#I've had like 3 of those in the last sixty days

[queerunpleasantdanger]

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[dollfacefantasy]

FALLING FAST ♡

pairing: billy coen x fem!reader

summary: after the mansion incident, billy gets caught and taken to a psychiatric ward for the government's problems while they decide what to do with him. lucky for him, you're there too and more than willing to provide some company.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, canon typical violence, archaic medical practices (shock therapy, manipulative therapists, etc.), psych ward setting

wc: 7.9k

a/n: heyy sorry this is a little late, i got caught up with some irl stuff you know how it goes. disrespectful especially for the man who inspired my blog's name 😓 umm sorry if the ending is a little rushed i've just been kinda struggling. i hope someone likes this tho. reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated <3

kinktober slot: day 24 - forced proximity

The day they brought him into the ward, you could barely believe your eyes. You recognized the man thrashing around in the orderlies' grasp. His face glowed on the television every night when the news came on. Bright headlines zooming across the screen would read U.S. MARINE SNAPS UNDER PRESSURE; SLAUGHTERS DOZENS, or after that BILLY COEN, FORMER MARINE, SENTENCED TO DEATH FOLLOWING MASSACRE.

Obviously, the execution didn't take since here he stood before your own eyes, being dragged down the hallway either to his quarters or the "therapy" room. You wonder if they'd give him electroshock or hydro. Most people believed those methods to be archaic by now, but the overseers of the United States' top confidential psychiatric center didn't seem to hold those same sentiments. Outside, the world approaches Y2K, but between these walls, it could feel like the sixties were ever-lasting.

You didn't see Billy again on that day he arrived. You didn't see him for another two weeks after. You almost started to believe they'd carted him to the back to finish the execution, and then thrown his body out into the woods where the roaming wolves could take care of him.

But then on Tuesday, August 18, 1998, you found him in the common room. 

You bounded around the corner and spotted him right away. He sat in the chair next to the tv. You knew he wasn't watching it. One, because that chair was the most useless chair you'd ever seen, positioned at an angle where seeing the screen is impossible. And two, he looked off into the distance as though his mind was totally vacant. A battlefield where the war had already been lost.

That day had been going great for you. For once the night before, your roommate didn't have night terrors that woke up the entire block of rooms. And this morning, your scheduled therapy session didn't end with them pumping a sedative into your veins. The occurrence of those two rare victories coinciding told you that today was special. Only good things could happen to you during this interval of sunlight.

You strolled further into the room, scanning over what occupied the attention spans of your usual company. They all seemed to be going about their usual rituals: playing games or watching tv, some reading books or just sitting by the window. None of them talked to this new guy. You shook your head as you took in this sight. People could be so rude, but you intended to change that.

Approaching him from the front so as to not frighten him, you came to a stop and tapped his ankle with the point of your foot.

You didn't get a verbal response, but his eyes casted up to you, signaling that he's still in there somewhere. Up close, you could see the light electric burns on his temples. You wondered if they were just from that first day or if it had been more times since.

"Hey, soldier. What's your damage?" you started, giving his ankle another light bump.

Unamused with your antics, he pulled his legs back and looked up at you. His lips curled into an ugly sneer. The expression matched his rough appearance. His hair was so greasy, you thought it could be styled without any product. He had bruises up and down his arms. Your eyes trailed along the one covered in tattoos for a moment long enough to be noticeable.

You almost assumed you were going to get no response out of him until you heard his voice start to rasp.

"Don't call me that." 

He sounded like they hadn't given him a drink since he got here.

Your brows raised at the response. If he wanted you to leave him alone, he'd just made the fatal mistake of triggering your curiosity. You pulled over the nearby bean bag and plopped down in it, the small plush beads parting to support the shape of your body. The way you sat, your legs ended right where his began.

"Where have you been the last couple weeks? I thought they offed you or something," you continued with another few taps to his joint.

Again, a delay came before his answer. You weren't sure if the shockwaves scrambled his brain that bad or if he was trying to mentally size you up.

"They've had me in solitary. I guess they didn't believe I was ready to make friends," he said finally. His voice left his lips low and cool, sounding like he smoked one too many cigarettes to be forever cast as the bad boy in teen romance movies.

"Why? You seem friendly to me," you joked.

"Maybe you should try to convince the suits of that."

His fingers rose to rub the marred skin on the right side of his head. It doesn't look like he's trying to soothe any pain. More-so exploring the new scar to his own body.

"What's it to you anyways? You don't know me," he added.

"I was just curious ," you defended with a shrug, "It's not every day a celebrity joins the group."

He scowled, only a little less severe than before.

"A celebrity, huh?" he asked with disdain, "Didn't exactly feel like they rolled out the red carpet for me."

"Well not everyone gets struck by lightning on their first day," you responded, pointing to the now-faded scars on your own temples.

The mention of something based in your shared reality seemed to ground him a little, as if it served as a reminder that you and him were on the same playing field. He hummed in acknowledgement, sitting up in his chair a bit more.

"They do that to you too?" he questioned.

"They do it to almost everyone. I didn't want to take the meds, so they gave me a stronger prescription," you answered.

He didn't say anything back at first. His eyes fixated on you, studying your features and mannerisms. Assessing you, your place, and your motives. You relaxed your shoulders a little and shook your head in an attempt to appear as non-threatening as you could.

"That was a long time ago though," you said, "Haven't had to do that in almost a year."

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

You held up two fingers and wiggled them back and forth. "Since '96."

His facial expression didn't change though you felt like something about how he looked at you did. Maybe there was an air of surprise now? A hint of pity? You couldn't quite pinpoint it, but you supposed the details didn't really matter.

"What did you do to get put in here?" he said.

"Same thing as everyone else. Saw something I shouldn't have," you responded.

You considered telling him more. More about your past as one of Umbrella's top researchers. About how you dedicated hours upon hours of your life to developing bioengineering techniques for them. How you planned your future around the potential promotions you would earn climbing their company ladder.

But that required that you also tell him about how easily they flung you from the structure entirely. Putting pieces together didn't earn you a private office or cushier paycheck. All you received was meetings that seemed more like interrogations, implied threats, and finally, a new permanent residence at this luxurious institution.

You'd also have to spill what you found. That you found evidence your research was being used in dangerous and unethical experiments that already had a body count. The story you'd managed to string together sounded like something out of a hokey horror movie rather than real life. It wouldn't be one he'd likely believe, and then he'd end up thinking you deserved to be here.

So instead you left it at that. He opened his mouth to ask another question, one that might poke at some of this information you were keeping to yourself. But before he could, the orderlies called the bunch of you for lunch.

You rose from your seat and waited for him to do the same so you could walk side by side to the dining room.

Leaves outside the barred windows shifted in color, fading from bright green to a burnt orange. They clung to the trees in their last days of life as the wind tried to knock them loose and scatter them across the fenced in yards.

However, even with the temperature growing colder, your connection with Billy began warming up after that first day in the common room.

The two of you didn't become automatic best friends after only speaking a few words to each other, but he reluctantly let you linger around him. Close enough to adjust to your presence as a regular fixture. 

You had fun hanging around him. This place got so boring after a while. New additions were few and far in between, and most of them didn't do anything but weep and wallow for the first few months before giving up and letting themselves go numb. They didn't make good company to say the very least.

Billy, in muscular, tattooed contrast, did. Despite his dry temperament and cynical outlook on life, he could be funny. Most of the time unintentionally. He had stories to tell you about the marines and boot camp, even the mission that landed him here in parts. While he could get sick of you following at his heels like a puppy, in a way you made things here more bearable for him.

He let you eat lunch seated next to him. When your group was permitted out into the yard for a while, he'd allow you on the same bench. You'd look up at the same clouds and feel the same breeze blow across your skin. You'd tell him some stories of your own, things about going to school or when you first got your job.

His were far more severe though. You remembered sitting on the yellowing grass with your back pressed against the uneven wood of a wide tree. You had been studying and mentally comparing your feet to his. The difference in shoes - neither with laces but yours had velcro and his didn't. The size. The way yours constantly twitched while he remained still.

The two of you were quiet, letting the sounds of nature and commotion closer to the building fill the air around you. But you itched to talk to him, to find out more about the man you spent most of your days with now.

"If you got out of here tomorrow, what would you do?" you asked and looked over at him.

He glanced at you for a moment but kept his head facing forward. "Why? You dreaming up an escape plan or something?"

"No, it's just a hypothetical," you scoffed, "I'm just curious what would you do if you could get out."

A pause bloomed between the two of you, and you assumed this would be another time he openly ignored you and left your question unanswered. But you made your prediction too soon because moments later he spoke again.

"I'd leave this country."

You blinked at the blunt answer. "That's it? North or South?" you asked, trying to get some more.

"Either one," he responded, "It makes no difference to me as long as it's not anywhere with stars and stripes waving around every couple hundred miles."

The words came out drenched with bitterness, but you couldn't really blame him. From what he had told you about that assignment in Africa, you'd probably want to split too.

"I think you'd be kind of cool like up in the mountains in Canada or something. No one around to bother you and stuff. Seems like it'd be a natural habitat," you nodded, trying to brighten things up a little.

His eyes softened a little and he breathed out what sounded like it used to be a laugh. "Yeah? You don't think I deserve a tropical getaway?"

"It's not that. You just don't seem very beach vacation to me," you smiled.

"Yeah, probably not. I guess the mountains would be more my thing."

"Mhm. Maybe we could go together, y'know? There's nothing left here for me anymore either."

"Really?" he asked before tutting and shaking his head jokingly, "Pretty little thing like you running off with a guy she meets in a psych ward. You don't have any family that would send into cardiac arrest?"

You shook your head. "Nope. No one really stayed on my side after everything that happened. If I got out tomorrow, I'd have no one tying me down. No one expecting me home. I could just go."

"No boyfriend pining for your release?" he teased.

"Not at all. I was supposed to get married, but I guess without the vows, there was nothing tying him to me. No reason to try and help me."

Despite the heaviness of those memories, you beamed at him with the dreamy excitement of running away together. It would never happen, but that was part of the appeal. A dream you'd never have to stress about actualizing.

He looked at you with something close to sympathy upon hearing that, but he didn't say anything. He was never really good at getting sappy. Instead he just nodded and turned his head forward again.

"Alright. I'd take you with me then," he agreed with a smirk.

It was after more exchanges like those that you started to really consider him a friend. Better than any you had before you got locked up here. You tried to think of why that was. Maybe it was because you didn't have to put up any of the bullshit facades you did in the real world. There was no reason to hide anything here. You didn't have to dress a certain way or make sure your hair was styled or your lips coated with gloss. You didn't have to awkwardly laugh when something uncomfortable happened or soften your negative opinion about someone.

In here, the worst had happened, and you lived it everyday. Social niceties had dropped pretty low on the priority list of everyone staying here. Even if sometimes you said something too emphatically or disagreed on an irrelevant subject, neither of you could get away. It brought you closer than you've ever been with anyone. Even the fiance you'd vowed to forget by now.

The day you felt something a little more intricate than friendship for Billy still stands out in your memory.

You were sitting across from him in the dining hall, your foot swinging back and forth in a lazy pattern. Earlier in the day you'd caught the end of a news special. You missed the topic, but you sat there watching a petite woman with her hair in a pixie cut give an interview. Despite her smaller stature, she sported a badge. Her voice was chirpy and hopeful, easy for you to tune out until you heard some words of interest, specifically the words Lieutenant Billy Coen.

She told this naive reporter some story about how he was killed a month ago in the Arklay Mountains. According to her, the vehicle transporting him had crashed and been overrun by adversaries. Despite him fighting valiantly, he didn't survive.

