he just doesn't think Zag can escape, so he's not worried. But he's also not concerned that his son WANTS to escape.

So the game has you roam from room, to room. Therein are a collection of enemies that get stronger and more numerous as you move along. You're often given a choice between two doors, and each door hints at the reward for clearing the room. Sometimes it's a form of currency that unlocks attributes or purchase items. Sometimes it unlocks keys to that unlock weapons...and other things...or it unlocks a gift/power from one of the gods that doesn't want Zag stuck in hell.

That's fine. That works.

The game is hard and wants to be hard. Interestingly, each time you die, Zag makes a comment based on how he died and where he died. Some of the other characters will even change their dialog to reference where you're getting stuck. Not mind-blowing, but a nice touch. It's this that makes trying again less burdensome. It's like dying is necessary in order to unlock the story. If you don't die, you don't get to talk to those characters again and dig deeper into those relationships. But I still don't love the gameplay.

From what I remember of Transistor, it was just area after agrea of button smashing. And not a relaxing button smashing like Dynasty Warriors, but a tense and frustrating, "oh god I'm going to die" button smashing. It's made harder by the fact I'm playing on my keyboard instead of with a controller. Since I'm using fingers to move instead of my thumb, I'm probably not at the top of my game.

The art style is good--if not...what one should expect. The environment looks rich and detailed and I think the characters are 3D...or just really well animated. I know when this came out a lot of peers LOVED it. I'm not seeing what's so great--but then i don't like Soulsbourne either. so this just might not be my thing.

PS: I played, beat, platinumed Transistor because it was free and I only like 5 games on PS4 at the time.

[humanwheatleyslefttoenail]

i think it's interesting that the vast majority of portal fics rely on GLaDOS and Wheatley's (former or current) humanity as a catalyst for their redemption, that it's those human things that allow Chell to connect with them and allow them to get over emotional difficulties and insecurities that previously damaged their relationship with Chell and their own self image.

Because, yes, it's true, discovering her humanity allowed GLaDOS to understand what it meant to have a conscience. What it meant to care about someone again. But it's after she deletes that humanity, after she says goodbye to her past and welcomes a future for herself, that GLaDOS does the kindest thing she does in the whole series. She serenades Chell, gives her the cube back, and then lets her go.

Humanity is not the moral center of Portal. What's more arrogantly human than Cave's devotion to progress at all costs, how many times has history seen a man filled with good intentions dig his way down to hell because it's more efficient than paving a path? It's uncannily human to harm, it's human to sacrifice, it's human to be shortsighted and selfish and guilty when its all over.

You don't have to be human to be good, you don't have to be good to be human.

Baking a cake doesn't have to be human. Batter stirred by a hand with a spoon doesn't have to have less love put into it, than batter stirred with an electric mixer.

Singing doesn't have to be human, the organic imperfections in a single voice are just as heartfelt as a song so carefully crafted, it needs several thousand transistors for its love to be contained.

Chell has already seen the ugliest parts of humanity in Wheatley and GLaDOS, she doesn't need them to be more human. The only thing they need to learn is kindness.

[worddevourer]

I’ve played Boyfriend Dungeon for approximately 10 hours since it came out about 15 hours ago, and, uh...

1.  Yeah, it’s pretty good.  Definitely not a perfectly polished game or anything, but I dig the characters, and the combat’s fairly satisfying.

2.  Everyone’s attractive in one way or another (with 1-2 exceptions, depending on your level of monsterfuckery and how much a bad personality can make a person unattractive)

3. The phrase ‘her hilt fits neatly in your hand as you sleep,’ is...  Listen, BRB, gotta go make weapon/wielder AU fanfiction, get in on the ground floor, we have unlocked new flavors of intimacy. (This is the alternate version of Transistor we never got)

4.  Where is the Scythe?  I only know they exist because there’s an achievement for romancing them? I have beaten the game, why have I never even seen them?  How do I find the slashy slashy reapy one?

5. No, I’m honestly still stuck on the idea of making AUs with this.  If I want to popularize the genre and be the seminal work in the fanfic field, I’ll have to move quick...

[kythed]

I have a fic request for Kuroo! A childhood friends to lovers situation based off the song Take my Hand by Picture This! (Just a cute song that has been haunting me because Kuroo ❤️)

I have been through and stalked your blog and I love it! I also saw the ficmas prompt list and I’m looking forward to requesting those too!

I hope this is okay and thank you so much! Your stuff is a joy to read! ❤️❤️❤️✨✨✨

take my hand

kuroo tetsurou x reader

hope you enjoy <3

five.

“You’re my best friend,” he tells you, swallowing the heart that keeps straining to burst from his throat, to lay itself at your feet in all its humiliating devotion. “Of course I love you.”

And he does love you, he reassures himself, letting you walk ahead of him. Just not in the way you think he does. He struggles to keep his eyes above your waistline, tearing his gaze from the hem of your skirt and pointedly pinning it to the back of your head, where your hair is loosely tied with a glossy silk ribbon. His efforts succeed for nearly thirty seconds before he again finds his eyes tracing their way down your neck, down your back, down to the arch of your waist and the flare of your hips, relishing the curve of your--

Damn it. He abruptly stops in his tracks, rubbing his eyes until he sees only stars. (Maybe if he rubs his eyes with enough vigor he’ll stop noticing things he shouldn’t notice while looking at his best friend.)

“Tetsu,” you say, turning around with a laugh. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, blinking hard.

He’s not fine.

four.

