#each of these is at least 50 issues

[geoffreystjohn]

i'm gonna do all of these eventually but i can't decide lol. also i'd be reading them from the beginning (+in fleetway's case i'll probably read stc online too, and with archie i'd try to piece together the side stories in order lol)

[ohsweetflips]

my neutral dragon age trait is that 50% of the time i'm like "the more i critique the games, the more i love them. i can appreciate each game for what they are but my criticism and frustration over what they could be are a sign of love" and the other 50% is like "this is the writing of the dragon age series. sure. why not. this may as well happen."

[arolesbianism]

I am still not over the level cap thing what do you mean level fucking 10

[kira-akira]

What I Want You To Know About Long COVID

Well lads, I've been suffering from Long COVID for over a year now. My life is at a complete standstill. I'm 25 years old and I'm too sick to go back to school, I can't work, I had to move back in with my parents and I'm still stuck here.

Here are just a few things I wish people knew about Long COVID, including things I didn't know myself until I got it.

COVID destroys your immune system. Yes, even if you don't have Long COVID. Are you getting sick more often now? When you get sick, does it last longer? There are many studies showing that COVID causes t cell depletion, even in mild COVID cases! T cells are how your body remembers how to fight off infections you've had before so losing those cells? Bad news.

Your initial infection can be mild and you can still get Long COVID. Right from Yale Medicine, "Most people with Long COVID had mild acute COVID." (This is also a good link for a basic Long COVID overview).

There can be a gap of time between when you "get better" from the initial COVID infection to the onset of Long COVID symptoms. Some people get sick with an initial COVID infection and never get better. Some get better and then weeks or months later start developing Long COVID symptoms. Long COVID symptoms can even fluctuate over time, can go away for months and then suddenly come back.

So many people have Long COVID and don't realize it. Do you feel more tired lately but no matter how much you sleep, nothing helps? Is it harder to concentrate at work or school? Can you just not think like you used to? You could have Long COVID and not even know it. Even mild post-COVID symptoms are still Long COVID.

COVID can do anything to your body. Long COVID has over 200 recognized symptoms and can affect basically any part or system of your body. There is no one mechanism or cause of Long COVID which unfortunately also means there's no one cure either.

The effects of COVID are cumulative. Each COVID reinfection increases your chances of developing Long COVID. COVID is also affecting your body in other ways, yes, even if you're otherwise young and healthy! "Repeat COVID-19 infections increase risk of organ failure, death".

Once you have Long COVID, repeat COVID infections will make your symptoms worse. "80% [of Long COVID patients] saw their symptoms worsen [from reinfection]. In 60% of people who were in recovery or remission from Long COVID, reinfection caused a recurrence of Long COVID."

There is a lot more I want to say about Long COVID but I want to keep this post at least somewhat manageable to read. Like how when COVID is contracted during pregnancy, those COVID-exposed fetuses have a 6.3-fold increased risk of motor developmental delays, or that another study found 50% of babies exposed to COVID in utero had developmental delays.

You need to keep caring about COVID, for others around you and also for yourself even if you're "healthy". Everyone is at risk. And don't forget 40-60% of COVID infections are asymptomatic, which is why masking even if you feel fine is crucial. The only way right now to not get Long COVID is to not get COVID in the first place. It's not too late, if you've stopped masking it's never too late to start again! I know it's easy to get distracted by things in your life that seem more real than the possibility of getting sick some time in the future, and the peer pressure to not mask can be intense. But it only feels less real or less important until your entire life is having Long COVID. Trust me.

I know this is a complicated issue, many people can't afford to stay home when sick even if they want to because of their jobs, there are disgusting policies trying to ban wearing masks, but please if you can. Keep masking. Masking works, masking saves lives.

This post got a bit longer than I wanted so below the cut is a non-exhaustive list of my Long COVID symptoms and some of my experiences as one of the "healthy young people" who got "unlucky". cw brief mention of suicidal ideation.

Welcome to the Thunderdome that is my body with Long COVID. Keep in mind these are just my experiences and symptoms, Long COVID can cause any range of symptoms at varying severities.

Dysautonomia: Exercise intolerance, Post-Exertional Malaise (PEM), fatigue, and heat intolerance. What do those things mean? Here's some specific examples. Absolutely terrible circulation I am so cold all the time but also, if I get a little too warm I will pass out. Eating hot food makes my heart rate spike, I sweat, my body feels heavy. Blood pooling and pins and needles in my feet when I walk. Don't even think about exercising past walking, it's impossible. I used to work out an hour a day 4 times a week and now walking up one flight of stairs makes my heart pound and I can't breathe. Can't take even just warm showers anymore or I will pass out. Heat rashes from being in the sun for 10 minutes.

Digestive issues: Honestly too many to name but: constant bloating, extreme nausea, constipation, slow motility, lack of appetite, just so much cramping and pain. I lost 18 pounds from Long COVID, as someone who was already considered underweight their entire life, and almost had to get a shunt put into my chest to deliver nutrients because I was nearly completely unable to eat. For the first 6 months of Long COVID, if I could manage 600 calories a day, that was a good day.

Histamine intolerance: Oh boy. My worst symptoms, I don't even know where to start with it. If you know Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) it's very similar. I can only eat 19 foods. If i eat a single bite of something not on that list, it's 48 hours of absolute hell. Coughing, migraines, itchy eyes, such extreme nausea I cannot even describe it, panic/feeling of doom, racing heart rate, derealization, rash, uncontrollable muscle tremors. I only learned about histamine intolerance 5 months into having Long COVID so before that, I was experiencing these symptoms nearly every single day. Terrifying isn't even a strong enough word to describe how it felt to experience all this and have no idea what it was, how to stop it, or if it would ever stop. Really dark times.

Neurological issues: More of that derealization. Inability to concentrate. Anxiety. OCD-like symptoms such as thoughts getting "stuck" in my head, repeating 24/7 completely unable to stop them, genuinely felt like my brain had cracked open and I had lost my mind. Constant dizziness like I'm on a boat.

Sleep issues: I sleep like garbage. I have insomnia, I wake up dozens of times every night and every single time I sleep I have intensely vivid dreams. I can't sleep longer than 7 hours total no matter how exhausted I am. It is exhausting. I'm exhausted, I'm so so tired.

And finally. Just. Really intense suicidal ideation. My body, my health, my entire life has been stolen from me because someone else decided my life was worth less to them than wearing a mask or staying home if they feel sick. Before I got Long COVID, I was preparing to go to South Korea to teach English, then on to a PhD in neurolinguistics, I was supposed to meet my long distance partner and had already booked plane tickets when I got sick. All of that has been destroyed.

Most of us with Long COVID are stuck in a cycle of being extremely sick, then if you're lucky you'll slowly get better over months, just to get reinfected and go right back where you started or worse. Honestly, I'm not scared of dying from COVID. I'm scared of living for a long time, suffering from Long COVID the entire time. This isn't living.

I don't know how to end this now. I'm still fighting, I'm trying experimental treatments, I'm not giving up yet. I hope everyone reading this stays healthy and well.

[treasure-mimic]

So, let me try and put everything together here, because I really do think it needs to be talked about.

Today, Unity announced that it intends to apply a fee to use its software. Then it got worse.

For those not in the know, Unity is the most popular free to use video game development tool, offering a basic version for individuals who want to learn how to create games or create independently alongside paid versions for corporations or people who want more features. It's decent enough at this job, has issues but for the price point I can't complain, and is the idea entry point into creating in this medium, it's a very important piece of software.

But speaking of tools, the CEO is a massive one. When he was the COO of EA, he advocated for using, what out and out sounds like emotional manipulation to coerce players into microtransactions.