You could almost hear the country's collective sigh of relief. Thank God the snapped soldier hadn't made it. He wasn't lurking in the shadows, waiting for another opportunity to strike. You had rolled your eyes when you heard the story, but it still stuck with you all day.

It bounced around your brain, driving you to ask him at dinner, "So do you think they're still gonna execute you?"

He looked up from his food with bewilderment across his features. "What kind of question is that?"

"An honest one."

After a brief pause, he shrugged. He was never one to find your bluntness off-putting.

"I don't know. They didn't give me a rehab plan or anything," he said, "Why?"

"Well I saw on the tv that they think you're dead anyways. So I don't know... just kinda seems like they might," you explained.

"They haven't said anything to me about it," he told you, "They still got me talking to that doctor three days a week so... maybe they will, maybe they won't. Not much I can do about it either way."

It was then that something struck you. It would be hard to even articulate it, but the way he acted so flippant, so casual about something that was literally a matter of life and death. Maybe he'd been out of control so long that this felt normal. As soon as he gained the freedom of adulthood, he shackled himself under the command of his captains in the marines and the sergeants at boot camp.

From across the table, he seemed to recognize that look. The gleam centered between pity and concern in the eyes of every woman he's let get close. He leaned forward, staring into your eyes.

"You'd miss me if they did, wouldn't you?" he asked with a smirk.

Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a bird learning to use its wing again. That small curl in his lip marked the first time you'd seen some fire in him. A bit of his old humanity poking through the unpleasantness of being confined here.

You didn't see a point in denying his accusation either.

"Of course I would. Everyone else here is totally boring. And we wouldn't get to go see Canada," you said, mirroring his position by leaning your weight on your forearms.

"I'll have to stay on my best behavior then. Not give them a reason to leave you stranded here alone," he teased.

And he stayed true to that assurance. A couple more weeks passed, and everyday the both of you met in the common room. Sometimes one of you had a bad day, injected with a sedative that left you slow and sluggish, talked into something by the doctor that bugged you for hours after. Other times it was just the memories of the past haunting you. The ideas of what could have been. What should have been.

On September 30th, 1998, each of you had already been having a shitty day. For you, it had started early. You took the hour sentence on the stiff couch in the therapist's office. Listened to the normal bullshit the doctor told you about false memories and paranoid tendencies. And at the end of the session, they handed you an envelope.

A small, pale rectangle. Crisp edges and totally unwrinkled from its journey here. It was thin, not carrying anything other than another paper. You turned it over in your hands and looked down at the return address scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Your heart nearly stopped when you placed the swirl in the 't' and the little dip in the 'h.' They'd handed you a letter from the man you were supposed to marry two years ago. The fiance who'd left you in the dust.

The last time you'd spoken to him had been the night heavy boots blew your apartment's door off its hinges and meaty hands strapped solid handcuffs around your wrists. He did nothing to defend you. He was the one who informed them of your schedule and when you'd be home. Either he didn't believe you or they'd paid him off. At the time, finding out his motives wasn't important to you. The betrayal cut so deep all you could focus on was how could this be happening to you.

But regardless, you didn't care all those years ago, and you wouldn't care now. You didn't care what he had to say. Whether he was sorry or curious or anything. That on top of the fact that you didn't even know if it was real. You wouldn't put it past the people running this place to try some tricks like this on you.

You decided not to read it. It ended up in the trash can outside the door before you went back to the common room to sulk on the couch. Billy was already there doing some sulking of his own. Neither of you said anything when you plopped down beside him.

It crossed your mind that maybe you should ask him what's wrong, but you weren't in the mood. You didn't think you could offer anything helpful in terms of advice or support when your mind felt so scrambled by the reinsertion of your past into your present.

The both of you remained quiet for hours as you went through other routines of the day. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. Him physically being there was enough for you, and you got the sense he felt the same about your presence as well. Brushing fingertips and the warmth of your thigh against his provided more comfort than any words could.

That evening the two of you had returned to the television set in the common room. The news droned on from the monitor. News about the upcoming midterm elections, a few stories about car accidents or trends in crime.

But that all came to a screeching halt before the sun had even fully set. Breaking news alerts flashed across the screen, illuminating the dim room in reds and blues. Snapshots of Raccoon City lit up before your eyes. News reporters spoke in nervous, quick tones; uncertain words about a rapidly spreading virus that turns people violent. Frantic announcements that residents should not leave their homes but help was on the way.

You watched on in amazement. In a way, it felt like a dream. Something you would have conjured up in your teen years after watching a horror movie. Buildings burned and people ran through the streets, weaving around traffic that was so backed up you couldn't see where the line of cars started or ended.

A pit began forming in your stomach, dread at the realization that this was what you had been onto two years ago. This was what you had failed to stop. Rationally, you knew it wasn't your fault. You understood that it was not reasonable to expect yourself to be able to take on a corporation backed by the government. But it still felt icky knowing you had ever been involved.

The images grew more graphic. Headlines flying across the bottom of the screen became more dire. You watched as people, or what used to be people, stumbled around with mangled faces and blood stained clothing. They chased after others and sunk their teeth into their flesh.

You looked over at Billy after a little longer. He was faring worse than you. This was the first time you'd ever seen fear in his eyes. He wasn't shaking, wasn't crying or starting to panic. But you could still see it. Deep in those dark pupils, he was scared.

His eyes were locked on the tv, taking in every bit of horror being broadcast the couple hundred miles to this facility. You didn't know what to say or do or if you should even say or do anything. There was something more to his reaction than normal anxiety.

All you could think to do was moving your hand over a few inches and clasping his own. Your fingers interlaced with his and wrapped around his palm. You gave it a small squeeze, a wordless reassurance that you had him and he wasn't alone.

You felt the faintest squeeze in return. He still didn't directly acknowledge you, but that was fine. As long as you had that little signal that he was still there, you were ok.

The two of you watched until the feed cut due to technical difficulties and the orderlies made the announcement to start moving to your rooms.

Both of you stood up and headed in that direction. He remained quiet while walking through the tiled hall. You reached the junction where the corridor divided into two, and you would have to go your separate ways.

"Are you gonna be ok?" you whispered, turning to look at him.

He looked down at you and paused like he did when the two of you first met. His eyes watched your face, contemplating his answer. He ended up nodding and muttering a quick "I'll be alright." Then he turned away and stalked off to his assigned room.

Reluctantly you continued the rest of the way to yours, but that night sleep didn't come. You couldn't rest as you processed what had happened just hours ago. It wasn't even the actual crisis that was upsetting you, but rather Billy's reaction. Something had bothered him. Some element of what was playing out wormed its way into his mind and prodded at some memory he'd rather forget.

Sighing, you gazed out the window and then turned your eyes to the night table. You didn't want to stay here. You wanted to be with him. He was the only person you had now who was worth anything to you. What were you doing if not making sure he was ok?

As quiet as possible, your hand reached out and pulled the drawer on the nightstand open. Reaching inside, you fetched the little twisted up pin you'd made almost two years ago. You'd crafted the little tool in your first months here, but hadn't used it since then. You made it to sneak out at night and have some semblance of freedom, but upon venturing outside your room during dark hours, you found there was really no purpose. The main exits had higher degrees of security that you couldn't break and there was nothing special around the ward worth wandering around for.

But now there was.

You grabbed the small bent pieces of metal and slid out from your bed. Padding over to the door, you bent down and jammed the little ends into the keyhole. You fished around for the right springs to unlock the door until you heard the little clicks signifying you were good to go.

Your footsteps didn't make a sound as they retraced your earlier path and headed in his direction. You slipped past the single orderly in the corner office and pranced down the remaining space until you reached another door. The pin made quick work of it like it did with your own, allowing you entry.

It was hard to see anything at first. The room was bathed in total darkness. All you could tell was that it was smaller than yours and only had one bed. You felt his eyes on you though. Apparently sleep had eluded him tonight as well.

He rasped out your name before asking what you were doing. A fair question given the circumstances. You closed the space between the two of you and came over to sit on his bed.

You positioned yourself at his side. Your eyes had adjusted by now to the lack of light, and you could make out the most basic features of his face. You could also tell where his hand was. Reaching for it, you took it in your own just like before.

"I just wanted to check on you," you whispered.

A pause filled the room for a few seconds before he responded. "I'm ok."

"It doesn't seem like it," you said back. You scooted a little closer before deciding to climb over to the other side of his body and lay next to his side.

He grunted at you forcing your body to fit beside him, but he didn't move away. The two of you stayed in place on the cramped twin sized mattress, staring at the ceiling and digesting the unspoken part of tonight.

"It's nothing... it's not anything worth stressing about," he told you. His voice fit right in with the surroundings. Quiet and low, implying a sense of something deeper.

"You just looked really worried. Like... you were scared of something specific. I don't know, maybe I'm just reading too much into it or whatever," you said.

Another brief bout of silence took over the space between your words and his response. In that time, the feeling of his skin against yours became more prevalent to you. You were increasingly aware of the fact that your arm was around his torso and that you could feel the definition of his muscles against your forearm. His arm was also wrapped around your back. It was like the two of you were cuddling, and it didn't feel at all unnatural.

"That stuff on the tv... it's not exactly why I'm here, but it's close," he started, "They aren't keeping me here because of the bullshit I was sentenced for. It's because I saw something at that mansion."

That piqued your curiosity, and you lifted your head to look at him.

"I know it sounds insane," he continued as if you wouldn't believe him, "But I swear I'm not crazy. The shit they had in that mansion... it was like it was out of a goddamn horror movie. And I knew it was gonna spread. I knew that night wouldn't be the end of it. I tried running, getting as far away as I could, but they caught me."

"Do they ask you about that stuff?" you interjected with caution, "The doctor's... do they try to make you think you misunderstood what you saw."

He nodded. So the two of you had more in common than you knew.

"I don't think they'll be trying for too much longer though," he muttered.

Your eyes widen. Your fingers instinctively dug into his shirt like a child clinging to their favorite stuffed animal. "What? Why?" you questioned.

"The way they've been talking lately, I just think they might want to finish the job soon. Now that that shit has spread, I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I don't have any information they would need," he offered.

"But they can't," you tried, "They can't just randomly decide to kill you."

"I doubt it's random," he responded.

You sputtered, scrambling for a response to make this problem go away. You knew they could do this, but you wanted to believe otherwise. It wasn't fair that they could let you get attached to this man and then rip him away so cruelly.

"But... they won't. We can get away. We don't have to let them," you said.

He looked at you with some sadness in the dark. Finally, the slightest display of emotion regarding his own death.

"You got some sort of master plan to bust out of here that I don't know about?" he asked.

You scowled and lightly elbowed his bicep. "It's not a joke," you said, "I won't let them do that to you. It's not right. You didn't deserve any of this in the first place."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it, dollface. This is just the way it is."

"No," you shook your head. 

You were insistent about this. Maybe your emotions were fucked up from all the drugs they'd pumped you full of over the last twenty four months or maybe your perceptions of relationships had become warped from the severe lack of social interaction you'd had over that time, but even though you'd only known him for six-ish weeks the thought of being without him felt devastating. It was a rush of anxiety and dread. The kind of stress that made you feel like you had to do something.

"They can't take you away from me," you finished.

The way his gaze softened was palpable. He reached up one of his hands and stroked the flat backs of his fingers down your cheek. He didn't like the thought of leaving you alone either. For reasons he didn't fully grasp, the thought of you being isolated here, without anyone or any hope of a future, made him ache. It was a gnawing sensation. One that wouldn't go away with simple distractions.