Life is painful when you’re in love with your oldest, dearest friend. Let Kuroo Tetsurou be the first to testify that when you’ve grown up with someone your entire life, when you’ve made the long, tedious trek from diapers to graduation gowns with them, it feels almost sinful to find yourself slipping into daydreams about pressing that person against your wall, about hearing them whisper your name on soft linen sheets, about kissing them breathless and glassy eyed until the sun plunges beneath the horizon with a brazen wink.

He hates himself for staring at you and hoping to catch you staring back. He hates himself for letting your words wash over his head, unheard, in favor of watching the way your lips curve and curl when you speak.

Most of all, he hates himself for loving you so fiercely in a particular way that would surely sour your stomach and send you running.

“I love you too,” you say, waiting for him to catch up and fall into step beside you. You take his hand and lace your fingers with his as you make your way up the street to your house. The windows glow a domestic orange, dimly illuminating the patch of asphalt before your front door.

It’s nearing seven now-- the gentle clinking of silverware and some sort of faint, savory scent from within inform you of dinner’s impending commencement.

“I know,” he says, cracking a crooked smile. You roll your eyes as he brushes a mocking kiss over your knuckles. “I’m hard to hate.”

three.

Most of the summer passes uneventfully, according to Kuroo’s standards. He manages to keep himself in check, even as he spends each and every day with you, dawn til dusk, savoring your presence the way a starving man savors his last ration.

He manages to treat you almost exactly as he’s treated you his entire life-- like a best friend. He tells his silly jokes that make you giggle and groan simultaneously. He pushes you off the pier when you least expect it, howling with laughter as you resurface, sputtering and flinging fiery invective. He shares an earbud with you as he walks downtown with you by his side, arm slung over your shoulder with carefully calculated composure.

He almost makes it to autumn without incident.

The small, hidden moments are what gives him away, though, layered within false nonchalance and easygoing grins like brightly painted matryoshka.

The way his chest constricts almost painfully when you laugh at a pun he’s ad-libbed on the spot, sending a flurry of butterflies freewheeling in the pit of his stomach.

“It really wasn’t that good,” he chuckles, tenderly watching as tears of laughter prick at the corners of your eyes and you grip his forearm in an attempt to steady yourself as giggles rack your body.

“No, it wasn’t,” you agree, struggling to catch your breath. “It was awful, and that’s what made it so funny.”

(He makes about a dozen more puns that day, feeling like he’s won the lottery whenever you so much as smile at his pitiful attempts at wordplay.)

The way his hands tremble when you turn around and ask him to tie your bikini string before you jump into the lake, the way he bites his lip so some horribly incriminating comment about how he really thinks you’d “be better off without the bikini at all” doesn’t slip out from his mouth.

“Thanks Tetsu,” you chirp after he ties the string around the back of your neck in a neat double-knot. You give him a wink and take off towards the water, kicking up sand in the process. “Last one in buys lunch!”

(He was already planning on paying anyways.)

The way he sits up a little straighter when you lean over and slip a hand under his arms to press ‘skip’ on his phone while you listen to his playlist-- you’re so close he can smell your lip balm.

“Sorry,” you say, smiling apologetically. “I don’t really like that band.”

(Later that evening, Kuroo goes through his Spotify and deletes every single song from that band he has on all of his playlists.)

Yes, he manages to keep himself in check outwardly. But inside, he can feel himself digging his grave a little deeper with each passing day. He watches the sands of summer run through his fingers with the dread of a man counting down the days to his funeral.

He just knows that one of these days he’s going to slip.

two.

He’s right, of course. There’s only so much emotional torment one person can humanly endure. It’s just that he’s hoping he can extinguish this inconvenient, one-sided flame before August comes around. Maybe then everything can go back to normal, whatever normal might entail.

Needless to say, Kuroo’s hopes are dashed before summer comes to a close.

It’s a sticky July evening when you and he drive out to an empty parking lot at the edge of town, a blanket and an old transistor radio in tow. You’re wearing a pale yellow sundress that falls to just above your knees-- he’s glad it’s not any shorter, and that the breeze isn’t quite strong enough to lift your hem.

“I think I can see Orion’s belt,” you say, pointing towards somewhere far into the cosmos. Kuroo squints, trying to follow your finger.

“I don’t think that’s Orion,” he says. “Looks like a cat to me.”

The two of you are sitting on a blanket spread across the hood of his car, craning your necks to make out vague shapes in the stars. Between you, slow, muffled music trickles out from the radio’s small speakers, some sort of vintage tune from the forties.

“How in the world are you seeing a cat?” You shake your head, giving him a hard poke on the shoulder. “Looks more like a swarm of astral bees than anything.”

“Astral bees,” he repeats with a laugh. “Laziest constellation interpretation I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not lazy,” you protest. “It’s accurate.”

Kuroo just smiles and shrugs, sneaking a glance at you. Your face is bathed in milky starlight, eyes wide as you peer up at the cloudless sky with a blend of wonder and appreciation. There’s some competition, but he thinks this might be the prettiest you’ve ever looked in a single moment.

As if you can feel his stare, you turn to catch his gaze. A gentle smile breaks onto your face, and you absentmindedly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with the endearing shyness of a schoolgirl. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, mirroring your grin. “You just… look nice right now.”

“No, seriously,” you laugh disbelievingly. “Is there something on my face?”

“I am being serious,” Kuroo insists, fidgeting with the blanket beneath his palms. “You look good. Yellow suits you.”