"A consumer gets engaged in a property, they might spend 10, 20, 30, 50 hours on the game and then when they're deep into the game they're well invested in it. We're not gouging, but we're charging and at that point in time the commitment can be pretty high."

He also called game developers who don't discuss monetization early in the planning stages of development, quote, "fucking idiots".

So that sets the stage for what might be one of the most bald-faced greediest moves I've seen from a corporation in a minute. Most at least have the sense of self-preservation to hide it.

A few hours ago, Unity posted this announcement on the official blog.

Effective January 1, 2024, we will introduce a new Unity Runtime Fee that’s based on game installs. We will also add cloud-based asset storage, Unity DevOps tools, and AI at runtime at no extra cost to Unity subscription plans this November. We are introducing a Unity Runtime Fee that is based upon each time a qualifying game is downloaded by an end user. We chose this because each time a game is downloaded, the Unity Runtime is also installed. Also we believe that an initial install-based fee allows creators to keep the ongoing financial gains from player engagement, unlike a revenue share.

Now there are a few red flags to note in this pitch immediately.

Unity is planning on charging a fee on all games which use its engine.

This is a flat fee per number of installs.

They are using an always online runtime function to determine whether a game is downloaded.

There is just so many things wrong with this that it's hard to know where to start, not helped by this FAQ which doubled down on a lot of the major issues people had.

I guess let's start with what people noticed first. Because it's using a system baked into the software itself, Unity would not be differentiating between a "purchase" and a "download". If someone uninstalls and reinstalls a game, that's two downloads. If someone gets a new computer or a new console and downloads a game already purchased from their account, that's two download. If someone pirates the game, the studio will be asked to pay for that download.

Q: How are you going to collect installs? A: We leverage our own proprietary data model. We believe it gives an accurate determination of the number of times the runtime is distributed for a given project. Q: Is software made in unity going to be calling home to unity whenever it's ran, even for enterprice licenses? A: We use a composite model for counting runtime installs that collects data from numerous sources. The Unity Runtime Fee will use data in compliance with GDPR and CCPA. The data being requested is aggregated and is being used for billing purposes. Q: If a user reinstalls/redownloads a game / changes their hardware, will that count as multiple installs? A: Yes. The creator will need to pay for all future installs. The reason is that Unity doesn’t receive end-player information, just aggregate data. Q: What's going to stop us being charged for pirated copies of our games? A: We do already have fraud detection practices in our Ads technology which is solving a similar problem, so we will leverage that know-how as a starting point. We recognize that users will have concerns about this and we will make available a process for them to submit their concerns to our fraud compliance team.

This is potentially related to a new system that will require Unity Personal developers to go online at least once every three days.

Starting in November, Unity Personal users will get a new sign-in and online user experience. Users will need to be signed into the Hub with their Unity ID and connect to the internet to use Unity. If the internet connection is lost, users can continue using Unity for up to 3 days while offline. More details to come, when this change takes effect.

It's unclear whether this requirement will be attached to any and all Unity games, though it would explain how they're theoretically able to track "the number of installs", and why the methodology for tracking these installs is so shit, as we'll discuss later.

Unity claims that it will only leverage this fee to games which surpass a certain threshold of downloads and yearly revenue.

Only games that meet the following thresholds qualify for the Unity Runtime Fee: Unity Personal and Unity Plus: Those that have made $200,000 USD or more in the last 12 months AND have at least 200,000 lifetime game installs. Unity Pro and Unity Enterprise: Those that have made $1,000,000 USD or more in the last 12 months AND have at least 1,000,000 lifetime game installs.

They don't say how they're going to collect information on a game's revenue, likely this is just to say that they're only interested in squeezing larger products (games like Genshin Impact and Honkai: Star Rail, Fate Grand Order, Among Us, and Fall Guys) and not every 2 dollar puzzle platformer that drops on Steam. But also, these larger products have the easiest time porting off of Unity and the most incentives to, meaning realistically those heaviest impacted are going to be the ones who just barely meet this threshold, most of them indie developers.

Aggro Crab Games, one of the first to properly break this story, points out that systems like the Xbox Game Pass, which is already pretty predatory towards smaller developers, will quickly inflate their "lifetime game installs" meaning even skimming the threshold of that 200k revenue, will be asked to pay a fee per install, not a percentage on said revenue.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Hey Gamers!

Today, Unity (the engine we use to make our games) announced that they'll soon be taking a fee from developers for every copy of the game installed over a certain threshold - regardless of how that copy was obtained.

Guess who has a somewhat highly anticipated game coming to Xbox Game Pass in 2024? That's right, it's us and a lot of other developers.

That means Another Crab's Treasure will be free to install for the 25 million Game Pass subscribers. If a fraction of those users download our game, Unity could take a fee that puts an enormous dent in our income and threatens the sustainability of our business.

And that's before we even think about sales on other platforms, or pirated installs of our game, or even multiple installs by the same user!!!

This decision puts us and countless other studios in a position where we might not be able to justify using Unity for our future titles. If these changes aren't rolled back, we'll be heavily considering abandoning our wealth of Unity expertise we've accumulated over the years and starting from scratch in a new engine. Which is really something we'd rather not do.

On behalf of the dev community, we're calling on Unity to reverse the latest in a string of shortsighted decisions that seem to prioritize shareholders over their product's actual users.

I fucking hate it here.

-Aggro Crab - END DESCRIPTION]

That fee, by the way, is a flat fee. Not a percentage, not a royalty. This means that any games made in Unity expecting any kind of success are heavily incentivized to cost as much as possible.

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A table listing the various fees by number of Installs over the Install Threshold vs. version of Unity used, ranging from $0.01 to $0.20 per install. END DESCRIPTION]

Basic elementary school math tells us that if a game comes out for $1.99, they will be paying, at maximum, 10% of their revenue to Unity, whereas jacking the price up to $59.99 lowers that percentage to something closer to 0.3%. Obviously any company, especially any company in financial desperation, which a sudden anchor on all your revenue is going to create, is going to choose the latter.

Furthermore, and following the trend of "fuck anyone who doesn't ask for money", Unity helpfully defines what an install is on their main site.

While I'm looking at this page as it exists now, it currently says

The installation and initialization of a game or app on an end user’s device as well as distribution via streaming is considered an “install.” Games or apps with substantially similar content may be counted as one project, with installs then aggregated to calculate the Unity Runtime Fee.

However, I saw a screenshot saying something different, and utilizing the Wayback Machine we can see that this phrasing was changed at some point in the few hours since this announcement went up. Instead, it reads:

The installation and initialization of a game or app on an end user’s device as well as distribution via streaming or web browser is considered an “install.” Games or apps with substantially similar content may be counted as one project, with installs then aggregated to calculate the Unity Runtime Fee.

Screenshot for posterity:

That would mean web browser games made in Unity would count towards this install threshold. You could legitimately drive the count up simply by continuously refreshing the page. The FAQ, again, doubles down.

Q: Does this affect WebGL and streamed games? A: Games on all platforms are eligible for the fee but will only incur costs if both the install and revenue thresholds are crossed. Installs - which involves initialization of the runtime on a client device - are counted on all platforms the same way (WebGL and streaming included).

And, what I personally consider to be the most suspect claim in this entire debacle, they claim that "lifetime installs" includes installs prior to this change going into effect.

Will this fee apply to games using Unity Runtime that are already on the market on January 1, 2024? Yes, the fee applies to eligible games currently in market that continue to distribute the runtime. We look at a game's lifetime installs to determine eligibility for the runtime fee. Then we bill the runtime fee based on all new installs that occur after January 1, 2024.

Again, again, doubled down in the FAQ.