"I don't want that either..." he murmured.

But you leaned in and clung to him with more intent. You rested on top of his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you never wanted to stop.

"They do the same kind of thing to me," you whispered. He already knew about your past with Umbrella. You'd told him that much, but neither of you really talked much about your current treatment beyond the occasional extreme methods you were subject to. "No one ever believed me before, so at first, I thought they might have been right. That I just misread something or went too far with it."

You felt his hand start to rub up and down your back. He didn't say anything to interrupt your little confessional, but you could feel in the air around you that he was listening.

"When I was... When I was supposed to get married before this, he didn't believe me either. I tried telling him. I even said we should just leave. That maybe I shouldn't do anything, I shouldn't say anything. We could've just left. But he didn't believe me..." you said, "I tried to do something or to tell other people, but it didn't work. And when they took me, he just let them. Just left me to deal with it all alone."

You were aware your thoughts were coming out in a manner closer to rambling, but it's all you could manage right now.

"He didn't deserve you then," his voice broke out quietly from above your head.

Glancing up, your eyes scanned his face upon hearing that. You knew the comment was sincere. He had no reason to lie about his feelings toward a man he never met. But still, the remark stood out.

He saw your silence and responded with a touch before any actual words. He stroked your face, looking into your eyes.

"I don't know if that makes it better or worse now, but you deserved better than that. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be locked up here," he said.

"Well neither should you," you responded.

He hummed in acknowledgement. "I guess. But you really shouldn't be. You were a good girl. A smart one. You can be a little wild, but I doubt you got into any real kind of trouble before this."

Two little words in the middle of that statement had you tensing up on top of his body. He could obviously feel it as his hand applied more pressure to try and soothe you.

"I didn't," you answered, feeling like the words needed one.

"Mhm, I can tell. You're too sweet," he said.

Now you got the sense he may be teasing. With a nudge to his bicep, you scrunched your nose. "Shut up."

"I'm serious," he replied in spite of your attitude, "If we met under different circumstances, I would've really liked you."

"Really?" you checked. You hated the way your voice came out. So curious it almost sounded innocent.

"Yeah. You're just my type. Cute. A little mouthy till you get close to someone. Then you're all soft and sweet."

Heat crept up into your cheeks, and you could only be thankful it was so dark so that he couldn't see the timid expression on your features. He pinched the dough of your cheek between his thumb and forefinger, only making the feeling more intense.

"I can feel your skin getting hot. I know I'm right."

"Well I would've liked you too," you fired back in an attempt to turn the tables.

"Oh yeah?" he chuckled.

"Yup. You're tallish. All muscular. Dark hair and eyes. Tattoos. You look like you can ride a motorcycle."

"Don't make me sound like such a cliche," he teased.

Now it was your turn to shrug before scooting closer. "Then don't act like one."

"Smartass," he chuckled, "Even if we had met before, I doubt you could've handled me. I wasn't winning any boyfriend of the year awards with the women I dated."

"That's cause you hadn't met the right one," you said back, not missing a beat, "I could keep you in line."

"I'm sure. Sweet little thing like you would be the one to tame me, huh?" he mocked, "You don't think I'd ruin you?"

"Not in any way I didn't want."

After saying that, you realized how close you had leaned in. Your face was inches away from his. You could hear his breaths and feel the pulsing of his blood beneath your body. You really weren't sure what compelled you, but you brought your lips forward and closed the small gap between the two of you.

Your mouth landed on his, but he responded in kind, as if he had been waiting for the gesture. His lips pressed against yours before molding to reciprocate any movements you made. You could hear the soft grunts he let out as his arms encircled your figure and pulled you even further against himself.

You let out a soft little moan when his tongue brushed over the seam of your lips, a gentle push for entrance. You granted him access and slid yours forward as well. The two of you lose yourself in the series of kisses. As you made out, he slowly made the move to adjust positions, flipping the both of you over.

Your back hit the scratchy sheets that covered all the beds in the ward. In this moment, you didn't care though. The slight itch of them was easily drowned out by the intoxicating warmth of his skin.

His kisses migrated south, dropping from your mouth down to your jawline and then your throat. A sigh left your lips as he tended to your pulse point and artery. He hit all the little sweet spots. His teeth scraped across them tenderly and arousal bloomed between your legs in response.

"Fuck... you're so soft, so perfect," he muttered against your skin.

Your breath shuddered out of your lungs. His touch felt electric on your flesh. Glancing down, you couldn't help but think he looked even more sculpted like this. His shoulder blades twitched every time he moved his head around your neck. His arms trembled as he held himself above your body.

"Been dreaming of this..." you whispered, sliding one of your hands up to rest at the nape of his neck.

"Have you now?" he asked, "You fantasize about me while laying in bed at night?"

"Sometimes," you breathed.

He reacted to the idea with a soft groan. "Cute."

His kisses on your neck grew more passionate, needier and open-mouthed. His hands grabbed onto you. They slid down your sides to your hips where they groped the soft flesh there.

"I've had a few dreams about you too," he admitted.

A moan escaped your lips, but you made sure to suppress it enough to not alert anyone of your activities. You wriggled around a bit below him, trying to signal that you craved more.

"I need you," you whispered.

"I know, baby. Need you too."

He rose back up to his knees, shoving down the sweats they issued everyone and letting his cock spring free. It was a good size, thick and lengthy enough to attract your eyes. It oozed pre for you already. There was no mistake that he wanted you.

You squirmed on the mattress in an attempt to rid yourself of your bottoms before he reached for the waist and pulled them off with ease. Then he lowered himself back on top of you. His tip dragged back and forth across your soaked folds.

Despite only having known him for a short amount of time, this didn't feel like a casual hookup. It didn't feel random or unattached. It felt like something you needed. It felt like you were doing this out of love. Out of the need to be connected to this man who'd captured your mind and body.

He took as much time as he could in that moment. He glided the head of his cock back and forth, teasing the both of you with the anticipation of what you were about to do.

Then finally, he pushed in. You felt the satisfying split as he speared you open. His hips pushed inside at an exploratory, slow pace. A groan rumbled in his chest at the tight warmth wrapped around his shaft. Once he'd sunk all the way inside, his head dropped to the crook of your neck again. His breaths puffed out against you as he got used to the sensation.

It was an adjustment for you too. It'd been almost two years since you had any type of cock. The feeling now was a familiar one, but still something to get used to.

"Had to have a taste of this pussy before they put me down," he mumbled.

You whined and smacked his arm. "Don't say that," you whimpered.

Lifting your legs, you looped them around his torso and pulled him deeper. "You're still alive right now, so don't think about that stuff. Focus on fucking me dumb," you continued.

He chuckled against your neck, but complied with your request. His hips rocked backwards before popping forward again.

"You got it," he grunted.

His pelvis set into a nice rhythm. One that didn't have you screaming and writhing loud enough to draw attention, but to the point that you were satisfied and didn't long for something more.

Your arms laced around his shoulders and pulled him closer on top of you. Your clothes rustled together with every rock of his hips. His hands stayed tight on your body, keeping you flush against him as well. You could hear him panting right next to your ear in between the small pecks he'd leave on your skin.

With how close he was on top of you, his cock slid nice and deep every time. Every stroke brushed against the internal sweet spots that made your hips buck or another whimper spill from your lips.

"When we make it out of here, I'm gonna want you all the time," you whispered with a broken whine.

For once, he didn't mock your display of optimism. Instead, he played right along. "I know you will. And you'll get me all the time."

Your legs squeezed his waist, and he increased the force behind his thrusts, putting more of his weight into each one. He licked a stripe of your neck before kissing down the wet skin.

"I'll do it right for you then. Won't have to be quiet. You can scream as loud as you need. I'll have you filled up till you're shaking and crying," he said.

This time your walls embraced him. You whimpered at the pictures he painted in your head. Your breaths grew heavier to the point that you were panting too now.

He was so deep now that he didn't have to slide back and forth to make you feel good. He skillfully ground his hips against them, rolling them against your skin and rubbing up against all the places that made you keen.

One of his hands wormed its way between your two bodies. His fingers endured the lack of circulation to get at your clit. The rough pads of his fingertips swirled around it, giving the little bud a few good flicks.

Your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the sounds that broke out in response. The sparks of bliss burned brighter into full on flames in your belly. Your toes curled, and your thighs quivered against his sides so hard it was like they were vibrating.

"Gonna cum soon, babydoll?" he rasped.

You nodded from behind your clamped palm. Your eyes fluttered with the weight of your impending release. The sensation boiling down below was close to bubbling over. Your breaths hissed against your palm as you tried to hold off, but he wasn't having it.

"It's ok. You don't have to wait. I'm right there too," he murmured, "Cum on my cock, sweetheart. Make me feel real good."

And after hearing that, you couldn't hold back. A broken cry escapes your lips, louder than you'd like it to be. Your body melded to his with the force of the high crashing into you. Your hands clung to his back while your legs locked around his waist.

A few more pushes of his hips and he was gone too. Sighing against your neck, he pulled out as fast as he could, spurting warm ropes of cum onto your pelvis. His teeth dug into his lip to stifle a few noises begging to be heard.

You both rode out your highs in tandem before he collapsed next to you. He nuzzled your neck, wordless appreciation for you. A silent reassurance that things would be ok. You brought your hand up to gently stroke his forearm in return, signaling that you knew they would be.

And you had been right.

Things around the ward got worse after September 30th. The orderlies acted nervous, as if this place was on the cusp of collapse. Restrictions became tighter, no more going outside and there were bed checks at night.

That didn't stop your feelings for Billy though. Since that night in his room, you only felt more connected to him. Affection in your current circumstances couldn't be overt. It was confined to brief touches and lingering looks, quiet words only heard between the two of you.

The people running the institute had hushed words as well though. They had lingering looks, specifically towards Billy. Day by day, you felt increasingly anxious about the possibility that they were planning something. Your nights filled with dreams of him suddenly being gone. Of him being taken away and left to rot.

There came a day when they announced half the ward would be "moved" though you doubted their transfer would be a mere difference of wings. The men who came in to facilitate the change were armed, riot gear and all.

You grabbed his hand tight, not willing to let go.

The next part you only remember in flashes.

The way they yanked him away, how he tried resisting but was overwhelmed. Then how your eyes darted around looking for anything that could stop them. You knew you grabbed a pistol off one of the holsters attached to a man's belt. You fired without thinking twice. One crumpled to the ground before you ducked out of the way.

That gave him the opening to the same. Bullets rained down across the common room, blood pooling on the tiles you walked over everyday. You moved on pure instinct. So much of the violence was blacked out to you now.

You must have ran. The both of you must have dashed out the front door, stolen in keys in one of your hands. You must have jumped in the car that matched the double click of the lock button.

Because now you're speeding down the road. The wind blows through the open windows across your face. Your feet rest up on the dashboard while one of your hands covers his thighs. The car zips down the road heading North, heading to a place where both of you would have something.

You turn your head and flash him a grin. He gives you a similar expression before putting his eyes back to the road in front.