You flush, glancing down at your dress. You bought it two summers back, and he’s seen you in it a million times before. This is the first summer where he’s really seen you, though. “Well, thank you. It’s a warm night, so I figured I was better off in a dress than pants.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, breaking eye contact to squint up at the stars. He grins and points, finger trembling slightly. “I think I can see where you’re coming from, with the bees.”

one.

A staticky, syrupy waltz comes on the radio, bleeding into the cracks in the comfortable silence. You sigh contentedly, leaning back onto the windshield. “I like this song. It’s… nostalgic.”

Kuroo cocks an eyebrow at you. “You’ve heard this before?”

“No,” you laugh, biting the inside of your cheek. “But it reminds me of times gone by, you know? Like, this is the sort of music I imagine playing when a soldier reunites with his wife after the war.”

“When he comes running out of the train and drops his bags on the platform,” Kuroo continues, watching you carefully, “only to sweep his girl off her feet and spin her around wildly.”

You nod, sneaking a glance at him. “You really know me that well, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes crinkling with humor. “But I get it, too. It has that old fashioned romance thing goin’ on.”

“Mhm,” you agree. You reach over and fiddle with the radio’s volume, turning it up just enough to round out the sound completely.

Kuroo sits for a moment, watching you close your eyes and hum along to the music. Then, a sudden boldness taking the reins, he hops off the hood and walks over to you, extending his hand. “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take my hand,” he insists, so you do, gingerly placing your palm atop his. “We’re going to dance.”

“Oh, no,” you laugh, nonetheless letting him help you down from the car and resting a hand on his shoulder. He lightly places his own on your waist, leading you out into the parking lot. “You know I can’t dance.”

“I can’t either,” he reminds you. “But I want to dance with you right now.”

As you begin to sway slightly to the music, Kuroo pulls you a little closer to his chest, letting his chin brush the top of your head. “Why are you into that whole idea?”

“What idea?” you ask quietly, letting him lead you in slow circles around the lot.

“The idea of an old fashioned love.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing as Kuroo spins you in his arms, catching you before you stumble. “I’m not sure… maybe because it seems more constant than love today. Like, today, if you tell someone you love them, it’s a compliment, not a promise. But back then, it was a vow. It meant something.”

Kuroo swallows, looking down at you. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, threatening to burst out of his temples. I’m about to do something I might regret.

zero.

“I need you to do something for me,” he says, voice low and thick with caution. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Please,” he says, voice breaking. He knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he never will. You look beautiful to him in this moment, dancing with him in the empty parking lot to the faint melody of an old waltz. Your eyes glisten with life, your lips gently parted, hair slightly curling over your cheeks.

You roll your eyes once but nonetheless close them obediently, relying a little more on his arms to steady you. He swallows. “Okay. So, imagine we’re living in the 1940s.”

“Okay,” you say, smiling slightly. “I’m imagining.”

“Imagine I enlisted in the war, and I just got back home. Imagine you’re waiting for me at the train station.”

“Mhmm,” you say, trying your best to envision the platform. “You look good in that uniform, Tetsu.”

He chuckles. “I look good in anything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, squeezing his hand. “Get on with it.”

“Imagine I come sprinting out from the train and you’re waiting there with open arms. This song is playing on the platform speakers. I ask you to dance just like we are now.” Kuroo watches you grin, feeling his heart flutter. “Then, imagine I tell you something.”

Unconsciously, you shift closer to him, almost pressing your body flush to his. A breath hitches in his throat. “What do you tell me?”

He leans down, brushes his lips against your ear. “I love you.”

You open your eyes, head cocked, slight confusion cloaking your features. “You mean, like…?”

Kuroo shakes his head. “No. I mean, like, I love you. Not just in a friend way. In that old fashioned way you were talking about. I love everything about you. I’m in love with everything about you.”

“Tetsu…” you breathe, searching his face. He gazes down at you seriously, not a trace of humor tainting his stare. He takes a deep breath.

“I love the way your hair falls in the summer. I love your stupid, annoying laugh. I love how your hand fits in mine. I love the way you rant about anything and everything and expect me to listen, and I do because I can’t help but get excited about what you get excited about. I love you like a soldier loves his wife,” he says, the words flowing out like a river bursting from a dam. “I love you so much it hurts, and it scares me, and I’m sorry if this ruins stuff between us, but I just had to--”

“Shut up.”

He blinks, mouth gaping. “I-- what?”

“I said,” you whisper, gripping the back of his neck and guiding his face down to yours. “Shut up, Tetsu. You talk too much.”

Then suddenly you’re kissing him, and he can’t believe it, but he kisses you back like it’s what he was born to do. He lets you crash your lips into his and watches as shooting stars burst forth and the planets align. Somehow, your hands find their way up into his hair, tangling themselves in his dark locks, and his own travel down to your lower back, pulling you as close as humanly possible, so tightly he never wants to let go. He revels in the warmth of your skin, the icy, tingly sensation of your lips, and when you pull back, it’s all he can do to refrain from pulling you right back in again.

There’s a brief silence. His lips are swollen, his lungs are devoid of air. “I… wow. Just, wow.”

You grin wickedly, slipping your hand into his. “I’ve been waiting to do that for a while now.”

“You have?” he asks, eyes wide in disbelief. “I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you didn’t,” you laugh. “You were too worried about not letting me notice you staring at my ass every chance you got.”