Q: Are these fees going to apply to games which have been out for years already? If you met the threshold 2 years ago, you'll start owing for any installs monthly from January, no? (in theory). It says they'll use previous installs to determine threshold eligibility & then you'll start owing them for the new ones. A: Yes, assuming the game is eligible and distributing the Unity Runtime then runtime fees will apply. We look at a game's lifetime installs to determine eligibility for the runtime fee. Then we bill the runtime fee based on all new installs that occur after January 1, 2024.

That would involve billing companies for using their software before telling them of the existence of a bill. Holding their actions to a contract that they performed before the contract existed!

Okay. I think that's everything. So far.

There is one thing that I want to mention before ending this post, unfortunately it's a little conspiratorial, but it's so hard to believe that anyone genuinely thought this was a good idea that it's stuck in my brain as a significant possibility.

A few days ago it was reported that Unity's CEO sold 2,000 shares of his own company.

On September 6, 2023, John Riccitiello, President and CEO of Unity Software Inc (NYSE:U), sold 2,000 shares of the company. This move is part of a larger trend for the insider, who over the past year has sold a total of 50,610 shares and purchased none.

I would not be surprised if this decision gets reversed tomorrow, that it was literally only made for the CEO to short his own goddamn company, because I would sooner believe that this whole thing is some idiotic attempt at committing fraud than a real monetization strategy, even knowing how unfathomably greedy these people can be.

So, with all that said, what do we do now?

Well, in all likelihood you won't need to do anything. As I said, some of the biggest names in the industry would be directly affected by this change, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they're not just going to take it lying down. After all, the only way to stop a greedy CEO is with a greedier CEO, right?

(I fucking hate it here.)

And that's not mentioning the indie devs who are already talking about abandoning the engine.

[Links display tweets from the lead developer of Among Us saying it'd be less costly to hire people to move the game off of Unity and Cult of the Lamb's official twitter saying the game won't be available after January 1st in response to the news.]

That being said, I'm still shaken by all this. The fact that Unity is openly willing to go back and punish its developers for ever having used the engine in the past makes me question my relationship to it.

The news has given rise to the visibility of free, open source alternative Godot, which, if you're interested, is likely a better option than Unity at this point. Mostly, though, I just hope we can get out of this whole, fucking, environment where creatives are treated as an endless mill of free profits that's going to be continuously ratcheted up and up to drive unsustainable infinite corporate growth that our entire economy is based on for some fuckin reason.

Anyways, that's that, I find having these big posts that break everything down to be helpful.

[givemethedamnflowers]

.

[tossawary]

I think it would be fun to do a "character swaps with older version of themselves" fic with Moshang. A post-canon Mobei-Jun who has been happily married for a while (probably at least 50 years old) accidentally touches some plot device artifact and time travels, swapping places with his 20ish-year-old self. Older MBJ wakes up in head disciple Shang Qinghua's bed where his younger self had been napping.

Younger MBJ lands in his own palace, where he is quickly found and fawned over by Older SQH, who can't help but think this MBJ is so cute. The System quickly confirms for Shang Qinghua that this situation has been sorted into a "multiple timelines" thing, so SQH doesn't have to worry about "protecting the timeline" by doing anything like hiding the fact that he's MBJ's husband. (So, there's an alternate timeline younger version of Airplane Bro now? He's just going to... ignore having an existential crisis about it. Yeah.)

Which is great because Older MBJ would not have thought about this at all as a potential issue. Older MBJ also thinks Younger SQH (Younger Airplane Bro) is incredibly cute and has no problem informing him that they're married in the future. Younger Airplane Bro is trying to figure what the fuck is happening, but he's having trouble thinking over the sound of how MBJ only became hotter: MBJ didn't get much taller, but he did get wider, heavier, more muscular, and hairier. Holy shit. Older MBJ doesn't even have any problems passionately kissing Younger SQH just to prove that they're married. And he smiles! He's so gentle and communicative! Comparatively!

("Luo Binghe is the Demon Emperor in my time," Older MBJ says. "Ah? Who's Luo Binghe?" Younger Airplane Bro lies very badly. "Hmmm, so you did know," Older MBJ says, and then makes some comment about LBH's husband that makes Younger SQH go, "HIS WHAT NOW?!")

Younger MBJ is trying to be cool, not really confused or scared, and Older SQH spoils him rotten by showing off the home that they're made together and how well the palace works to serve and defend MBJ. Linguang-Jun can't show up here because SQH will light him on fire if he shows his face. Younger MBJ doesn't even really like his SQH yet and is also struggling with how good Older SQH looks: a little taller, broader, relaxed and easygoing, answering all of his questions and explaining important things to him, dressed like a beloved demon lord's spouse, efficiently ordering everyone around. "Call me Gege," Older Shang Qinghua said with a wink, and it went straight to Younger MBJ's defenseless heart; he is developing new kinks immediately. Help him.

In the end, after a few days at most, they manage to switch Older and Younger MBJ back without too much issue. Older SQH is a little annoyed that his husband kissed an alternate timeline version of himself, but mostly because he sure would have liked that experience when he was only a disciple! Okay, SQH may have pet Younger MBJ's head and pinched his cheeks and hugged him and brushed his hair a little and shamelessly lavished him with good examples of human affection, but it's not the same!!!

Younger MBJ and Younger SQH in the alternate timeline are left in SQH's tiny head disciple house, completely flustered, sitting next to each other and barely able to look at each other. What. The. Fuck. Eventually, Shang Qinghua manages to say, "Uh, do you want to make out?" at the same time that Mobei-Jun says, "We should get married as soon as possible. Tomorrow."

[mareastrorum]

That last episode really wasn’t as interesting as the discourse suggests, and that’s pretty much the problem:

First, Ludinus’s fight was not of the caliber expected for a final boss fight, which (in combination with his staff) suggests that it won’t be the last time we’ll see him. The issue is that the audience is generally quite tired of Ludinus because (1) he has made far too many appearances for a villain with a single-minded goal, (2) his interactions with the PCs are uninteresting because his motivations don't resonate with them in agreement or opposition, and (3) Delilah did the whole “Cerberus Assembly wizard who refuses to stay dead” thing in this very campaign (plus it was far more thematically appropriate for a necromancer) and that takes the dramatic tension out of the possibility. No one cast member bears the blame for those 3 issues; Matt probably should have pivoted to give Ludinus additional motivations when the Hells had so consistently demonstrated an inability to commit to the gods question, and the players should have done something to build a sense of purpose in their group (which would be their reason to oppose the villain). Instead we're left with "this guy has rancid vibes, kill him and do what he wanted us to anyway."

Second, the PCs’ decisions leading up to this point have annihilated any semblance of tragedy in the narrative. This isn’t a tragedy because that genre rests on eliciting a feeling that the characters deserved better, but the audience nevertheless understands why it turned out this way. That can arise from paying attention to institutional injustices, the allure of cycles of violence, or the development of tragic flaws (strengths causing a downfall). That isn't C3; this is a bunch of trite flaws (selfishness, short-sightedness, pettiness, favoritism, etc.) turning out to be flaws. It would have been amazing if this had been an example of hubris like we saw in EXU Calamity, but each of those main characters were bursting with pride in themselves, their city, and mortality, and while that hubris brought the Lord of the Hells back, they managed to prevent the worst case scenario using the exact same skills and resources. None of that is present here. Bell’s Hells are constantly trying to shift the captain’s hat to someone else, and their ship has been heading straight for rocks for the past 60 episodes. There was no intention to sail into the rocks. It wasn’t their strengths that led to Imogen accepting Predathos; it was the same indecisiveness that has plagued them the entire campaign. They had 118 episodes to build a proper tragedy, and instead we have a story that took hundreds of hours to say that unreliable people shouldn’t be relied upon. The result has been numerous posts hoping for the Hells to suffer all sorts of consequences (TPK, specific player deaths, refusal of aid from the gods) for failing to commit to a course of action. Why? Because then at least there would be some type of cathartic satisfaction that Fucking Around means they’re going to Find Out. It has nothing to do with imaginary people deserving a better ending and everything to do with feeling like this ending would have been more satisfying around episode 50.