[thewritinggrindstone]

🔫 FREEZE this is a STICKUP

gimme 5 great lines that you wrote (whether you’ve posted them or not) and 5 great lines someone else wrote (whether published or fanfic) and nobody gets hurt!!

oh trust me, noony, you don't have to resort to threats to earn yourself a choice selection of lines I love. have some words <3

first five are from my various projects, last five are taken from some of the best fics I've read in the last year

His hair is tangled, she notes maybe the fourth or fifth or tenth time she catches herself staring at it, trying not to think about the way his shoulders bunch beneath her hands or the way sweat drips off his brow as something molten and foul inside him tries to eat its way out. —that tiny mer wip

Her hand aches more from the loneliness than the lingering memory of the sharp pressure. —orange desert blooms, rusted

He can feel Erik’s attention land on him, a stone falling from orbit. —back alley brawl project

Satisfaction bleeds across Nines's body like a filter being applied to a photo. —a fork in the path

There's no officially recognized medical procedure to measure stupid per brain, but Sixty nevertheless watches in what is almost real time as the percentages in Gavin's tip entirely the wrong direction. —(where we find) the only hope within this place

The stairwell was dark and rust. —A Strange Comet by windyfiend

I think about this line—this chapter, truthfully—basically every single day. it haunts me. haunts me.

He was too tall, naturally stern-looking, and built like sentient Kevlar, and Sixty had the feeling Nines wouldn’t have to fight to establish himself like his predecessors had. —See the Metal Heal and Grow, Almost Alive by beebot

self-explanatory. 10/10 no notes

“You’re a dick,” Markus said, “but not a private dick. Please do not become a private investigator. You’d be insufferable.” —they'll fix you by yellow_cabellero

genuinely one of the funniest stories, funniest writers, on the planet.

“You should have asked,” he spits, louder and hoarse, a half-step away from a scream. —cynics come undone by cosmoscorpse

the other story that haunts my every waking moment. this story is poetry in motion. literal perfection, I aspire

Connor stares with those eyes plucked straight from roadkill while Hank’s heart throbs out a wild beat. —Spitting Image by Thwippydippy

one of those lines I reread an entire story to enjoy in context again <3

tagging @druidx and anyone else who wants to play

[abuddyforeveryseason]

So, last time I mentioned a comic that didn't exist, but this time I'm going to mention one that did - but doesn't anymore.

It's called Swim Club, created by Justin Alexander and Britt Prevatte. I don't know who they are. Around 2018 or so, they uploaded is as a webcomic to self-hosted site swimclubcomic.com. I found out about it later, but by then, the site had already gone offline. I can't find information about the creators online (it doesn't help that there are other, more famous people with the same name as Alexander), and anything else related to the comic just leads back to the now-dead website.

On the wayback machine, I manged to find and save a few of the sixty or so pages of the comic - the cover, pages 2, 43, 51 and 59, but nothing else.

So, it seems like the comic is lost for good. Which is weird, cause, people seem to think on the internet, stuff is supposed to be preserved forever. But this webcomic - which admittedly wasn't popular despite the high polish - simply doesn't exist anymore. The creators disappeared, too, and I don't even know if they're alive anymore.

I don't know much of the story - something about teenagers interacting and fighting old gods or something, like Lovecraft meets a sports manga, interdimensional stuff - but the art is really well done and interesting, and I really like the vibe. Some cool hatching and Ben-Day action, too. Check that last page out, isn't it good stuff?

I was going to say something silly - "if I was that talented, I would never give up making comics."

I was talking to a bud a few months ago about Quentin Tarantino's decision to retire after his next movie. My friend was confused by it - why would someone so talented give up on the dream job of directing movies? But, you know, the reason his movies are so good (I know some people don't really like him, but that's not the point) is because he works so hard on making them, and that ends up being exhausting. It seems like the reason there isn't a Vega Brothers movie, or a Kill Bill Volume 3 is because he was too tired to make those.

So, he's made his movies, and he made money off those, I figured he's earned an early retirement. Even if I'm a fan, it's not like creators owe their fans to continue making art even if they're burnt out and out of ideas. Not unless they can't afford to give it up, which is a-whole-nother can of worms.

So, I can't blame the creators of Swim Club for giving up their work, either. It's a pity I won't get to actually read the thing (I've only found out about it post-mortem), but even if I did, it's not like the story reached an ending then and there. It's kind of a melancholy thought, the idea that something so well-made would be lost in the tides of time, though.

I understand it's happened a lot throughout history, even to beloved geniuses like Kafka, Shakespeare and Fritz Lang, but, still. Sad.

[claudiajcregg]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by both @mihrsuri and @unseenacademic 💜💜💜 Thank you so much! I actually wrote up most of the answers the day I was tagged, and then forgot to post them. For over 10 days, probably. Me bad.

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 23! (One of them is a 'collection' of short ficlets, and has 6 chapters. So 28 stories in 23 works so far. Probably about to be more stories in still 23 works.)

2. What's your total Ao3 word count? 156,597 words. For now.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently? Just TWW. Who knows in the future!

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

They have about 35% of my total kudos, but the first two are ~21% alone. (The first one is the only fic that has over 100 kudos. Then again, any of them getting above 30 is a miracle.)

maybe everything's just turning out how it should be (Big Block of Cheese 2008; CJ & Josh. Posted Feb 2021) [121]

say it's here where our pieces fall in place (Vignettes, 1998-2008. Posted Jan 2022.) [66]

just your smile lit a sixty-watt bulb in my house that was darkened for days (Thanksgiving 2006. Posted Dec 2022.) [55]

nobody knows how to get back home (Missing scene from ITSOTG. Posted April 2023) (wait what. top 4?!) [50]

we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it (B4A Campaign Fic, spring 1998. Posted May 2021) [47]

5. Do you respond to comments?

YES. I don't take them for granted, and I like interacting with my readers. Sharing is nerve-wracking and makes me feel so exposed, so any comment makes it worth it. I like to thank peeps for their time! As of late, it's taking me weeks to get back to comments for Brain/spoons reasons (and because I try to do so in order, though not always). I sometimes feel bad I have fallen behind on leaving my own comments, so replying to what I get makes me feel bad. I love getting the rare, long, thoughtful comments, because I love seeing what people pick up on (had to restrain myself from commenting on everything), so if that one's up next… It'll delay everything. I have a harder time letting go of those.

I know replying or not is a hot topic, and I fall on the side of 'whatever the author does is fine' (I see them as being voluntary gifts to the author, kinda, but I understand why some authors can't or won't reply! Especially those who get dozens.). It does feel weird(ly demoralizing) when you see that yours is one of a couple of comments they haven't replied to, though. (Selfishly, as someone who tries to write medium-long comments, lack of anything can sting. It's irrational, it's not what I'm after, but it'd be nice to know whether that hour plus of my time was worth it. It's not transactional and I hate that c4c idea or whatever. Just. weird feelings.)

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

As we've established in previous similar memes (lol, I think I've answered these questions before), my fics don't really have angsty endings! For the most part. I think I said don't want you to go but I'll be okay then, and I can still buy that/definitely popped into my brain. I think some of my late S7 fics have an ominous feel to them, with some references/buildup to the angsty parts of IM, but I wouldn't call them angsty endings.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Um. The opposite is true! still you never took your hand from mine was my first thought, but I feel like oh, and I will be with you to feel the California sun is pretty darn happy. I could have picked almost any of them and I could make a case for them!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I luckily do not. I have gotten a couple of comments that have messed with my brain, and made me second-guess things, but they were not hate.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes, but not regularly and not that well. It's usually short, mild scenes at most, but I did challenge myself to write a more explicit one last summer, especially after I got those 'one bed' tropes in the Wheel but didn't go there in the 500-word limit. Streets say it's hot. IDK. I also wrote a smutty continuation to the exchange fic. Best if we forget parts of that one happened. I also started writing one that would be in my S5 pregnancy universe but 🤐

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I don't. But this question confirms to me I have answered this before because I know I've joked about how TV has already done that for me, lmao. See: Bones/Sleepy Hollow.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? (I had to track down this question because it wasn't anywhere.) I don't think so!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope! I'm having déjà vu here. I know I have answered this before: I could do it myself! But I have a feeling it wouldn't be as easy as one might think, but I'd be honored.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I don't think so…? If I have, it was years ago, in my forum/LJ days. I've been trying to make it happen for a while now, but who knows if it'll ever happen. WE HAVE IDEAS. We want to make it happen. (Wink wink, nudge nudge. You know who.)

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Spaceships are so cool. Atlantis was the first space shuttle I saw in person (and also the one I've seen the most) and it and its exhibit are awesome. I'm only missing Discovery out of the four space shuttles, because I didn't go to the second National Air and Space Museum location in Virginia back in 2015. And once the new exhibit center is completed, I'd love to see Endeavour again.

(In all seriousness, I don't have one. Booth and Brennan will forever and always hold a special place in my heart, but I love CJ and Danny so much, writing for them, their journey. Pls don't make me pick.)

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I am a big 'never say never' person, because I end up picking stuff up (and maybe rewriting it to fit my current style/ability) if I remember an idea… But I'm guessing many of them won't get finished. Probably some of those that are deep in my notes app or on the drive.

16. What are your writing strengths? I (try to) dig into the emotion of a scene as best as I can.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Everything else? I know it sounds like an excuse (at least to my ears), but writing in your second language is hard. I know my writing sounds limited because of it – my descriptions will never be as evocative as I wish they were, my dialogue won't be there. I am not the most imaginative person, either.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

If it makes sense, and won't take the reader out of the story, go for it! (A few words, or a line or two, might work if there's appropriate context.)

But also, as a non-native speaker, I'll always recommend using pals who might be fluent in that language and checking with them! I know that, throughout my many years in fandom, I've read quick things in Spanish within English fics that weren't entirely correct in the context they were being used (i.e. character's fluency, smaller details), and they took me out for a second. (I know, I know – pot, meet kettle. If anyone has read an unedited story of mine, they've found me making up English phrases.)

19. First fandom you wrote for? Bones. In Spanish. (I also think I wrote some ficlets in English that are probably hidden in some random LJ comm I created for my writing. They're probably 14-15 years old.)

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I honestly cannot pick! And maybe it's yet to come. But basically, if I've gone through the embarrassment of having someone edit/beta a fic and catch all the avoidable mistakes, it's because it genuinely has something I like about it and that I think others will like, too. (Perceived quality aside.)

Off the top of my head, and out of the posted fics (obvious recency bias, sorry). I have a story for all 23… Also, let's consider I've mostly not read them since they were posted so I might be off. (Would love to hear what everyone's favorite is, if you've read any and are reading this!) Obviously, that top 5 by kudos has great ones. There's a reason

don't want you to go but I'll be okay: I just remember finishing it and knowing it was something special. Felt like many things coming together. I wanted to write angstier, a break from the endgame of the IM AU I've yet to post, and I think it works. I had had that quote as inspo for a while, and I think the trip to Berlin put it back on my mind. (The first haunted by the notion draft is from around this time, too!)

your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep: the structure is likely a tad repetitive, maybe (but also, the point of 3+1s, sort of?) but I love writing in that s7 period, and there should be more fic with the press corps. I think the stuff I wrote while editing (which included an overhaul of the +1) is even better than what was there.

oh, and I will be with you to feel the California sun: recency bias, yes. I love a good early Cali story, and even if this was nowhere the story I sat down to write originally, I love how it turned out. It's silly but fun, and so sunny.

still you never took your hand from mine: I will always have all the soft spots for my memoir stories, even if two of them have yet to be posted. This one doubled its size a year and a half after “finishing” it because I realized what it was missing. It's sappy, probably unrealistic re: the publishing industry, but damn it if it's not one of those that have made me cry while editing them.

we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it: I had to include an oldie but goodie from my first year, and this one is so special to me. (Along with BBC 2008, which I also absolutely adore. That was the fic I always wanted to post. Hilarious it was third. But it's also my most popular fic by a huge margin.) Seeing it recommended on Tumblr? God. I love campaign stories and all their potential. I love that I took a random line from some unposted story and it evolved into this fic.

nobody knows how to get back home: I almost added the most recent one because of how fun it was to write (or, as I mentioned above, Big Block of Cheese) but I like how bittersweet this missing scene one is. I find CJ's internal struggle so interesting to explore, and this is one of her most vulnerable moments. I also wanted to see a hug so badly.