Kuroo flushes but gives a sheepish smile, massaging the back of his neck. “You know, I really thought I was being smooth about it.”

--

As it turns out, you love him back. And not just in the best friend way. You love everything about him, his stupid jokes, his loud, booming laugh, his teasing, his smile, his successes and his failures. You love how your hand fits in his. You love that it took him years and years to admit to himself that he loved you, too.

Kuroo Tetsurou may not be the smoothest guy in the world, but he’s certainly the only one you want. And you’re certainly the only one he wants.

And that’s really the most you could ever ask for.

[vivilove-jonsa]

Can I do a combo of prompts? Lemonade stand + underwear? You can totally choose one or the other btw!

Hello, my dear, and thank you for the prompt from this post. It took me a bit to come up with something and I settled on a 50s AU for the aesthetic of it. I hope you like it alright. And instead of underwear, it's more like lemonade stand and bikini 😉

**

A lazy afternoon in the summer of ’59, Mother’s got a headache and has asked Sansa to keep the boys outside and out of trouble. (No one has to be asked to keep Sansa out of trouble. She’s never in any. And of course, Robb and Arya have escaped off to somewhere else while Daddy’s still at his office.)

After Sansa had nixed tree climbing and setting off cherry bombs as entertainment, Bran and Rickon had begrudgingly agreed to a lemonade stand. Sansa suspected they were mostly interested for the sake of getting to drink as much lemonade as they can hold and she’s proven correct. They disappeared to the backyard twenty minutes ago.

This was not the plan today.

The plan was Sansa and her best friend in their brand new bikinis laying out front to paint their toenails, listen to the transistor radio and work on their tans where boys might notice them.

Admittedly, there were a couple of flaws in that plan.

One, Sansa Stark doesn’t tan. She burns and freckles. No matter how much Coppertone she slathers on, she’s never going to tan like Jeyne.

And two, no boys have seemed to notice them so far. Just grody old Mr. Baelish from down the block. He’s driven past Sansa’s house four times now in the past hour. He makes her skin crawl.

The only so-called boy who’s even around to notice them in fact is Sansa’s next door neighbor Jon Snow who is currently cutting the grass at his house and making it hard to hear Little Richard belting out ‘Tutti Frutti.’

Jon and Robb used to play together when they were younger but somewhere along the way their interests diverged. Robb wears his letterman’s jacket and always has football on the brain. Jon’s got a leather jacket and a motorcycle.

His father’s never been around, his mother’s gone a lot. He smokes cigarettes and Sansa’s seen some of the crowd he hangs around with at school. Mother says he’s probably trouble. (And good girls like Sansa probably shouldn’t want to be noticed by a boy like that, right?)

But he also has the dreamiest eyes, dreamier than Ricky Nelson’s. He used to call her Red when they were younger and she used to think it was cute. (She might still think it’s cute if he still called her that.)

He wears his curls slicked back and pops the collar of his leather jacket before he revs his motorcycle loudly a few times every morning when he’s heading off to school. (Of course, Sansa’s only noticed because Robb drives her and they usually leave the same time. It’s not like she’s that interested in what Jon Snow does even if he’s a little like James Dean and Marlon Brando rolled into one.)

Anyway, here she sits, feeling quite conspicuous in her red and white polka dot bikini, at a lemonade stand like she’s still twelve or something, abandoned by her little brothers and even Jeyne who’d said she’d go get some magazines for them to look at once they’d been saddled with the babysitting but hasn’t returned yet. She feels more than a little sorry for herself. At least the stand is in a shady spot and she’s no longer on the verge of getting good and sunburnt.

“Hey, Red. How much for a glass?”

She whirls around to find Jon Snow is right behind her, sweaty in his jeans and white tee with little bits of grass clippings sticking to his muscled forearms. She hadn’t even noticed the mower shutting off. (He called her Red, too.)

“A nickel for a glass,” she says, reciting what Bran had painstakingly spelled out on the spare bit of cardboard she’d found for a sign and attached to the front of her parents’ card table. Why is she blushing?

He smirks and starts digging in his front pocket.

“But it’s free for you!”

He stops digging and raises his eyebrows.

“I mean…you’re our neighbor and you’ve been working hard and…there’s no charge.” She can feel the blush deepening and wonders if the sun and heat might be blamed. Probably not.

“My lucky day,” he hums, helping to ease her embarrassment. “Are you going to be selling lemonade out here every day?”

“No,” she laughs. “Bran and Rickon got bored and kind of left me with it so…” She stops her rambling, picks up her mother’s pitcher and pours him a glass. “Here you go.”

She hands it over and their fingers brush together sending little jolts of electricity all through her. Their eyes are locked and she can feel her cheeks tugging upward to form a smile that matches his. He really does have the dreamiest eyes and she doesn’t care if he rides a motorcycle or smokes cigarettes. Maybe he’s a little bit of trouble but maybe Sansa might enjoy a little trouble in her life. Always being the good girl has its drawbacks, too.

He brings the glass up to his lips (he has very full and pouty lips) and tips it back. She watches the way his throat bobs as he drinks, the way the sweat on his skin glistens even in the shady spot where the stand sits. He drinks the entire glass down without pause. A trickle of the liquid escapes his mouth and goes streaking down his chin and neck. He’ll be all sticky there. Sansa turns her head to lick her lips and touch her brow. What has come over her?

“Mmmm…that’s sweet and tart, just the way it should be,” he says, smacking his lips as he sets the glass back down on the table.

“Thanks. I made it myself.”