These criticisms are not about facets within the story; it's not about whether X character was correct, whether Y fucked up, whether Z plan was the better choice. It's that sometimes people don't land their bit for improv shows, and that is disappointing after seeing skilled storytellers do so well with prior campaigns.

[unteriors]

Since you're Australian, why are so many of the posts from the US? Did you start with Australia and then move onto other countries once you'd felt like you exhausted it? Or is the US particularly interesting for your purposes?

A big part of the reason is the enormous difference in scale. Australia has about 25 million people, versus 300 or so million in the US. Each of the 50 states has at least one or two major cities, most have many more than that. In addition to the volume of real estate imagery produced by this market, there are a few things about the US in this context which draw me in from an Australian perspective. One is how real estate listings weirdly embody how much more visually apparent the harmful economic forces of the past 50 years are in American society than they are here or elsewhere. Australia's welfare state was developed roughly during the same time as in the US, and has similarly been cut back since the 1970s. But it was always much weaker in the US than in Australia or Western Europe, and correspondingly the effects of its deterioration - along with other economic trends - have been much more visible than they are here. The way this is played out in terms of localised funding for public services means that many American cities have pockets (of varying sizes) where poverty and other forms of systemic oppression are concentrated and left open to the elements. The sort of stuff Jacob Holdt documented in his photos in the 70s, or that you see in a lot crime films and thrillers with location shooting. Gentrification and other forces since then have pushed these pockets into other areas and made some places seem less grim, but from what I've heard it seems like it would be hard for the average person in the US to ignore that these large, systemic problems exist. Conversely, in Australia, this kind of intense poverty has been pushed into the margins of society during the same time period - to remote communities (where people suffer from chronic diseases that have been eradicated in most other wealthy countries), country towns with shrinking economies, or to the fringes of larger cities (where people sleep in their cars in parking lots, or multiple families form sharehouses to afford $400-500+ pw rents). Though as things have gotten worse, particularly since COVID, it's getting harder to ignore. But still there's a substantial part of the population here who have grown up in ignorance of any of the larger, percolating structural problems in Australian society, and who proactively retain that ignorance into adulthood.

I think you can see these different perspectives play in out in real estate listings. In most American states, even in most of the towns I've looked at, you can see a broad spectrum of living conditions (and commercial interpretations of ideal living conditions) - from burnt out trailers, to overpriced renovated shitty older houses with cheap grey vinyl flooring and white walls, to clearly lived-in time capsules to McMansions to actual mansions. Some photographs are clearly shot by owners, others by real estate agents with a great variety of care and attention to detail (from elaborate staging to crime scenes). Rightly or wrongly, I feel like I get a broader, more honest (or at least more direct) feel for the housing crisis. It's a more honest horror film.

Australian listings, I think in part due to concentrations in corporate power in the real estate industry (similar to other monopolies that have formed in our economy), tend to more heavily adhere to the visual language of advertising and are more heavily regulated by agencies. The problems still exist, the housing market here is among the worst in the world and little effort is being made to address the underlying structural issues, but you can see the lack of will to acknowledge these issues in the level of gloss that's applied. You can look at a listing of an older house in Western Australia, for instance, and know for a fact that it's riddled with asbestos and probably has several other structural issues, but most likely enough time and effort will have been spent on staging and lighting and maybe surface-level renovations that it will seem otherwise fine. Lots of turds that have been polished successfully enough that you need insider knowledge to properly identify them as dogshit. Incidentally, I spent part of my childhood in a house built in the 1960s that had asbestos in the walls and ceiling.

I'm still interested in images from Australian listings (and other sources) though, I just look for other things that are interesting. Anything that runs contrary to the artificially positive, limited world view that advertising promotes. Even if its a poorly-lit time capsule that is directly aesthetically opposite to the ideal of house-beauty at the moment, or an obviously run-down house that has had every realtor photography trick in the playbook thrown at it until it becomes deeply uncanny. And it's always interesting to see what other people find interesting; I genuinely think the housing crisis underwrites every other political issue we have to contend with, its tendrils extend in many different directions, and I think this also means imagery like this can reach people in a diversity of ways. Aesthetically, nostalgically, inspiring fear and self-loathing and horror. All good sources of inspiration for creativity.

[noideabutsims]

Donut Co.'s Sidewalk Chalk Creations

Who's ready for a celebration of creativity and childhood wonder? Donut Co. is thrilled to be joining the Simblreen festivities for the first time ever, and we're bringing a mountain of fun with us! Simmers, get ready to unleash your inner child and turn your Sims' sidewalks into a vibrant explosion of color! Donut Co.'s Sidewalk Chalk Creations are here, bringing the joy of outdoor play right into your game.

These aren't just drawings, they're portals to a world of imagination. Watch your little Sims hop scotch through a rainbow, set sail on a pirate ship adventure, or simply giggle with glee at a friendly smiley face. Each chalk creation is a burst of pure joy, guaranteed to add a touch of whimsy and childhood charm to your Sims' neighborhoods.

So, ditch the dull concrete and let your Sims' creativity shine! Donut Co.'s Sidewalk Chalk Creations are here to transform your Sims' world into a celebration of art, play, and the simple joys of being a kid. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All images have my reshade on*** I messed up and forgot to take photos without the reshade on this time guys. Ive been on a time crunch trying to get these finished, and i simply forgot. It really doesn't change the color that much, so it is very similar in game! Really sorry again guys! If you are interested in my reshade, or want to see how much it changes the color - you can find it here: https://www.tumblr.com/noideabutsims/763209634729345024/remember-those-days-reshade-preset-guess-what?source=share ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Has 50 swatches New mesh If you cannot see all the swatches, place it down and then change the color swatch!

All of our CC can be found by typing " Donut " into the search bar! Name: Donut Co.'s Sidewalk Chalk Creations Buy Mode Description: Transform your Sims' sidewalks into a canvas for creativity with Donut Co.'s Sidewalk Chalk Creations! This collection of colorful drawings brings a touch of childhood magic to your Sims' world. From playful rainbows and whimsical swirls to bubbly masterpieces and pirate ships setting sail for adventure, these chalk creations are bursting with fun. Add a touch of joy to your Sims' neighborhoods and let their sidewalks become a testament to the power of imagination! Will be releasing more content soon! stay tuned! ❤️ (NOT affiliated with EA or Maxis in any way! We just make CC!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DOWNLOAD: Curseforge: https://legacy.curseforge.com/sims4/build-buy/donut-co-s-sidewalk-chalk-creations Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/113944702 Google Drive: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1vD2RbSTGbBskNtiCpNjhvdHSqIVggEVB/view?usp=sharing ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Due to financial issues and our promise of never paywalling our content; We have to ask that you guys download on our curseforge if you are willing and able. Just using their site to download makes us be able to have at least a small income that helps us when things get tough - however no matter where you download; we genuinely appreciate every download regardless!! If you can, you can find our curseforge here!: https://legacy.curseforge.com/members/the_lady_gaia/projects @alwaysfreecc

[endlingmusings]