[ratralsis]

Brief update

I haven't written anything long in a while because I haven't had a ton of time.

My latest writing class ended a few weeks ago. The course report I filled out wound up hurting my tutor's feelings so much that, even after I wrote multiple emails apologizing, she didn't want to continue tutoring me in the next class. I didn't think anything I wrote in the report would surprise her, but I was wrong.

It's what I get for trying to be honest. I wound up saying at the end of my apology email that they should either ask me for my feedback more often than one time at the end of the course, to avoid being surprised like that again, or not ask for it at all. I'll do the work either way.

Writing classes are hard work. I don't view them as supposed to be fun. I can write for fun on my own time. And I do. You have no idea how much I cracked myself up writing last month that showing a non-gamer a photo of Squall from FF8 would literally kill them, and that the UN is actually an organization devoted to wiping FF8 from the Earth. That's fucking hilarious to me, man. Love that shit. Didn't get a single note. Most of what I write doesn't. Doesn't bother me. It did bother me when that Doctor Worm story didn't get any notes. I've said that before, but it does still bug me a little. That was a good fucking story, and I don't care who says it isn't.

My cat, Tina, nearly died of some kind of nasal blockage or respiratory infection. For $65, she got a quick exam from a vet and some amoxicillin, and now, nine days after starting that (and with a couple of days left of the stuff to go), she seems much better. But she hasn't jumped or run to play with the cat toy in over a month. I think that her new normal will never be as good as it was even three months ago. That's life. The vet she's "doing great for her age." Her age is 89 in cat years. "Alive" is great. "Typical for her age" would be dead. It's like if you went to the gym and saw an 89-year-old woman walking on a treadmill going 3 miles per hour. "Wow," you'd say. "A twenty-minute mile? That's great for her age." But that's because most people who were born 89 years ago can't walk at all, because they're fucking dead. So are most cats who were born 18 years and three months ago, so, yes, Tina is doing great for her age.

I discovered a small leak in the roof of my garage this afternoon. I called my home insurance company and will hopefully have someone able to give me an estimate on what it will take to fix it soon so that I can determine if I need to make a claim or not. There have been multiple bad storms where I live recently, just like there have been literally everywhere on the continental US recently. Where I live has been pretty mild, comparatively.

I'm hoping it won't cost more than a couple thousand dollars to fix. I can afford that much, though it will hurt, a lot. I've been saving like crazy all year, and that will undo much of that saving, but it won't even put me as low as I was last year when I was literally begging for money on the internet.

It's been over two months since I said on my Animal Crossing blog that I would post my photos from Leap Day and the few days before it. I haven't done that yet, and that really does upset me. I try hard to be a man of my word.

I'm not talented. I'm not charismatic. I have very few innate abilities. There's only one thing I know how to do, and that's put in the work. I updated that Animal Crossing blog every day for nearly a decade, so believe when I say that 1) I know a fucking thing or two about a work ethic, and 2) I'm sorry I haven't posted those photos yet. It's been difficult to do much writing lately that isn't for my novel.

I had to throw away everything I'd been working on on the latest draft about three months into my last class. I'm still working on catching up. I have sixty days before the next class starts. I have ten chapters left to write before I can call this draft done. Can I do it? Of course I can. Who the fuck do you think I am?

But it means I don't have a ton of time to write for fun, or watch TV for fun, or play video games for fun, or anything for fun. Every night, after dinner, it's an hour of writing, at least.

It's not supposed to be fun. Even chess grandmasters, the ones who love the game so much that they become the best in the world, don't get that good by playing casually. They work at it. The only way to get to that kind of level is to work at it.

There's no such thing as good enough. There's better than the last thing, which is always possible, and there's perfection, which never is. That's all there is.

I'll be better later. Probably. I don't like to complain, so I try very hard to do it very rarely, but sometimes I go so long without saying anything at all that I think even complaining might be better than nothing.

Let me know if I'm wrong.

Let me know if I'm right.

Let me know anything at all. I don't like screaming into the void like this, but I sure have been doing it for over twenty years, haven't I.

[wintermage]

anywayyyy it's been a while since i got on here to complain about work and i'm HOPEFULLY gonna get a new job soon so time to bitch <3

i'm gonna be stating my reason for leaving as just wanting to move out of general practice and into emergency/specialty but in reality that's only like. 4% of the problem and there's like sixty other things pissing me off right now.

we lost our last actual doctor and are now relying exclusively on travelling vets, so i'm our ONLY full time provider at the moment and you know what? fucking corporate won't even let me have a dedicated assistant to help with my appointments, i have to fucking steal someone from the vet(s) who are working that day every time i have an appointment. i can't have a dedicated assistant for myself unless i meet a certain goal for average profit per appointment :))))) and it's so fucking ridiculous. i'm just expected to get my patients in and out efficiently despite having to wait for someone to be available to safely restrain them for me. no doctor would be expected to see patients without someone to assist and i don't see why i should have to just because i'm a tech. if i'm seeing patients i should have someone to assist me with those patients, period.

AND that shitty coworker who i've been forced to train still hasn't quit despite having a tantrum in which she threatened to do so. Instead, she's been BLATANTLY using surgery training as a means to dodge her other responsibilities. like she's just been shadowing me in surgery while CONSTANTLY TALKING ABOUT HOW HER MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES WILL PREVENT HER FROM ACTUALLY MONITORING SURGERY HERSELF. like jfc stop wasting my time then!! and she's frequently passive-aggressive when i ask her to do her job. i'm having flashbacks to my old wildlife rehab coworker who would go out on all the animal rescues just to get out of feeding/cleaning duties and wouldn't be of any help on the rescue. she's also been calling out sick on the reg lately which honestly is a blessing. it lowers my blood pressure lmao and for some strange reason her calling out doesn't put us behind. like at all. it's almost as if she spends the majority of her workday dicking around and trying to look busy and wasting my fucking time, hmmm.

on top of it all, corporate implemented this "levelling' system where you take an online test to "level up" in your role, making you eligible for a raise. sounds good on the surface, but it also caps your pay at a certain amount depending on your "level." and the tests need to be done on the clock...somehow...despite the fact that everyone has fucking work to do. AND the tests are needlessly confusing, not sure if it's deliberate or just from sheer incompetence. had one where two of the multiple choice answers were the EXACT SAME, and it was the right answer. so obviously only one of them would ACTUALLY get marked right and guess what? it wasn't the one i chose lmao.

and i know this is a problem pretty much Everywhere and not just at my shitty job, but it REALLY pisses me off when people with no experience get hired at a higher wage than me. that moron i'm training made like $2/hr MORE than me when i first started training her (changed when i got my license and thus got tech pay instead of assistant pay, but still, fucking seriously?).

[project1939]

Project 1952: Day 60 Round Up! 

First, here are some stats from days 31-60: 

TV: I watched 72 episodes of TV, and 19 different shows. The total for all sixty days is- 129 episodes, 39 different shows! 

Radio: I listened to 78 episodes, and 25 different shows. The total for all sixty days is 156 episodes, 37 different shows. 

Film: I watched 30 films, 31 if you count the Westinghouse sales film Ellis in Freedomland. In total over the last 60 days, I've watched 59 films.

Magazines: I read 13 magazines, 7 different titles 

Books: Still zero. I’m going to postpone reading books until after the project ends. For any kind of life balance, I just can’t do it right now. I don’t have the time. When I did project 1939, I only had radio to listen to/watch besides films. Now, with the addition of TV, it’s just too much. 

Awards!  

Best TV show: Of the new ones I’ve seen since day 31, it's gotta be What’s My Line? I look forward to every episode I watch. 

Best Radio show: Again, counting only the new ones since day 31- The Chase. Honorable mention: NBC’s coverage of the Democratic National Convention. 

Best Film: High Noon. Honorable Mention: Europa 51. 

Best Magazine: Good Housekeeping 

Worst Film: There haven’t been any atrocities like there were in the first 30 days, but I would say Son of Paleface and What Price Glory? are the two worst/least entertaining films on my list. 

Worst TV: Maybe Guiding Light or Gangbusters? 

Worst Radio: Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve listened to any new shows that are all that bad. 

Surprises and Trends! 

Biggest surprises about specific shows/episodes:  

Esther Williams! I unexpectedly fell totally in love with her. She’s got it all- she's gorgeous, talented, and she’s got this certain grace and dignity about her. I also find her speaking voice soothing. 

I could listen to 3 ½ hours of radio coverage of a political convention and be utterly riveted. Never would have guessed that! 

The movie The Girl in White really surprised me. I expected it to be a saccharine melodrama, but it turned into a thrilling riveting story about a pioneering female doctor.  It's the kind of movie that sticks with you so much, you tell your friends and family about it.

Biggest overall surprises/trends: 

Vintage puzzles! I didn’t think I’d be able to find any reasonably priced puzzles from the 40s or 50s, but I have. Those Tuco puzzles are a joy to work with- the pieces are so thick and satisfying, and the colors are vibrant.  

A Jello mold obsession re-occurring! But now that I’ve been sick, I can’t even look at most Jello molds without wanting to retch. Literally. I don’t know how many I can make from here on out. 

I didn’t expect to get so wrapped up in the political landscape of 1952. It’s been fascinating to see the way both parties have changed in the last 71 years. Republicans boasting about their progressive ideas? Democrats fighting with segregationist racists within their own party? It’s trippy, man. 

Unsurprisingly, the horrible way men talk to women has continued unabated. 

The East Asian racism in media has toned down somewhat in what I’ve seen from day 31-60. It’s still disgustingly there, but it’s not nearly as ubiquitous as it was the first 30 days. I have no idea why- it could even be just random chance. 

The group of people this time that have been the victims of the most overt racism are the Native Americans. All the sorry old stereotypes have been there, with a heaping dose of dehumanization. 

Racism against African Americans has been more overt in these last 30 days. I’ve seen several of those stereotypes of stupid or childish black porters, elevator operators, servants, etc. It has surprised me just how awful the portrayals are. It’s everything you think of when you hear the name Stepin Fetchit or Butterfly McQueen. Even on The Beulah Show, which I think was created with good intentions, it’s noticeably bad.  

There has continued to be almost no hint of gayness anywhere. This time, there was one “sissy” comedic role with undertones of queerness, but that’s literally been it. There was also an ad in the back of a magazine (in the cheap ads section) for some Gold Medal paperbacks, one of which was a lesbian pulp novel. It again gave hints as to what it was about, but it didn’t come out and actually say it. 

Stuffed green olives! Apparently stuffed green olives were considered fancy haute cuisine by middle class folk, cause they put them in everything! In all the worst most stomach-churning places you can imagine! With salmon and celery soup! With mac and cheese! In lemon Jello with grapefruit! With a pineapple lime Jello dessert! It’s insane. 

This project is getting to be hard. I didn’t expect to struggle so much to keep going, or even consider throwing in the towel. I’m not going to quit now, while I’m 2/3 of the way there, but this is a challenge in every sense! Being sick for a week and a half now has not helped, either, I know. 

[noster-tempus]

I've had a few meetings with a sleep psychologist, and one of the things I learned is that the standard "8 hours of sleep" figure is supposed to *include* periods of wakefulness.