“I figured. I’m not sure I’d want to try anything your brothers made. They’re busy digging holes in your backyard at the moment by the way.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Unless your dad was wanting to put in a golf course back there, I’m not sure what the purpose is.”

“They’re…they…OH!”

She races off around back to catch the two felons hard at work digging holes for…reasons? She scolds them both until they apologize and promise to fill the holes at once. Sansa assures them if they’ll do that it can be their little secret. No need to bother Mother and her headache with it.

She hurries back out front to see if Jon has returned to his yard, secretly hoping he hasn’t.

He hasn’t. He’s still there.

“Did you want some more lemonade?” she asks, trying to think of a reason to keep him there.

“Nah, I…” He looks around, reaches up towards the collar of his tee and lets his hand drop just as quick. He gives her a shy grin. “I didn’t know if you wanted some company at your stand. I saw that creep driving by earlier when you girls were out and I thought…I could stick around for a bit…if you wanted.”

She nods and thanks him, telling him she’d love to have his company while they wait for Bran and Rickon to come take back over. Of course, her little brothers aren’t coming to take back over. They’re busy filling in holes in the backyard. They’ve forgotten all about the lemonade stand.

Sure enough, Mr. Baelish’s Chevy does make a return trip down the street a few minutes later. But Jon stands up when it does, stands right in front of where she’s sitting. She doesn’t know if Jon makes any gestures or just glares but the Chevy speeds on past and doesn’t return.

And when Jeyne returns at long last with her stack of magazines, her eyes boggle at the sight of Jon Snow still sitting next to Sansa at the stand and the two of them talking and laughing.

Sansa wonders how shocked her friend might be when she tells her that she’s got a date with him Saturday night.

[whirlybirbs]

MOONLIT DUNES.    ;    boba fett / reader     ;     1 / ?

summary: you’ve found many things in the dunes. a gravely injured mandalorian is a new thing to add to the ever growing list. set directly after return of the jedi. 

word count: 3.5k

pairing: boba fett / scavenger!reader

tags: some body horror, injury mention, boba loses his leg, reader does first aid,  the great pit of carkoon really did one on our man

a/n: my hand slipped i swear.............. (this has been in the works since may)

In all your years spent drifting about the land of Tatooine, you’ve found many things in the dunes.

Rare racing pod parts that had been discontinued after years of upgrades... Discarded weaponry, no doubt used for something more nefarious than Bantha hunting... and many, many skulls, sentient and otherwise.

Such comes with the life of a scavenger — live off the land and the things buried deep; harvest trinkets of lives long since forgotten in the ever changing tides of glittering sand.

However, never in your life —  in all the days spent beneath the twin brother suns —  have you ever found someone alive in the dunes.

Until today, that is.

You should have known venturing North of Mos Eisley was a bad idea. After all, the plains beyond the space port were ridden with starved sarlacc pits. But, with Tanto — the resident Junk Boss — down your throat about catching up on your few owed debts, you’d decided to weigh the risk and trek on towards the looming beast on the horizon: the Great Pit of Carkoon. With any luck, you’d be able to scavenge what little undigested pieces the massive creature had belched back up — maybe some Gamorian armor, or a blaster or two — after one of Jabba’s usual disposal runs.

Ah, Jabba.

Rumor had it that Jabba Desilijic Tiure was dead.

You knew better than to ask about mere rumors being tossed around the clock-out lines as you turned in your hauls for the day. Like you did every evening, you kept your head down. But, you did listen. You always listen — and from what you could gather, there’d already been a few scavenging parties dispatched to the Northern region.

Something about a jedi, a princess and a hell of a mess.

Not that any of that mattered — because dwelling on some fantastical retelling of a lie by Frokop Golp, the resident drunk swindler, wasn’t going to keep you fed. You were hoping that at the least, the part about one of Jabba’s sail barges going down by the Great Pit of Carkoon wasn’t a lie. Then, you could maybe find a few transistor coolant coils...

The dawning realization that you were betting another day’s ration portion on a spun half-truth embellished by the local drunkard hits you as your dewback, a kindly older male you’d named Scud, finally reaches the crest of the highest dune overlooking the Carkoon wastes. For a moment, as you squint into the setting sun, you wonder if this is even going to be worth it.

You sigh, adjusting the light linen face covering over your nose and mouth, and gently urge Scud forward.

No use in dwelling. You’re already here.

“Hup.”

As you near, the wreckage seems to have been picked over completely. Scud plods slowly towards the wreck, tail swatting cautiously as the sarlacc a few meters ahead gives a low hiss at the vibrations riling it awake through the sand. You rock with the slow canter, one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other moving to reach behind you to your pack.

There rests a longspear — the top is crowned with the head of a gaderffii. You’d made it ages ago, well before your fifteen birthday, and it had become as much as a steadfast companion as Scud himself. With a flick and a satisfying click, the longspear extends from it’s compacted state. Resting the butt end against your forearm as Scud continues his meandering pace, you run the spear tip through the sand to your left.

No give.

The dunes creating a wall around the beast’s mouth stand strong. Over the large ridge, and a handful of meters away, tentacles swing eagerly through the air like malicious little whips, hungry for their next meal. The hulking beast, well over 10,000 years old, knows you’re here now — the desperate moan from it’s gaping maw is enough of an indication of that fact.

For now, keeping your distance and guiding Scud towards the barge, you’re safe.