"The Asiatic cheetah is on the brink of extinction due to worsening conditions. Unfortunately, wildlife conservation in Iran is not a top priority for the government, which is under intense pressure from sanctions. These sanctions not only affect the government but also the livelihoods and employment conditions of the people across the country. Companies and factories are going bankrupt, and their workforce is being downsized. As a result, it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep experts at non-governmental and non-profit organizations that are dedicated to preserving wildlife. Individuals are forced to migrate from hope to despair to sustain their paths of career growth and prosperity for themselves and their families. The Iranian Cheetah Society (ICS), which used to have over 50 members, now manages all conservation, educational, and advocacy activities with only six individuals. Among them, we manage to pay a modest salary to only one person and struggle intensely with a shortage of manpower and budget. In the past year alone, three key members decided to migrate. If we are to dedicate more time and resources to the conservation of the Asiatic cheetah, there is no solution other than preserving the few remaining workforce. It is important to note that extinction won’t wait for political issues to be solved. The current supporters of the ICS have somewhat assisted in keeping ongoing conservation activities in the field, despite sanctions and economic hardships. However, the lack of sufficient manpower for field deployment renders project budgets futile, no matter how much they increase. Therefore, this year, we intend to request assistance for covering the salaries of our conservationists and aim to secure project costs from larger institutions throughout the year since they are generally uninterested in covering human resource expenses. According to our estimates, by Giving Tuesday next year, each full-time expert will incur at least 4100 euros in expenses. This amount covers only the salary and does not include insurance and other expenses, which we hope to obtain from other sources. With every 4,100 euros, we will be able to contract a full-time force for one year. We hope to raise a minimum of 8,200 euros from Giving Tuesday to International Cheetah Day this year. You can also contribute by securely donating money through PayPal at HelpCheetah.com or by sharing this message with others, helping us remain hopeful for preserving the Asiatic Cheetah."

- The words of Iranian Cheetah Society CEO Morteza Pourmirzai.

Donate | Learn more

[hells-wasabii]

How would each of the Hell characters(Hotel group, Lucifer, Overlords, Vees) do while cooking entirely on their own? Can be platonic or romantic, whichever you want

A/N: So I know I said 2, but the other one isn’t ready yet I’m still writing it. It’s gonna be pretty big too since it’s that velvette part 2. But I had to get my cat spayed today so I’ve been super busy all day keeping her out of trouble and from hurting herself :/ but anywho, enjoy!

Characters: All that I write for

Type: Hesdcanons (hazbin cast cooking headcanons)

Charlie

With Charlie, I’m a little torn. On the one hand, she’s a princess, so cooking would likely be more of a novelty considering she likely had staff to do it for her. But this is Charlie we’re talking about. She would go out of her way to learn how to cook. Wouldn’t give up either, not until she could do it on her own. I would imagine that she started learning from Vaggie and reading cookbooks.

Vaggie

When it comes to Vaggie, she can cook some, but she’s definitely super humble about it, brushing off any compliments because it’s ‘just food’. If the issue is pressed I can see her getting a little embarrassed about it. It’s mostly dishes that she had been taught while she was growing up, along with basic dishes that don’t necessarily require a honed skill to make.

Angel

Angel can cook, though he doesn’t exactly put much effort into it. I can definitely see him just throwing something together so he can eat and move on with whatever else he has going. Baking is a different story. I can really imagine while he was growing up he would sneak his way into the kitchen while his mother and Molly were baking. He picked it up pretty easily. And as someone who enjoys baking let me just say that his extra set of arms would be so helpful.

Husk

Husk was an entertainer in life, growing up in a casino, learning the trades in the house. That also includes the kitchens. Sure he likely didn’t spend a whole lot of time there but he still picked up a thing or two. So he’d be able to hold his own fairly well when it comes to making a homecooked meal.

Alastor

While it’s canon that the radio demon can cook, I feel like he specifically likes to cook recipes his mother left behind. Cooking recipes from his youth reminds him of joining his mother in the kitchen whipping something up for lunch and helping her prep for dinner. He’s not all that adventurous in the kitchen, though. He likes to stick with what he knows and what he grew up with.

Niffty

Having died in the 50s as a young housewife, I genuinely believe that she at least knows some fad recipes, like those salads and casserole recipes. Jello molds too. But that’s not to say that she wouldn’t know some basic stuff. I can definitely see Niffty being the type to try to create whole new recipes with varying, mostly horrifying results.

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious is a genius, there’s no doubt about that, but the man can’t cook. At all. He’d burn water honestly. But baking? Oh yeah, he can bake with out a doubt(but not necessarily the decorating part), it’s basically science, but not cook. He’d quite honestly have the Egg Bois help, but let’s be honest here, that’d be a disaster too.

Cherri Bomb

I’ll admit, I wasn’t to sure about Cherri. She just doesn’t seem like the type to cook. Nah. Cherri is the queen of takeout. She can boil water but that’s really about it. Honestly, she’s only really a couple of steps above Sir Pentious, but she can’t bake either. Sometimes though, before Angel went off to the hotel, she would go out and buy ingredients and stuff and go to his apartment and they (he) would make something.

Vox

This man absolutely can cook, and he’s pretty damn good at it too. Considering he’s the television demon, he’s going to have several cooking shows. Hell, he even stars in a couple of them. That being said, he’s not one to do things half-assed. Sure, a lot of cooking shows have stuff that was prepared beforehand, but with Vox’s he goes out of his way to actually make the dishes in real time.

Valentino

I stand by my headcanons from my Valentino posts. He can cook, but it’s honestly a solid 50-50 on whether or not it’s burnt or edible. He’s pretty easily distracted, whether it’s a phone call or something else entirely, so if it's a dish that you have to pay close attention to, it’s likely to not turn out right.

Velvette

Velvette can do some light cooking, but nothing too extravagant. She’s got more important things to do, such as keeping Vox and Valentino on track. With a schedule as busy as hers, I don’t think she would cook often, preferring either Vox’s cooking or takeout. Oh but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t take a picture and post it, because it’s Velvette, of course she does. Oh! But She’s probably been on Vox’s show as some sort of celeb guest type deal, the dish they made definitely stuck with her, so she might make it from time to time.

Zestial

Considering how long Zestial has been around, I would be more surprised if he couldn’t cook. You can’t convince me that after a while he at one point went through hobbies like a revolving door. Cooking absolutely would have been one of them. This man would absolutely try making the craziest things. He’d be up to date on all of the cooking fads, know recipes and cooking methods from several time periods and cultures. With him, there’s no telling what he might cook up next.

Carmilla

While I don’t think that she would really set aside time to cook often, she’s pretty skilled in the kitchen. Carmilla would likely have a couple of nights out of the month set aside to cook a meal with/for her and the girls, a tradition that carried on from their life before hell. She’d even take the opportunity to try new things while cooking.

Rosie

Oh, Rosie can absolutely cook, it’s canon that its a hobby of hers. She’s very well versed in a multitude of cooking methods, and while she may not entirely like a whole lot of new-age gadgets in the kitchen, she can’t really deny the fact that they can be quite useful. I’m willing to bet that she would have an Instapot (they’re great I have two and one of them has an air fryer attachment)

Adam

Adam would never openly admit it, but he knows how to cook. He was the first man, he would have had to learn eventually, even if it was something as simple as preparing meats. That being said, he can grill. I’d be willing to bet that he’d host a little barbeque after the annual exterminations for the exorcists, maybe even enter into grilling competitions.

Lute

Lute’s honestly a bit of a wildcard when it comes to cooking. She might have been able to cook while she had been alive, but nowadays not so much. It had been a long time since she actively made anything, so she’d be pretty rusty. But other than the basics, I don’t really see her being able to be too creative in terms of cooking either. She’d honestly probably stick to what she knows and wouldn’t stray too far away from that.

Emily

I don’t necessarily think that seraphim would really need to eat, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t or don’t. In Emily’s case, I would imagine it as a scenario where she wanted to do something to get closer to humanity. They were her charge after all, or rather their state of happiness. But all humans eat and many find joy in doing so and even in the act of cooking, so she absolutely would be thrilled to learn! She’s getting better at it by the day.