She also confirmed something I've long suspected, which is that people who say that they can't stop falling asleep during the day but can't sleep at night are often *the same level of asleep at both of those times*, but it's more asleep than they should be during the day and less asleep than they think they should be at night.

So last night I got 8 and a half hours of sleep, which I think did include a longer-than-average period at the beginning of being in Stage 1 and somewhat aware of my surroundings. I slept from 3:30 AM to 12:00 PM.

And I was still sleepy after breakfast. I flopped down on the edge of my bed in Stage 1 for a while, then I tried to wake myself by listening to a catchy pop song from the sixties.

Picture a person sitting against the wall on the end of eir bed, with a laptop in eir lap playing "Soul Deep" by the Box Tops. Ey is struggling to keep eir eyes open but is *also singing*. Albeit intermittently yawning and slurring eir words.

"Darling I don't know much, I know I love you so much, my life depe--YAWN, YAWN, YAAAAWN, YAWN, way down inside me it's-a, SOUL DEEP! It's too big to hide and it cannd be denaah, luwiza riih-vah running, SOUL DEEP!"

And then bursting into giggles at the absurdity of the situation, and thereby finally waking up properly.

Something's not right here.

The sleep psychologist recommended that I get a sleep study done to rule out stuff like sleep apnea and narcolepsy. I would not be at all surprised if one of those ends up being ruled *in.*

[capncassas]

If you could only read 10 novels for the rest of your life what would they be?

Oh dang! Hmm. This is a tough question - but I'm glad it wasn't one of those, "Whats your favorite," kind of questions because I have so many! If I could only read 10 novels for the rest of my life they would have to be ones I really loved and have done back to again and again.

1. Jane Eyre - Bronte, because personally I felt like it was teaching me that we will always struggle that's just the test of life, what matters the most is how we react and conduct ourselves in those times. I really like that.

2. Elizabeth's Wolf - Leigh. Obviously if I'm reading this book the rest of my life I want a nice little romance and some ✨spice✨ that is to my liking.

3. Doctor Sleep - King. I've head The Shining multiple times and I love it BUT if I could only read one? It would be Doctor Sleep. I read that book in two days and then turned around and re-read it again I loved it so much. I'm a sucker for good triumphing over evil. (If I could recommend, this one is HIGHLY recommendable as well as The Institute by Stephen King as well.)

4. Flowers in the Attic - Andrews, at one point I actually had the entire series. I would SQUEEEEE to have them all again. Tricky thing? Last I checked, Flowers in the Attic is still popular in print but I had to go to a used book store that smelled like roaches and rat peepee to find the rest of them. Sadly I lost them all in a cross country move. This story will break your heart at literally every turn (I will caution you, if you don't know, now you know, there is incest in these books however its not being fetishized or written as a kink. It's just heart breaking. I dont know why I like my heart broken but I do. I still cry every time little Corrie dies.)

5. The Southern Bookclubs Guide to Slaying Vampires - Hendrix, I bought this book twice I loved it so much. Once for my kindle and again in paperback. If you like vampire horror/suspense books then I think this is a good one to pick up. Seriously, if you are a fan of Salem' Lot , you'll love this one.

6. Not title just anything by Janet Evanovich. I love her writing style.

7. Jurassic Park - Critchon. In case you didn't know the films are based on his works, at least the first two films. Sadly, Michael Crichton has passed away. I have an awesome hardcover copy of this book in brown leather than is embossed with the skeleton of the T-Rex and the leathers made to feel like dinosaur skin. It's like...the pride of my collection plus it was a very sweet birthday gift.

8. Heart-Shaped Box - Hill, AH! I've re-read that book so many times I had to buy a new copy. It's probably not everyones cup of tea and I'm sure Joe Hill has written far better since as he expands his writing craft but I really liked this one. (PS its a ghost story).

9. Chaos. Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the sixties - O'Neill, if you are interested in literally ANY of these topics ...10/10 recommend. When I finished this book, I had to go re-read one of the above to lighten the load of my brain because honestly...the topic matter is some pretty heavy stuff. And yes, I have read Helter Skelter. I own two copies for some reason.

10. The Lost World - Critchon, come on. You didn't think I would put Jurassic Park on this list and not have the sequel? If you loved the movies you'll enjoy these too. (PS, pertaining to Jurassic World, John Hammond was a DICK and he didn't give a FUCK about his grand kids on the island. So, you've got that to look forward to.)

Thank you so much for the ask dear anon, I enjoyed this.

[lonelygueen]

Smells like old books. I decided that smoking didn't bother me much today. Maybe it's the smoke from cigarettes in the wrong hands that makes me frown. Perhaps the air needed to utter some precious words could be polluted. Maybe… After I lost my pen... I thought I couldn't write without it, but I do. If it's called writing, of course. There are dozens of unfinished books in front of me, and my record player, which I listen to only two of them among dozens of records. "Top Gun, Take my breath away": The last track on the first face. I'll have to get up and turn it around soon. I know. But as if it would never stop, as if I would reach eternity with "Top Gun". Even the thought of it makes me smirk. I think it's like a sip of red wine that you can't swallow: reaching eternity on your tongue, getting more and more bitter, getting more and more wine... Then I think of Aysel, who is dying. The dark exit of the chocolate I bought without looking out of the box… Even though I was disappointed, I didn't throw my hand back into the box. Maybe it has something to do with the compilation of Hollywood romantic songs swirling next to me. "When I'm in love," I say, "maybe I'm not bothered by cigarettes." “Love…” I repeat, grinning. The 3 most worn letters in the alphabet... "I fell in love today, for example." I say contemptuously to myself. Not knowing what I despise. Myself, or the one-syllable word that spilled from my lips and I was offended when it came into contact with the air? "And I got hit faster than I've been in a long time." I say. Even though I've never seen his face... Without even hearing his voice... His back was turned to me. He was sitting on the bench, against the buildings. Cigarette in one hand, he stared. "Long time," I said, "haven't seen him looking at the chimneys. Still ..."I'm staring out the window. It's snowing. I think the silhouette I can see behind the farthest snow cloud belongs to a plaza. Plaza… I've been looking for this word for two minutes in my memory, which I haven't had a chance to tinker with these days. It doesn't sound very pompous, but now that I've found it and pulled it out... It's like I borrowed the word. As if it wasn't mine and all I had to do was be careful not to spill anything on it. "Wine stains are hard to remove, but I'm used to coffee stains." I say. Surely they will understand. Invisible accident… It happens sometimes on snowy days. I watch the falling snow with the pigeons. Do I go first or doves? Maybe we'll go together, who knows... After all, there isn't a lot of pigeons where I go. There is snow, too. Even if it's gray, it's snowing. It is gray gray, albeit a different gray. At least it was once. But the plazas... They don't seem that big from where I look now. Snow used to clear everything, though. What happened? It's the first snow falling in how many years, it doesn't hold up either. Is it because we changed the color of the walls? Nile green is the color of summer, but I think that old books bought in the winter of sixty-nine should also be a bit of a souvenir. You know, the ones lined up next to those lace curtains. They smell sweet. I'm making coffee for myself, but I'm not drinking it yet, it's right in front of me. It's very light color. As usual, "I put too little coffee." I say. The color of her hair... You know, the tiny golden beams coming in through the window in the evening, the arms of the snow-collecting sun touching your hair... That's the color. Light coffee. It smelled of lavender as he poured it into the cup. I understand why later. You know, that dried lavender was crumbled without putting it in milk or coffee… Lavenders from her grandmother's bedside… Julie London played in the background, without exception. Maybe he was just mumbling. I can't remember now. But of course, this smell must have stayed from there.I've been waiting for the snow for years. Now, what I was waiting for has come, as if I had already left the last sip of my tea at the bottom of the glass and got up... As if the first snowflake had already fallen into the cold glass and the new customer impatiently touched the waiter to clear the table. Maybe I got up earlier. I went to find an ashtray to leave my first butt. Maybe I'm just cold. The record stops slowly, the needle settles into place with a graceful movement. The text on it is now easy to read. I do not see. I am in the land of sitting against chimneys, of the winter sun falling on brown hair, of lavender fields, of coffee stains, of smelly old books, of pigeons, of tobacco, and of thin snow.

[timep3tals]

Hey I've seen your blog and let me just say omgiloveitsomuch!!! I read your work on AO3 and then I got Tumblr and I found you and omg I was so happy!!! I wanted to request a little ficlet cos I love your writing- Peter accidentally steals Tonys hoodie and goes to school with it and feeling kinda guilty but then like it ends up comforting him through the day?? He tries to give it back but Tony just tells him to keep it. Sorry that it's so specific. Do what you want with it. Love your writing bye!

hey babe, thanks so much! i’m really glad you enjoy it, it means a lot!!

Spending a school night up at the tower usually wound up being a horrible decision that Peter couldn’t quite seem to resist from making. Not that spending time with Tony and Pepper was a bad thing, not at all! It’s just Tony and Peter tend to accidentally bring out the worst tendencies in each other self-care wise.

Namely, staying up far too late and sleeping in until three or later in the afternoon; rinse and repeat.

This time, it was totally an accident — Peter had been out as Spider-Man, wound up in Manhattan (don’t ask, he already got bitched at by Tony for leaving his “territory”), and got stabby-stabbed by some wicked fast dude trying to steal from Stark Industries. 

Naturally, Peter stopped him, but FRIDAY had already told Tony what was up, and so Peter spent the wee hours of his morning getting fussed over by his mentor, when he kept insisting, “Really, Mr. Stark, I’m fine! It’s already healed over!” Because it was, thank you very much.

By the time Tony’s internal Mama Bear had retreated back to her cave and let his death grip on Peter go, it was three sixteen in the morning, and Peter crawled into his bed to very promptly pass out.

So, really, Peter wasn’t to blame for the frantic rush to school that next morning when he woke up fifteen minutes before first period. Thankfully, Happy already picked up his backpack from Aunt May’s apartment, so he snagged it and a stray hoodie off the couch so he didn’t freeze to death in the sixty-degree weather (thanks spider-genes and your crap thermoregulating), and was out the door.

Happy drove like an absolute madman to get him to school on time. Peter didn’t wait for the car to pull to a complete stop as he leapt out with one shoe half-on and the other untied, shouting a quick, Thanks Happy! over his shoulder before bursting through the doors.

Right as he entered the classroom, the bell rang, and Peter smiled victoriously as he slid into his spot beside Ned.

“Dude,” Ned whispered, “you’re so lucky you got here when you did. Ms. Warren’s on a warpath with those tardies lately.”

“Don’t I know it,” Peter hissed back. “I just had a little… incident, last night, and you know how Mr. Stark is.”

“Is that why you’re wearing his hoodie?”

“What? I’m not—” Peter glanced down at the hoodie, and his mouth clicked shut in shock. In bold, white letters, the hoodie read Stark Industries, and Peter had seen Tony wearing the sweatshirt enough to know on the back, in the same lettering, was T. Stark. “Oh crap.”

“Flash is gonna go nuts when he sees,” Ned said sympathetically, and patted Peter’s back. “I have a jacket you could borrow?”

Slowly, Peter pulled the hoodie up over his nose. The potent scent of metal and something muskier that was distinctly Tony rushed in to greet him. It smelled like home, of late-night spaghetti dinners, of strong hugs when the world became to heavy to carry, and of early-morning lab binges when Peter’s hands itched to do something and gentle words guiding him in the right direction as he worked.“No,” Peter said, before he really thought it through. “No, it’s fine. I’ll give it back to Mr. Stark after school. It’s an internship night anyway, so I’ll be going back to the tower.”