The party barge had certainly seen better days — seems like a bolt from the main gun had ruptured a fuel line below the deck. Half submerged in an encroaching dune, you’re not surprised to be greeted by the foul stench of sun-rotting corpses as you hop down from Scud. Your boots, made of stretched and tanned Bantha hide, kick up a cloud of dust when you land.

Even with the twin suns beginning to set, the sand is hot.

There are footpaths leading to the barge, partially washed away by the wind pulling the sand closer to the mangled helm of the ship. Patting Scud’s neck as you pass, you grip your staff tightly — one tap of the durasteel spear to the twisted hole in the starboard side sends a scattering hiss of a pack of womp rats caught lounging in the evening shade. Carefully, you duck beneath the warped siding and over the lip of metal, eyes flicking around the cavernous sail barge.

The engine room is where you find yourself… or, well, what’s left of it. The engine has since bottomed out of the barge, no doubt laying in the dunes a few meters away. The smell of propulsion liquid burns in your nostrils, even with your white linen head-covering wrapped tight across your face.

You move on, hauling yourself towards the engine and grabbing two of the smaller propulsion pistons from the transmission. You swing your staff across your shoulder. The strap digs into your neck as you lean into the engine and try to disconnect the main hydraulic line from the engine part.

There’s a part of you, small and girlish, that remembers being scared of dark wreckages like this when you were younger. The terrifying scenario of stumbling into a krayt dragon’s nest used to play over and over in your head; and even now, the irrational little thought nags the back of your mind like a bite from a sand flea. What was rumbling beneath the sand, ready to make you its next meal?

In reality, the most likely scenario would be Tusken scouts roughing you up over encroaching on their territory.

Scud, though, you trusted enough to give holler at the sight of another being — skittish was one of his best traits, especially when sometimes the biggest danger out here in the dunes (aside from sarlaccs) was other sentients.

If the Kiqan tribe spotted you this far out? At worst, you’d lose some of the scavenged parts from earlier in the day as a barter. The Kiqan, the tribe local to this region, knew well enough that the majority of scavengers meant well. Unlike some of the tribes native to the Western lands, the Kiqans have come to terms with the traffic coming in and out of Mos Eisley.

Their chief, a broad and strong woman called Rhaza’hoq, led a clan of twenty Tusken men and women. On more than one occasion, you’d crossed paths with her — you’d come to recognize the womp rat jaw as a part of her head covering and a pelt of bantha donning her shoulders. Though their native tongue felt wrong to you, like prying dry sounds right from your throat, you’d tried to apologize for your trespass.  

That seemed to have been enough respect garnered for the chief to allow you to pass through the Bo’mar Flats in peace. You’d even offered up an armful of rifle components as a gesture of good faith — one you haven’t regretted since.

If they were to catch you here, you’d lose a good lump sum of money. The two battered sheets of durasteel strapped to the side of Scud, each four feet by four feet, would catch a fair price at the Junkyard in Mos Eisley. So, you quietly resign your attempt to dislodge the third propulsion piston and shoulder the two others. Your sack swings heavily against your hip as you plant your boot on the lip of the engine and reach through the hole the ignition blast caused in the floor.

Almost as immediately as you haul yourself up do you regret it.

The smell is wretched, and as you cough and gag you can’t help but recoil in disgust.

Your arrival on the main floor of the sail barge brings with it the cacophonous sound of cave beetles wings; the insects scatter as you press your forearm to your face — you’re left only to stare in horror at the sight before you.

Jabba Desilijic Tiure was very dead.

The infamous Hutt is little more than a snack for the various animals who have come and gone from the wreckage, now. Reduced only to a rotting mess of flesh and bones, you feel the swell of bile creep up into your throat as you tear your gaze away.

“Gods above,” you heave, coughing loudly.

That’s when you hear it.

A weak sound.

A strangled moan.

Small, quiet, and nearly nothing but a whimper.

For a moment, your muscles seize up so tightly that you're left holding your breath — was that you? Had that sound slipped from your throat the moment you’d let your eyes slip to the open windows along the starboard side of the ship, overlooking the Great Pit beyond the dune ridge?

Then, you see him.

It’s the single weak raise of a gloved hand in the dirt that spurs you into motion.

Scud, too, in that moment must have realized you both weren’t alone — he gives a great baying moan as you scramble, slipping through the whole and back down the engine. You scale it with ease, staff swung over your shoulder at the ready the moment your boots hit the ground.

You dart out into the sun, escaping the festering wreck, and bolt towards what you had previously thought was just a mangled, twisted piece of a rear booster. Making your way up the rising dune, you groan and push your muscles to reach what you now recognized as a destroyed jetpack — and beneath it, a man.

Your spear greets his body first, rounded butt end planting itself beneath his side and with one good nudge, rolling him over.

That’s when you realize he is very much alive and he is very much missing a leg.

Almost immediately, you sink to the dirt.

He’s big. His chest bears a cracked and scathed piece of armor. One arm, with a tattered sleeve and no glove, bears a shoulder pauldron with an insignia long since charred away. It seems like the entire left side of his body had been scorched by some sort of blast. His jetpack, mangled and shredded, is the first to go. You unbuckle the straps along his arms with an utterance of apology.

You’re greeted with a low groan. Slight protest.

Confusion.

His eyes do not open. Swollen eyelids stay shut.

Clicking your tongue and hollering in Huttese, your lumbering dewback trods closer.

His face is sunburnt, the plains of his sharp cheekbones blistering from the exposure to the sun and sand — though, something ticks in the back of your mind. These burns are fresh. From the last day at least. Suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s a fellow scavenger who’d fallen into the pit.