Sera

Sera had likely done the same as Emily when she was a young angel, though I don’t see her sticking with it. I definitely think that she taught Emily to start her on her little culinary journey. She can cook, she just… doesn’t. I’d even go as far as to say it’s been centuries since she’s actually cooked a meal of any kind. That being said, if she were to jump into the kitchen nowadays, she probably wouldn’t have a very easy time finding her way around.

Lucifer

Lucifer is a man of many talents. He can absolutely cook, possibly even Michelin level, he just chooses not to. He likely just considers it a novelty of sorts, considering he has the power to simply poof food right in front of him. Honestly, it’s pretty helpful whenever he’s depressed and doesn’t feel like making anything. But, when it comes to his family and friends, he’s more than happy to whip something up.

Lilith

Another one who would likely consider cooking to be a novelty. Considering how she’s the second most powerful being in hell, and fiercely independent with more important things to worry about. Lilith wouldn’t concern herself with cooking unless it was with her family, and even then it likely didn’t happen that often after Charlie grew up.

Bonus:

Alastor Cat

Would wind up burning what ever building its in down. Was it intentional? Was it an accident? The world may never know

[etirabys]

meandering post about reading Orson Scott Card again

I've been offline starting at 9pm every day (except once. I was drunk at karaoke and asked for anons at 8:30pm) for six weeks, with the result that in befuddled boredom two nights ago I picked up Orson Scott Card's Songmaster from the house bookshelf.

I read Ender's Game and three sequels when I was a teen thought the books were mid. Since those are OSC's best works I assumed he had nothing more interesting to offer me and didn't try more of him for fifteen years, but Songmaster was compelling enough that I immediately afterwards picked up The Memory of Earth, the first book of a pentalogy.

TMoE is extremely my jam: after humanity blows itself up on Earth, AIs monitor thriving human civilizations in the planets that survivors managed to escape to, and suppress any tech that enables large scale violence by exerting low key mind control via satellites. But forty million years pass, many of the satellites break down, and the AI needs help from humans to restore capabilities. Because as its control wanes, people are starting to e.g. conceive of airplanes or bombs again, and override the injunctions against entering military alliances more than two edges of connection away.

The AI is worshipped as a god all over the planet, but the fourteen year old protagonist that becomes one of the AI's agents tells the AI from the beginning that he'll break with it if its morality seems wrong to him. I like the fourteen year old – unlike Ender or Songmaster's protagonist (adult minds piloting ten year old bodies), he's a normal gifted kid who's unpopular 50% due to his ego and big mouth and 50% because he's socially inept and offends people even when he's trying to be nice.

Songmaster is also partly about a permanent solution to large-scale violence, albeit through one guy who establishes a monopoly on violence and sweeps in pax galactica. Both it and TMoE are preoccupied with the eradication of suffering from evil / human violence, which is closer to my resonant frequency than narratives about defeating particular people or ideologies. At the moment I can't think of any other book with such an insistent focus on the matter than T.H. White's The Once and Future King. It's hard to make a compelling story out of, and I don't think Songmaster really succeeds, but TMoE's premise is well suited to explore that. (I'm also enjoying the matriarchal culture where everyone is expected to have multiple serial-monogamous marriages.) After reading 70% of TMoE last night I wrote:

Usually when I read fiction there's a small part of me going, how can I use this as fodder for my own growth, how can I remix or improve or react against this, how do the author and I measure against each other? (If the quality and content are at an anti-sweet spot, the small part becomes quite large and I feel all teeth towards the author.) But on occasion I read something so close that the absence of that measuring-feeling is its own sensation – ego departs, or at least is split across two bodies. There's just amity and recognition

And it's pretty interesting to feel this way about Card for, well, the reasons.

(If you're familiar with Card drama none of the following will be new to you; I'm coming to it fresh so the rest of this post is me going "uh... wow")

I vaguely knew he was a homophobic Mormon who'd gotten into fights about gay stuff, but I couldn't tell from the Ender books I read. But in Songmaster his issues spring off the page in such a weird way. Every fifth Goodreads review of this book is "Card, u gay?" because, well,

(One review, possibly from a fellow Mormon, that went "Card, it's so sinful of you to be this gay in your novel". Why did he write this book that would predictably make everyone mad...)

it's full of gay male desire. The protagonist (Ansset) is approximately a castrato and characters notice him sexually a lot. The first and only time Ansset has sex it's with a Kinsey 4-5 male character he loves, who's married to a woman but has fallen in love with Ansset. It turns out the drugs Ansset took to prolong his singing career painfully and only-kinda-figuratively explode your balls when you have your first orgasm and you'll never feel sexual desire again. (You'd think his loving teachers would have warned him of that, but, whatever, they didn't.) The other guy is literally castrated in punishment for inadvertently torturing a highly valuable castrato. It's pretty bald: GAY SEX IS ALMOST IRRESISTIBLY TEMPTING BUT YOU SHOULDN'T DO IT.

(Sidenote: both Ansset and the guy's wife are very close and have a "there's enough love to go around" attitude about the gay sex initially, before they go "wait Josif is a SERIAL MONOGAMIST... he can only love one person at a time... the moment he had the gay sex his marriage was destroyed". It's funny in a mildly stupid way that Card would set up this parable of homosexuality destroying lives and a marriage but almost everyone involved is peacefully ready to sail into an open marriage. I guess it makes sense if you want to say very clearly that THE GAY PART IS THE BAD PART)

which is fascinating to me, because... why would you tell on yourself like that

(81k also told me secondhand of an essay? interview? where Card openly says "we have to stand against legalizing gay marriage because everyone will get gay married and society will collapse", so that's informing my read of Songmaster as well)

I am pretty dang open about my personal life online but if I had a lot of feelings I thought were disgusting and immoral I would not write a novel dripping with those feelings before pointedly castrating the leads for them. Especially if it wasn't relevant to the actually highbrow themes of (checks notes) winning over your adversaries with kindness and never relinquishing your monopoly on violence. I would be so so so so embarrassed to let this go to print, it's so psychologically transparent, what was he thinking

(Well, I assume he's a very different person with different social incentives. For all I know, people in his church went "hey Orson we read your book and it's clear that you're gay but signaling strongly that you won't give into the gay feelings, we're here for you, it was really brave of you to publish this".)

[oldschoolfrp]

Alarums & Excursions 139, March 1987, with Ward Miller's cover illustration -- This issue included the first printed appearance of Richard Aronson's tale "Eric and the Dread Gazebo," which quickly made its way to the early Internet:

The Tale of Eric and the Dread Gazebo by Richard Aronson [aronson@sierratel.com]

In the early seventies, Ed Whitchurch ran "his game", and one of the participants was Eric Sorenson. Eric plays something like a computer. When he games, he methodically considers each possibility before choosing his preferred option. If given time, he will invariably pick the optimal solution. It has been known to take weeks. He is otherwise, in all respects, a superior gamer. Eric was playing a Neutral Paladin in Ed's game. He was on some lord's lands when the following exchange occurred:

ED: You see a well groomed garden. In the middle, on a small hill, you see a gazebo. ERIC: A gazebo? What color is it? ED: [pause] It's white, Eric. ERIC: How far away is it? ED: About 50 yards. ERIC: How big is it? ED: [pause] It's about 30 ft across, 15 ft high, with a pointed top. ERIC: I use my sword to detect good on it. ED: It's not good, Eric. It's a gazebo. ERIC: [pause] I call out to it. ED: It won't answer. It's a gazebo. ERIC: [pause] I sheathe my sword and draw my bow and arrows. Does it respond in any way? ED: No, Eric, it's a gazebo! ERIC: I shoot it with my bow. [roll to hit] What happened? ED: There is now a gazebo with an arrow sticking out of it. ERIC: [pause] Wasn't it wounded? ED: OF COURSE NOT, ERIC! IT'S A GAZEBO! ERIC: [whimper] But that was a +3 arrow! ED: It's a gazebo, Eric, a GAZEBO! If you really want to try to destroy it, you could try to chop it with an axe, I suppose, or you could try to burn it, but I don't know why anybody would even try. It's a @#$%!! gazebo! ERIC: [long pause. He has no axe or fire spells.] I run away. ED: [thoroughly frustrated] It's too late. You've awakened the gazebo. It catches you and eats you. ERIC: [reaching for his dice] Maybe I'll roll up a fire-using mage so I can avenge my Paladin.