Flash, naturally, made Peter’s life hell. Or tried his level best to, but Peter felt remarkably untouchable today. Nothing Flash could say phased him in the slightest, especially not with the gentle scent of dad lingering in the air around him from the hoodie.

“Come on, Penis,” Flash crowed behind him. “Why does your shirt say Tony Stark? Are you really that desperate to prove you know him? Come on, Parker, own up to your lies!”

“I have nothing to own up to,” Peter replied smoothly, fiddling with the drawstrings on the hoodie. “It’s his sweatshirt. I’m wearing it. Move on.”

Flash refused to move on, but Peter ducked his nose into the sweatshirt and continued on with his chemistry homework. Most of the day went as such. What Flash would say that usually grinded on Peter floated past like the breeze, replaced with the distant comfort of Tony.

Peter always had felt safe around Tony — felt safe, and loved, and cherished, and most of all, as though he had a father to turn to again. Even if Tony didn’t think the same way, Peter clung to those tiny tendrils they shared, dancing the delicate line so he didn’t overstep boundaries.

So with Tony’s hoodie, Peter felt practically invincible. As though he was standing on top of the world, where nothing but the solid ground under his feet mattered anymore.

However Peter did feel a little guilty. He’d seen Tony wearing the hoodie often enough to know it was one of his favorites (a present from Pepper when Tony saw how many of their employees had a hoodie, and he didn’t). When Peter arrived at the tower (Happy wisely didn’t comment on the hoodie), he hurried to the lab as FRIDAY directed, pulling the sweatshirt off as he went.

“Good afternoon, kid,” Tony greeted from where he was bent over his desk, sketching away at a new blueprint. “School went okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, surprised at the fact he did have a good day. Tony also looked a bit surprised when he poked his head up from the project he was working on. “It-it was good.”

Holding out the hoodie, Peter cleared his throat. “I brought you back your hoodie. Sorry for stealing it.”

“I didn’t even realize it was gone.” Gesturing to the table, Tony said, “Set it down.”

With some reluctance, Peter did so, and tossed his backpack on his desk. Tony insisted Peter get any homework he had for school done before they can do internship stuff. He felt Tony’s eyes on his back, studying him.

“Did you want one of your own?” Tony finally asked. “Kid, all you have to do is ask. Seriously, it’s like you forget that I’m a billionaire—”

“I don’t want my own,” Peter interrupted.

“Then why steal mine?”

“Well, I overslept, and was in a hurry so I didn’t realize it was your hoodie that I grabbed, and then Ned pointed it out when I got to school and offered me one of his jackets but this hoodie smells like you so I really didn’t want to take it off, and oh my god, did I say that out loud?”

The absolutely massive grin on Tony’s face told Peter that yes, he definitely said that out loud. Oh, god.

Burying his face in his hands, Peter groaned. Tony rounded the table and clapped Peter on the back, the grin ever-present on his face when Peter peeked out through his fingers.

“Do I need to start leaving clothes out for you? Maybe spray my cologne on your shirts? Smear a little aftershave on the collar?”

“Stop being gross!” Peter complained. “It was just one day, one hoodie! It was comforting, so please, get over it!”

“I can’t get over that,” Tony told him. “Wear the hoodie, kiddo. I have more than enough where that one came from. My closet es su closet.”

Peter pouted at him. “That’s a disgusting use of the Spanish language.”

“I know. Point still stands.” Tony sobered a little, pressing his hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. “I want you to feel comfortable, Peter. You being happy and comfortable are my main priorities. If wearing my hoodie helps get you through the day, feel free to raid my closet at any time, okay? I won’t even make fun of you.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Okay, maybe a little. In a good way. That hoodie is probably huge on you.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter turned back to fiddle with his backpack, awkwardly pulling out his chemistry homework. Still, a little smile pulled at his lips he couldn’t quite wipe away, warmth blooming in his chest as Tony stood beside him.

“Kinda is.”

“Knew it. Now, what homework do you have today?”

Tag List: @riseuplikeglitterandgold @pythagoreanpineapple @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars

[cyberwavelit]

Gamer's Debt (Short Story)

"Crap, all I wanted was the gold chest so I can buy some extra lives. If I don't get any more extra lives, I'll lose all my gold when I die. How am I supposed to win if I have to pay for every damn thing?" Joden stepped down the ramp of his Blourgan cruiser and surveyed the alien landscape. It was barren except for the remains of a small village that he had just annihilated with a two-ton necro-missile.

"That's life. People are generally selfish, impatient, and insecure. Game companies use these weaknesses to motivate players. Maybe you shouldn't have blown up the village, is all I'm saying." The pilot of the cruiser, Jershamalama, spoke through his comm.

"But how does anyone get the hell out of this game if they can never win? I've been stuck in this hell hole for thirty days! My body’s back in the real world, rotting away.”

"Hey, you wanted to play, didn't you? Maybe if we travel to a non-npc sector we can trade off some of this junk we get every time we kill an enemy.” His pilot stared at him from the cockpit.

Joden looked back, “I feel like a slave. That garbage is only worth a pinto cent. It’ll take decades to get to the end game. And besides, that's if we can take off with all that junk. It'll take us a few hours to get back into the atmosphere. It's like a Fetch-22."

"You mean a fetch quest?"

"Yeah, something like that." said Joden taking out his cent-o-meter. It consumed his health bar as it scanned the surrounding sector. His eyes darted around his visor interface, looking at all the blips and bubbles that pinged. “I wish I could afford the Super Hyper Gold Jetpack that all the booster players use.”

“They only release that on the first Wednesday of every other month with a sign-on fee, an option to buy stocks in EternaEntertinament, a monthly fee, a mental evaluation, and maintenance fees when your able to grab it from one of the random places it spawns, like the Hell planet Infernum or the planet Madness Descent. Plus, I hear they only give you like a 3 second jump.”

“What?!” He nearly tripped over a crumpled alien body. “You can’t be serious. My mom’s going to kill me. I told her I was going to school. I figured I could just sign up for a few games, try my hand at Galactic Teamslayer, and be back at the rent-a-plex by nine. That was a month ago!”

“Relax. They won’t even notice you’re gone. Most parents have been sucked into this new thing called Binge Child Raising. EternaEntertinament created it too. It’s a simulation where adults can raise children and not have them become reclusive, angst-ridden failures. They’re really gouging everyone for money, real and fake, young and old.”

Joden was too focused on the horizon where a few blips were going off. They were purple, which meant that they were low-value targets. Everything seemed to be purple. “I never asked--how long you been here?”

“You shoulda seen it when it was it first came out. The servers would never load and you had to sit there, in the darkness, watching a timer run out as they patched their simulation. It was like holding your breath under water.” The pilot sucked his teeth. “Hang on a sec. Have to rate the game again—after this ad.”

“Yeah, I hate doing this every hour.” The astronaut picked up a child’s toy from the clutched hand of a sloblarian. “Wonder what this is worth. I heard that we used to play with things like this, not just video games where you pay to win. Up, hang on a sec, got an ad playing.”

Joden’s reality changed. He was sitting on a park bench. A duck came up to him, honking and pulling at his pants. The countdown to the end of the ad appeared in his peripheral. It quaked and quaked until Joden threw down a few coins to skip it.

Back in game world he was still holding the toy. He threw it down with distain and a lack of remembrance for such physical trifles.

He was then asked to rate the game. He voted as he always had, giving it a one-star out of three. There was a chime and a message: “We’re sorry you’re not enjoying your time in our game world. Perhaps if you were more openminded and understanding of the fact that you may not always get what you want, you might have a better experience with our merchandise. Please lower your expectations. Thank you.”

Joden coughed to drown out the message he had heard a hundred times. “I’m so tired of game companies stealing from us. Don’t they realize that it’ll only make the game suffer?”

“Yeah,” responded the pilot, “let’s go steal something.”

“I’m so tired, Jersh. I just want to go somewhere where we can kill an alien race and grind their bones into dust. What’s so wrong with that?”

“If you only knew, kid. On its launch the game world wasn’t even finished. Eterna used the gamers to construct most of the planets using the build-and-play incentive. Those gamers signed a contract that said that they had to make at least four hundred ‘products’ before they could actually the game. They called it the ‘fix-it-later’ release. The products they were referring to was one galaxy. Those designer gamers are probably still waiting…”

“Four hund--?” Joden held up his fist to the pilot, who had been watching from the ship’s windshield. “That’s extortion!”

“Welcome to the world. They get away with it because it’s a game world. You can do anything in the game world like gambling, murder, blackmail, forced labor, and forced sodomy. Nothing’s real so nothing matters.”

The astronaut had disembarked about five hundred meters from the ship. Steam bellowed from its worn exhaust. “Why did you call me kid? How old are you? I mean I know you have the same avatar as me…”

“Age doesn’t matter either. Yeah, I couldn’t afford the customizations either.” Jersh tapped his helmet. “So, I guess we both have the same face.”

“And same weapons, gear, armor, boots, ships, weapon skins, and abilities.” He noticed a large oval blob on his visor’s HUD. It was moving closer behind a small series of stone pillars.

“Oh no, I have the blue-skinned Rigormortis rifle. It’s got this badass blue stripe on the side. Cost me 20,000 gold, 200 platinum, and 4 of my lifesaving’s accounts. If I didn’t have this stripe, I’d probably go insane or worse, color blind.”

“Shut up, dude. Something’s coming. I think it’s a surviving sloblarian. I hear they get angro really quick. I don’t want to die here, man. I never bought a 600-gold resurrection pack. It’ll take sixty days to load back in…”

Jersh responded, sounding distracted, “You’re fine. Just cap it in the head or something.”

The purple blob was twenty meters away. If it wanted to attack it would have to come out into the open and charge him. He could tell there was movement but it was more restless than threatening. Joden took out his rifle and fired at the rock tower. The gun exploded in his hands, sending his obliterated fingers in multiple directions.

“Ah damnit! I forgot about the maintenance fee!”

The figure bounded from the pillar and slunk slowly towards the enemy astronaut. It skulked across the yellow, Phallusian sand with its omni-dexterous flippers. Arriving to the hunched-over human its tugged at his spacesuit and motioned for him to come closer.

“Gross dude, it wants to talk to me. What should I do?” The rounded head bobbed up and down like a rubbery ball. It seemed to be injured or at least miserable.

Joden heard distinct crunching noises emanating from the pilot’s mouth. “IDK. Step on it I guess.”

The polymorphous blob at his feet opened its crevice-like mouth and appeared to gasp for air. But it wasn’t gasping. It was whispering. He leaned down and listened.

“Dunk…prrray…Donk pppreeeey.” It was saying, and gargled as its lips flapped. “Doooonnk plllaaaaay. Chooose nut to pprraaaaay. Fyind sumting essl to do wilth yourg tyhme.”

“Oh, hell no!” shouted the man, as he squashed the creature’s face with his boot. It was like stepping on a water balloon filled with pebbles. He looked at where his hands used to be and screamed into the sky. “What does it all mean? Why do I always have to be punished! I’ve been in the same place for too long!”

"It's not good to live in a dream.” More crunching came from the ship. “You sometimes forget what life is like."

Virtual blood splashed onto the dry dirt from his nubs. A few splatters mixed with the alien’s internal fluids. The reflective pool at his feet showed his avatar’s face, the same face of his pilots. He searched rapidly for any signs of wealth or material possession. There was nothing but ooze and viscera. Tattered cloth around the dead alien’s head was smushed and torn.  