The jetpack would explain the escape.

You toss the pack down the hill.

You follow it, tripping down the sand towards the side of Scud as you scramble for one of the durasteel sheets. Laying it flat on the hot sand, you wonder how on earth this man had survived this long…. A day at least, judging by the sand swept around him and the burns along his arms and face. How long had he been in The Pit?

Gods above.

The Bo’mar Flats were not a kind place when left to the elements.

You land beside the man once more, this time speaking loudly.

“I am going to help you.”

You’re not sure if you’re saying it more for yourself or him.

There’s a part of you, as your eyes flick down to the stump of his left leg, that would give anything to turn away. Ride off, forget the gorish scene. Yet, the better part of you knows you’d simply come back come morning and do the same thing you’re doing now.

And then, come daybreak, he may not even be alive.

You tell yourself, as you squat and try and get a good grip, that you’re doing exactly what anyone else would do. But the reality is that’s far from the truth. Out here, it’s eat or be eaten.

With your luck, you’re stumbling into a metaphorical krayt dragon’s nest helping this man.

If only you knew.

You root both your fists in the material around his shoulders, worn enough to show the outline of where armor used to sit. And you pull.

It’s no easy feat. Even with gravity working in your favor, you’re struggling to haul the large man down the dune. The sand simply drags along, digging him into the dune as you curse in Huttese and spit out profanities sharp enough to make Scud shift on his peds. Your knuckles ache, fingernails having dug half moons into your palms through the material of his under-armor tunic. Landing backwards, you curse. But, you get back up again, and you pull.

It takes ten minutes to move him two meters to the durasteel sled downhill — and even longer to maneuver him onto the steel piece of scavenged material. By the end of it, you’re prying your scarf from your mouth to breath. Sweat tickles the back of your neck as your hands hit your knees and you groan.

“Koochoo,” you hiss at yourself in Huttese. Idiot is right. This is stupid.

Throughout this, the wounded man has offered nothing, not a single peep — you wonder if his last ditch hail of his hand was the only bit of energy he had left.

With him now on the makeshift sled, you move towards Scud’s left pack. Inside, you dig out your canteen and a spare bacta pack. The water sloshes around the hollow metal sphere. Once cold from your early hour of embarking, it’s warm to the touch.

It’s been a hot day.

Overhead, the twin suns have melted into a hazy coral color. They hang low across the horizon, suspended in a flickering bob of heat that dances across the clouds.

You fall to your knees in the sand. You need to move quickly. Soon, the sun will set and getting back to your hut just north of Mos Eisley is an hour’s ride at best.

The lower part of his left leg, from the knee down, is gone. The bleeding had long since stopped, clotted up from the sand and what looks like corrosive burns… Sure enough, the same patterning around his wrists tell you he sure as all kriff has been in the belly of the Great Pit of Carkoon. It’s the stomach acid that has melted the skin together just enough to halt the bleeding along his knee.

You exhale. Short and quick. Then, you pour your water across the limb.

That earns a loud groan of protest. Good to know he’s still alive.

The bacta is next, squeezed from the age old tube in a glob that lands above the wound. With an iron gut and quick sense of criticality, you rinse your own hands with water, all before holding your breath and pushing the palm sized amount across the mangled flesh and muscle. You try not to think about the way your own knee twitches, and instead, focus on planting your hand on the man’s chest — for the first time, he gives a true indication he feels it. The man writhes, contorting himself as a painful series of expletives fly from his mouth.

The chest plate buckles slightly, and when you lift your palm, the dirt smeared away shows a small emblem… Tan and green and red. What looks like wheat and a drop of blood…

It’s familiar, but you can’t remember why. You’ve seen it somewhere. Chewing the inside of your lip, you tear your eyes away and you move on. In a flash, you’ve hauled the linen head wrap from your hair. With the sun setting, you won’t need it as much as he will — keeping the sand out of the clean-enough wound will make a difference once you get him back to your home.

A part of you wonders if this man has any credits at all — truth be told you certainly don’t have enough to cover a visit to the local doctor. As you finish tying off his thigh, you reason that conversation is a bridge you can cross when you get there. For now, let’s just hope you can get him back to your dwelling alive.

Away from this wretched wreck.

By the time you’re mounted back up on Scud’s back, the suns have begun to dip below the dunes on the farthest horizon — the stars melt as they disappear, casting the shadows of the dunes in inky blacks. Behind Scud, the stranger is dragged, rigged to the saddle by two extending cables originally scavenged off an abandoned pod-racing setup, out by Bestine. The plating he rests on glides across the sand, leaving patterns in the dunes. You crane your neck, turning in the saddle, and frown.

There was certainly a first for everything.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

Boba Fett wakes to the sight of a dirt ceiling.

The stirring confusion of unconsciousness subsides and almost immediately he is roused by pain — then comes the startling panic.

Is he dead?

Where is he?

What in the hell happened?

This is not the barge; there is no Luke Skywalker here, nor Solo nor the Wookie... The Pit… He’d fallen in. Yea, yea, he remembers that. But, he got out. Jetpack punctured. Flew him straight into the air. Burns. That’s the pain he feels. Burns? Yes. His back.

His leg. Something feels different. An ache. He tries to move his feet.

Boba groans, angled features contorting into a pained look as he tries to sit up on the cot; but suddenly, there’s a hand on the center of his chest. Gently, the hand pushes him down to the pillows.