At this point, the increasingly amused fellow party members restored a modicum of order by explaining to Eric what a gazebo is. Thus ends the tale of Eric and the Dread Gazebo. It could have been worse; at least the gazebo wasn't on a grassy gnoll. Thus ends the tale of Eric and the Dread Gazebo. A little vocabulary is a dangerous thing.

The above is Copyright © 1989 by Richard Aronson. Reprinted with permission. The author grants permission to reprint as long as all copyright notices remain with the text.

[loveafterdeath-if]

Update (more like me rambling than an actual update, tbh)

Hope y'all are doing alright! I saw my inbox filled with asks and kind words (y'all are the best, as always), and I'll start answering everything once I wrap up Chap 2, Part 2. I want to focus fully on writing so I can get you the whole chapter before March at least, haha.

I'm gonna start correcting what I've written so far to avoid ending up with 100k words to fix all at once. We're about 50% through Chap 2, Part 2 (38k words, but it'll probably hit 40k with corrections). There are branches that have messed with my brain because I wanted to include scenes for each RO, but I don't regret it. I love games with lots of replayability (is that how we say it?), so I want mine to offer that too.

Chap 2, Part 2 will have a ton of branches for each RO, plus the option if you're not pursuing anyone, so it might take a while to get that full chapter out. I honestly don't know how other authors keep track of so many branches! I've always respected them as a reader/player, but being the one writing makes me wanna hand my future kids over to those incredible authors…

On top of that, I'm dealing with another issue. I've been writing so much that I think I'm slowly slipping into that "They gaze at her and say," "They take the paper and it falls" vibe (is that even a thing? Idk). You know, the kind of writing with no real description. I find myself double-checking everything to make sure the descriptions are 'good,' and I think I'll just play some IFs when I got time, to help me regain my groove without turning phrases all weird (I hate reading books, that's why I'm gonna play IFs). This is making me slow down a bit.

I've been pushing myself to write at least 4-5k words each day for the past 3 (4?) months, and I think I shouldn’t have done that. I'm putting pressure on myself without even realizing it. It's only when I end up with 'only' 3k words that I start feeling upset and push through to hit minimum 4k. I'm feeling good for now and don't mind writing that much, but I really don't want to wake up one day and boom—burnout. A Ko-fi member and some folks in my inbox have kindly reminded me to take breaks and take my time, so I think I'll slow down a bit. Like, maybe aim for 3k words?

I've been writing for years, (started on Wattpad in French, and yeah, it was… something) so no worries about the game going on hiatus or anything. I love writing, especially interactive stuff—so basically IFs, haha. Just wanted to keep you in the loop!

Anyway, this ended up way longer than I intended. Stay safe, don't forget to eat your greens, stay hydrated, and all that! <3

[heli0s-writes]

intricate rituals*

a/n: You know how kids pick on each other but it's actually because they like each other? It's like that. 4.7k words. I don't know why this one was so long. I wrote this as a companion piece to slow hands. warnings: fantasizing & masturbation, language, the usual helios sprinkle of angst because Steve. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Judgmental red numbers gleamed from the alarm clock on your beside table. 2:50, it leered like a schoolyard bully, and you could only groan in reply, shoving your pillow over your face and muttering into it a string of unintelligible curse words.

The day stretched too long after you were hit—socked—square in the left orbital. Your skull ached and thrummed, congregating pain at the welt along your brow bone, and beneath all of it, your brain was at once empty and full of insistence.

And although you’d have to be vertical again in about three hours, your nerves were still uneasy, still roiling beneath your skin because adrenaline could be a bitch and a half like that.

You were floating aimlessly in limbo, trying to force-sink into the distance of sleep. Thoughts skated behind the back of your eyes and around your ears, restless fingers twitching beneath blankets. Each time you slipped off, the rug was pulled out beneath your feet and your body jerked awake, leaving your heart racing. Self-sabotage.

You were too tired to attempt a jog, not trusting your sore muscles to maneuver the compound’s wooded perimeter. The best option was the easy route: quick, simple, and only a little offensive. After all, imagination after a certain hour of the night was a dangerous thing but flirting with danger in private was worth it once you could rest after.

Besides, asking Tony for any strange white pill to put you to sleep was perilous at best and fatal at worst, and asking to be gently placed in a sleeper hold by a friend was a one-way ticket to seeing the on-call psychiatrist.

And, anyway, they’d think you were a masochist.

And, well, maybe you were. But that’s not their business.

Maybe you’d like it to be though. Maybe you’d like to see the flutter of interest, the reciprocity, admittance that they were also a little masochistic because who in this line of work isn’t?

Volunteering to get pummeled day in and day out must be diagnosable in the DSM-5 manual. Yeah. At least a few of your teammates are masochistic. You’d bet good money on it.

Bucky, for one. And—oh—wouldn’t his cheekbones look so good bright red? You could cut your palms on those.

Here was the danger with imagination past a certain hour of the night:

Co-ed dormitory style living with a gorgeous cast of characters—all deranged in their own right—but still gorgeous. Lovable despite their many, many flaws. Egregious, maddening flaws.

Some were shared, inhabited by every member like they decided to build homes inside of their neuroses. Martyrdom, obstinacy, the occasional withholding of all worldly pleasures when they thought they deserved deprival—when someone would fuck up unnoticeably on a mission and then self-flagellate inside their mind for days afterwards.

Bucky’s refusal to trust his own instincts sometimes; Tony’s incurable lust for sticking his foot in his mouth like he’s starving for the taste of dirt; Natasha’s quiet, catastrophic need to be useful whether it made her a teammate or an object.

Steve— the basket-case. A whole shitshow marathon of issues all crammed up in his bright blonde head, and it’d get so full it would rush out of him by way of seething rage, reflex reactions, his boot pressed against yours as he’d stare down. His hands curled into boulders, jaw working in slow, powerful movements as clenched and unclenched his teeth.

You couldn’t help but think of it now and again. Imagine him turning all that misplaced anger to good use.

One hand ventured to your thigh, the other crossing over your chest, rubbing up your bicep to your shoulder. There was a knot you couldn’t massage out, that Bucky couldn’t either despite his best efforts. His flesh hand first and then his other hand when he thought a temperature change would help. It whirred by your ear, the plates shifting like bee song.

You could hear yourself hum lightly at the memory. It felt nice—smooth, cool, heavy. The weight of his curled fist as he kneaded, the strength in his fingers he was always holding back, even more so as he worked over the delicate skin near your neck. You didn’t shudder then, but you began to.

He’d probably laugh if you did. Roll his eyes even though he’d be pleased about it.

And excuse you for being like everyone else in the world who’d ever seen Bucky Barnes and his arm in action.

You might just say, shut up, just touch me, and he would. Touch up your neck, thumb propped at the base of your skull, the rest of his fingers around your throat where he’d drum out the beat of an old 40’s song.

And then Steve began emerging from darkness along with a couch, cheek propped on his fist, watching lazily. It was indigo all around him. Just a lamp somewhere in the corner making the side of his pale face warm orange.

Guess three’s not a crowd in your book—

Shut up, Bucky.