He turned toward the ship with a look of bewilderment. “How many gamers are trapped here? We can’t be the only ones. This game isn’t anything like what they advertised. They lied to us! Who would want to be stuck in this perpetual nightmare of pay-to-play, pay-to-build, pay-to-live, pay-to-pay mechanics?”

“I don’t think you get it.” The pilot was still eating. “Companies do this to consumers because consumers let them. The general belief is that consumers are very smart but when’s the last time you heard someone say: ‘I won’t buy that because it goes against my code of ethics?’ None, no one’s ever said that. People like spending money. It’s in our blood. Its our nature to trust rich people. They seem to have all the right answers even when they don’t. They make the truths that we all follow. Besides, how could they get all that money if they had bad intentions.”

Joden used his character’s remaining strength to rush back towards the Blourgan cruiser. He felt a draft of air coming in the direction of the ship, and heard the engine roaring to life. “What the hell are you doing?”

The mercenary vessel hovered three feet off the ground and its nose pointed at the runner. Its pilot could be seen through the windshield, “Sorry newb, you’re becoming to be a real downer.”

“I thought you were my friend!” he whimpered, his nubs heaving back and forth.

The ship elevated to ten feet. “None of us are really friends. We’re all just trying to make a living. And I need one more kill for the Slayer Award. We’re all just numbers.”

As he came to the plateau where he had disembarked, he held up his invisible hands to shield his face. “I just want to go home! I just want to go home.”

A cybersonic laser beam burst from the cruiser’s forward cannons. He felt the hot bathing light of the beam and then felt nothing at all.

“I can’t get out…I can’t…” He awoke in darkness. A screen appeared that read the same message he received hundreds of times, “You have died. Looks like you have low gear and feeble weapons. Would you like to buy a booster pack?”

“No.” he responded.

“A looter box?”

“No!”

He said the same words over and over before. The message continued, “You have elected to refuse game-provided assistance. This is a poor decision. In order to continue gameplay without using game-provided assistance please insert thirty-seven-point-one resurrection tokens.”

He wanted to cry but said, “I don’t have any.”

The automated voice paused and spoke again after popping up a sixty-page form. “Well that sucks. In order to continue please complete the loan agreement in front of you. The loan is for $6,000. Sign here, here, and here.”

Joden lowered his shoulders and looked at his current debt. It read: “-387,000.” He breathed out, collapsing his chest, and grew red-faced. “No!” he shouted.  

There was another pause and the form disappeared. For several moments there was darkness and silence. “Very well.” The automated voice returned. “You have chosen reincarnation. Goodbye.”

“No!” he screamed defiantly. “No!”

Then, all of a sudden, he felt strange. He looked out through oddly-colored eyes. His hands had returned but they had three fingers instead of five. When he tried to speak, he could only gasp through what felt like a straw. The sand that he walked on grew hardened in his webbed feet. An alien girl danced toward him, carrying a toy. She hugged him with pencil-thin arms and turned towards the sky. Tattered robes fell along his arm and he patted the girl’s head. He looked up, to where the girl was gazing and saw a massive fireball break through the atmosphere. A necro-missile came out of the fiery plume, heading straight for their small, stony village. 

[matildashoney]

Thanks for all the “insider” info on why people bring their own furniture! I think I’m ballet it’s much more common to just have whatever a theater has and move in and move out with whatever you need, some of which is brought in by the company’s team. There’s really only dressing rooms, makeup/costume spaces, rehearsal rooms and the stage anyway!

If you don’t mind sharing I’m super curious lol. How do artists handle really big world tours? When they can’t really drive everything from location to location? It seems like it would be hard to get sets/furniture/costumes all loaded up on a plane.

And do they really use tour buses still? I know everyone talks about them and the crazy 1D tour bus stories but I don’t know? It seems like a lot for someone like Harry and team to be literally sitting on a bus all night long and driving from state to state or even across borders, lol

remember when i thought i wanted to be a professional dancer </3

from what i understand (and this is based on observation mostly, i haven't really asked this question before, but i definitely could and may report back), it just doesn't make sense to transport certain things. like, artists will rent the equipment for the stage to be built (i.e. they rent a bunch of steel and certain equipment that cannot be provided by the arena, and then they will rent from the arena to build the stage) and it will be built on location. sometimes artists have more than one set of equipment (for love on tour last year i know harry had two or three sets of stages because the tour was so scattered there was simply no way to drive it coast to coast in a matter of two days) and they would build the stage as another show was happening to keep things moving (it also is so much easier to start building a stage the day or two before - my manager once told me, they will take three days to build what can be taken down in twelve hours to save the labor workers). tours will rent huge semi trucks that travel with them (this is in america, i literally have no idea how it works in europe - yet!) and there will be three or four drivers per truck to drive it through the night and day to make it to the next destination. bad bunny had over sixty trucks because his stage and tour was so big. (that's the biggest tour i've ever seen). most things are transported on those trucks (i.e. the wardrobe, the furniture, the instruments, everything) and designated properly. road cases are these huge metal boxes and they're literally thrown around backstage everywhere and keep everything. anything you name can be found in a road case. and yes! some people do use tour buses still. i don't think most like, "young" artists (i.e. harry, lizzo, big time rush, jonas brothers) use tour buses for themselves, but they may use them for their crew and team. i personally have only seen a tour bus for paul mccartney (i walked on his tour bus with his assistant and was shaking like a chihuahua from nerves) and i think elton john had tour buses for his family (he had a pink camper van which was very slay), but that's literally it. i haven't seen a tour bus for a younger artist ever. they usually leave in a blacked-out car from the backstage area of the venue and go straight to a hotel or an airport.

[that-sweet-sweet-validation-blog]

I don't really need validation but I need some advice if that's a Thing you do?? I feel so stupid and I don't even know what to do rn because I feel like I'm having some kind of dumb crisis and I'm just??? I'm 26 years old and I've been a cis woman my whole life and I have never once had a conscious issue with it but in the last few months I've sort of been questioning everything and it's intensified in the past week or so to the point where I've even been looking up boy names and binders 1/7

I'm just... so confused? I'm thinking about it and I don't really even hate my body and I align very strongly with certain feminine things like makeup and feminine fashion and the more I think about it I know I don't want to give those things up. I don't think I'm nonbinary, not as I understand it, but is it possible to be a very feminine trans boy? I honestly don't understand what's happening with me 2/7

Looking back I can pinpoint a few times in my life where I felt like things weren't exactly right like how I would get furious as a very young kid playing pretend and calling myself a king when my mom tried to correct me to call myself a queen, times when I only wore clothes from the men's department, a long period of time when I was uncomfortable with feminine pronouns, but nothing ever really sparked any kind of realization in me 3/7

This is very atypical isn't it? Surely I would have noticed something was wrong before this. Aren't most people younger when they figure this out? This is probably so stupid and you're going to be like 'what even is wrong with this person' and I'm sorry to bother you, I just don't really know who I can talk to about this :/ 4/7

(These two parts were hidden to protect the privacy of the anon.)

I'm so sorry for ranting for so long at you, please don't feel obligated to acknowledge me, I'm just old and dumb and I have no idea what's happening. 7/7

My response starts here:

Hello my friend! I can see that you are going through some very difficult things right now. I first and foremost want to clearly and plainly say that there is nothing wrong with you. You aren’t dumb for sending an ask. You aren’t dumb for asking someone for help. You certainly aren’t dumb for questioning your gender identity. You aren’t dumb for questioning at your age, either. Take a deep breath, in and out. Try to remember to be gentle with yourself, my friend. You deserve as much compassion and kindness as every other struggling LGBT+ person I speak to. You deserve happiness, and it’s okay to be sad or confused. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You don’t have to have all the answers, and guess what? Nobody does. Sometimes you just don’t know, and you have to take time to figure things out. That’s okay. Take your time. Don’t rush yourself into anything or try to put yourself in a box. Don’t panic because you aren’t sure where you fit yet. The answers will come. Maybe it will take a while, but they will. Some people know in a week and others in a few years. Their one similarity, though, is that they all eventually know. You will know. You will understand. You will not always be this unsure of yourself. And goodness gracious, I promise your situation is not at all atypical. You, as surprising as this may seem, are a textbook trans stereotype. That can be soothing in a way, I’m sure. So, so many people start questioning and/or transitioning well into adulthood. Some people transition in their thirties. Some people start questioning in their sixties. These people aren’t alone, and they make up a fairly large portion of the LGBT+ community. Despite what you may think, you are anything but late to the party. It is never too late to question your gender identity. It is never too late to transition. People all develop at different rates and different points throughout their life. Some people only come to realize their gender identity at your age. That isn’t at all uncommon or stupid or unhealthy. There are undoubtedly plenty of people just like you. I am so incredibly glad that you were brave enough to send me this and ask for advice and assurance. That takes a lot of courage sometimes. I want you to know, before I even say anything else, that I’m here. I am always here for you if you ever need me. Anytime you need to talk about anything gender related. Anytime you need someone to help you with these kinds of issues. I’m here for your support anytime you need it, and there is no shame in accepting the help you are given. My heart broke when I read your asks because you sound a lot like I did when I was questioning. I remember vividly how scared I was to be abnormal, how terrified I was to be wrong. My biggest fear by far was that it really was a phase and I was faking being trans. Every trans person I know has admitted to having similar doubts. It is extremely common. Society pushes us to be nothing but cis and straight, so we have trouble recognizing when we aren’t. It took me a long time to figure out if I was really trans or not. Long story short: I was. I am very much a guy. Feminine as I am, and there are many ways in which I am feminine. Plenty of trans guys I know are like me, actually. My boyfriend, who is also a trans guy, loves makeup. My friend, who is a non-binary trans boy, loves the color pink. There is never any reason you’d have to give up those things, not even being trans. There can be feminine boys, so there can absolutely be feminine trans boys. Not only that, but it very well may be that you are a feminine trans boy. A lot of the feelings you’ve described would very much fall into the category of gender dysphoria. Most trans people have always had some dysphoria but didn’t recognize it until they came to understand their identity. For example, I would always refuse to wear dresses when I was little. I didn’t know this was dysphoria until I knew I was trans. Not only that, but every trans person experiences different dysphoria about different things. Some only are uncomfortable with certain things and fine with others. Some don’t even have dysphoria at all but are just more comfortable presenting as their true gender. There are trans guys who wear dresses and feel fine. Others could never do that without feeling very uncomfortable. Dysphoria, like all experiences, is different for everyone. I’m sorry that you feel so isolated and alone. I’ve been there. And really, who hasn’t? Everybody tends to think that they are the outcast, the defect, the one who is different or atypical or wrong. And the truth is that, well, they’re right. Everyone is incredibly, tremendously, entirely weird. There is no such thing as a normal case of transness because every trans person is different. There is no transgender rulebook. There are no guidelines. Being trans isn’t about being just like every other trans guy, it’s about how you feel and what would make you most comfortable. Now, as for the situation with your ex, I’m very sorry about that. Changes like these are hard enough on their own, so it can be very upsetting when something like this complicates the situation. Quite simply, there is nothing you can do to quell people’s assumptions but tell them the truth. Tell them that your transness has nothing to do with your ex. That is the honest truth, and whoever doesn’t believe that isn’t a very good person to be associating yourself with. I know how scary coming out may seem right now, but it’s probably best to entirely set that thought aside for now. Cross that bridge when you get to it. I never want to assume anything, but it doesn’t really seem like you’re in a good place to come out right now. I’d recommend that you perhaps focus more on yourself and accepting the changes in your feelings that are happening right now. Again, like I said, take your time. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I promise you will eventually feel better and this will become easier. I hope you find what you are looking for soon. Remember to be kind to yourself! Good luck, my friend.