Slowly, dark brown eyes follow the hand. Wrist, arm, shoulder, face.

Headscarf.

The first thing he realizes is that your eyes are beautiful, but soft. There’s kohl lining your eyes, making your stare piercing. Your brows are knotted in concern, and though he cannot make out the words that fall from your lips, he can understand the tone to be gentle. You’re speaking Huttese.

… Gods damn it all.

The Hutts.

Jabba.

Son of bitch was probably dead. He’s sure that the Desilijic Clan will have something to say about that.

Boba’s eyes slip shut as he exhales.

Sleep takes him easily.

⋆   ⋆   ⋆

When he wakes again, it’s evening. There are candles burning in the room, and once his eyes adjust he can make out your figure through a blanket covering the doorway at the end of the room — through the crack, he can see that you’re cooking over a small stove-top. He is laid up in the bedroom, he realizes, and on the floor across from the cot he lays upon is a pile of pillows.

You must have been watching over him.

Instantly, he’s looking for his blaster.

Call it a habit.

The mere act of bending sends pain shooting up his spine; and Boba finds himself gritting his jaw tightly as his knuckles tense and he tries to see any remnants of his armor or pack or weapons.

The commotion summons you in a flash.

This time, you have no headscarf on; Boba can now see the swell of your lips and the kind slope of your nose. You’re beautiful — his bruised and bloodshot eyes follow you as you glide into the room and duck beneath the patterned blanket separating the bedroom from the kitchenette.

There’s a plate of food in your hand. A fork and a knife rest on the edge of the painted plate.

“Careful,” comes a gentle utterance as you place the food beside his head on the table there, “Take it easy.”

Your basic is dashed with the light accent of Huttese. The syllables are melodic and gentle. You reach to help him into a sitting position, keen on making sure he’s comfortable —

Like a sand viper, the man before you has snatched the knife from the plate, swinging his hand quickly with a lethal sense of precision that stuns you silent. The coolness of the durasteel utensil is pressed right to your throat.

You can see the muscles in his arms tense, the sharp rise and fall of his bare chest. The blanket across his lap has slipped to his waist. Your jaw tilts upward, expression souring quickly. The kindness in your eyes quickly turns to ice.

When you raise your eyes to meet his, all Boba can see is defiance.

“Who are you?” he grits out hoarsely, “And how did I get here?”

“I found you,” you hiss, words scathing and hot as you raise both hands. There’s a wrinkle forming on the bridge of your nose, giving way to the angered expression flooding your face, “I’m beginning to see why The Great Pit of Carkoon spat you back up.”

The tension that builds settles heavily between you both.

And then, Boba Fett lowers the knife.

[themollyjay]

When to Walk Away

This post is going up a few days late for Patrons, and I apologize for that.  It’s also going to be a fairly short one as these things go. The last couple of weeks have been weird for me.  Between getting the news that I’m going to be published, and getting my second Covid vaccine, this past week has been nearly a complete loss.  There’s also the fact that this is a hard post for me to write, because it kicks me right in the pride.

A few weeks ago, when I finished the first draft of The Inevitable Singularity, I jumped into writing a project called The Defective Paragons.  It’s a good project.  Fun premise, solid themes, despicable villains.  It deals with colonialism, child soldiers, PTSD, and transphobia.  I got about twenty thousand words in, and then, I just stalled.

It wasn’t writers block. I could go write pretty much anything else.  It was just I couldn’t work on this particular story.  I knew what was going on to happen next, but every time I sat down to write, I just stared at the screen.  Something wasn’t working for me.  I felt this creeping sense of dread, because I’ve been here before, and I know what comes next.  I put the novel down and don’t finish it.

I didn’t want to do that this time.  I liked the story.  It’s important to me.  I want to finish it.  But something about it just wasn’t clicking for me, and I it took me a while to realize it. I’d been working on the wrong story. It happens sometimes.  You want to write, you need to write, so you start something, but it’s the wrong story at the wrong time and you just can’t make it work. That’s what was happening to me.

I will eventually go back to finish The Defective Paragons.  Like I said, I like the story and it’s important to me.  But it’s just not the right time for me to work on something as deep or heavy as that.  I’m still emotionally reeling from the one two punch that was working on Transistor and The Inevitable Singularity back-to-back.  Transistor was hard because I had to dig so deep into my own history and trauma to write it.  The Inevitable Singularity just ripped my guts out for an entirely different reason.

Writing is something that happens entirely in your head.  The ups and downs, the joys and sorrows, the victories and tragedies.  All those emotions come from inside of you, and all of them can have a huge impact on your mental health.  If that’s something you already struggle with, sometimes, dealing with your own writing can be a challenge.  The Defective Paragons was that for me.  It might not have been, if there wasn’t a part of the story that deals rather directly with transphobia, but that’s kind of a core thread of the story, and I realized that the reason I had to step away from it, the reason it was the wrong story at the wrong time, was because it was having a negative impact on my mental health.

So, I set it aside. The timing was good.  I’ve just got the edits back for Scatter, so I’ll be free to work on them, and when I’m done, I’ll jump back in with a fantasy project I’m currently calling The Proximal Frontier.  And that’s the lesson I hope you take away from this. Sometimes, you need to set things aside for your own good.  If a project is hurting you, walk away.  I waited too long to learn that lesson, and spent a lot of years hurting myself trying to work on things because I was supposed to.  Now I know better, and I hope I can save other people the pain.