His hand was still on your neck, but you’d gotten in his lap, thighs spread until your legs were on the outside of his. He’d lost his shirt and landed on the couch next to Steve, who asked, petulantly, I’m here to watch?

You weren’t sure. You didn’t expect your own half-awake mind trying to reason itself out of a sex fantasy. Not when Bucky was shirtless beneath you, slightly tanned skin displaying a scatter of freckles like the time he ventured to the tropics and came back with a grin lasting almost two weeks.  

But Steve was expecting an answer and the critical eyebrow high on his forehead repeated the question: I’m here to watch?

Apropos of nothing except being 85% shut down, you replied with, you hit me today, and fell forward into Bucky’s arms. It was sullen and Bucky snickered, pressing his nose into the dip between your collarbones, a kiss somewhere nearby.

I didn’t mean to, Steve said cooly, still unamused.

Oh yes he did. Bucky touched you again, the webbing between thumb and forefinger beneath your breast for a second before he tweaked a nipple. Your toes curled slightly, chest jolting upward, and Bucky confirmed, masochist.

Steve perched his elbows on knees, leaning forward. One hand reached out, stroked the tapering edge of your eyebrow down to your cheekbone. His face was sweet, pleased, mischief cutting across his features. He pressed his finger down just a fraction, made your bruise sore with it, and the sweetness in his face glinted sharply.

Okay, he said, what else do you want?

He pressed down again and a handful of Steve’s flashed past as you exhaled. All those glimpses of him in various phases of his life, light-speed. There were suspenders and pressed white shirts too large for him. There was short hair and ballcaps and aviators. The way his shoulders hunched as he made himself invisible in a crowd. Captain suits in bright blue, then dark blue, and finally the deep night of the stealth number, material of tough neoprene and dull and sturdy across his chest. His hair was long flipped out at the ends. His beard grew and then shortened in length.

You couldn’t decide what else.

He was standing and then he was sitting. He leaned back on one elbow, sprawled like a Greek statue on a chaise lounge.

He was behind Bucky, arms coming to rest on either side of his neck, hands hanging limply forward, palm up, as if coaxing you closer, pressing Bucky tight in the middle until he huffed with discomfort.

Guess three is a crowd in your book.

Bucky disappeared and Steve came forward until he was flush against you.

In my dress uniform, really?

He sat with his thighs spread, contemplating your choice of Steve. His hair was slicked back, the high collar of his dress shirt starched and cupping his sharp, gorgeous jaw.

He was a garbled assemblage of an old photo in olive-green military wear. His blue eyes sparkled with attentiveness. He looked down his chest at the ribbons you were sure were incorrect, but they approximated something official. The jacket was starched and crisp, slacks well-pressed and fitted nicely.  

You liked the idea of him young, hopeful, and—smiling.

He placed his hands on your biceps before moving to your waist, stretching his fingers as far as he could to snare you. The fabric of your white button-up crinkled between your body and his. Three top buttons were undone, your breasts spilling out.

Steve’s hair was a mess, like it’d been yanked at fiercely. His mouth was wet and red and he was pawing at your back, rolling his hips upward until your groins met. His voice was rumbling and stuttery, brows together and cheeks rosy.

He stopped moving, only looking up at you with enormous eyes like a dog waiting for a command— which he’d never, ever looked like before. Panting as he caught his breath, he took a labored gasp, pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and asked.

Ma’am?

Oh. God help you.

There he was in all his glory, one foot into martyrdom and the other still in boyhood. Before everything crashed and burned and he was still clumsy with it. Just a bright, beaming thing pleading for  you to notice his light.

He began to fumble, hardly used to his body and so different than how you’ve seen him hurl himself through the air head-fucking-first because he was always ready to die on some hill or another.

He was shy, worrying his gorgeous mouth into a small line as he looked and looked. Over your face, down your neck, your chest, the mismatched set of underclothes you were still dressed in—and he stared at it entranced as if you were some kind of centerfold.

Like he ever would—but your brain was an electrified lump of meat, so dream-Steve could forgive it for irrationality.

But you were still sane enough to feel guilty about it because he was 24, and in a flash of genius engineering, he’d be weary beyond all his days.

Which hurt, which was stupid, which was really killing your whole endeavor.

You couldn’t do it with the thought of him careening into war at 20-something and couldn’t even worse with the thought of him, terrified and alone, the same giant, blue eyes searching the modern world for a sliver of recognition only 7 years later.

So your fingers halted between your legs, letting his nervous, boyish face shimmer away into the back of your mind.

Your eyes opened back up. The clock taunted 3:15, sizzling fuchsia.

You closed your eyes again.

The numbers shifted, rearranged until they were two curved lines and Steve’s mouth was there, hovering over yours, and he’d grown up some—you could see it in the pallid sheen of his skin, the creases in his face that were less from age and more from suffering. He waited, saying nothing.

There was supposed to be a lot you could do here. All manners of debauched acts to imagine— involving rope and whip and raking your nails down his back until your name burned in his throat, his considerable figure reduced to a tremble as he ached for you.

But you couldn’t, because suddenly the agony of not being able to sleep pivoted into a strange, new turn of events. From wanting to touch yourself to wanting nothing more than jumping into a lake to erase the turmoil his big, blue eyes roused in you, you struggled on a little longer, peeking around his haloed head of blonde, faint light behind him like a corona.

No? He drew one eyebrow up toward his hairline, his full pink lips quirking into a smirk. Not doing it for you? Why’s that?

You put a hand over his mouth, but dream logic was in no mood to be silenced, and Steve’s voice crept up in your ears anyway. No matter how much you wanted to shut him down, to push him away, he remained.

The truth, soldier. He tipped his head and looked at you past long, dark lashes. Give it to me straight.

-

“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice was gravelly.

You rubbed your eyes, wincing. 4 A.M. approached while you were still caught in a loop in bed—drifting, then jerking awake, nauseated with each new scenario.

Finally, it had been enough. You couldn’t force a thing that wouldn’t arrive, and so you trudged to the training room with your water bottle and forgot shoes along the way.

“Just need to get my mind off things,” you replied, and swatted weakly at a punching bag.

Steve was still wrapping his knuckles because he would always have more foresight than you do and watched you from the corner of his eye. You tapped at the leather, jabbing one-two, one-two, until it began to sway marginally wider, the link chain holding the bag rattling like windchimes.

You wished he wasn’t in the gym. You could feel him in the corner of your mind, a presence that sensed you as much as you sensed it, that weighed heavily, waiting.

“You’ll split them open.”

You jumped in surprise and then it only took a few steps before he was in front of you, hand outstretched with the wrap.

“I’m fine,” you protested, but his mouth was a thin straight line that didn’t need to emit any words. He’d just nag until you gave up. Then he’d throw you onto the wrestling mat and call it a lesson.

Maybe you were cranky.

“I can do it myself,” you attempted, but he ignored it steadfastly, focused on pulling your fingers apart.

“Sure, you could.”

You shifted your weight, “You think I’d fuck it up or something.”

“I think you’d do it clumsy. Think it’d be a rush job.”

He secured the loop onto your thumb before tugging it over the back of your wrist. You watched his fingers, wrapped up skillfully, as they turned and twisted around yours. For all his calluses, he was handling you delicately, and it was all too strange.

Sweat beaded along his brow, his pink cheeks from an earlier warm-up were settling the longer he stood still. He wasn’t making eye contact even as you ducked to find his gaze. It felt like part of an apology.

Nothing passed but his breath and yours, both awkwardly out of their regular tempo. You knew why you were being so weird, but couldn’t guess a damn what reason he would have.

Suddenly, he said, “If I pulled my punches in practice, it would skew your perception in the field.”

You deliberated this information, and the way he offered it up. Like he was bringing you a precious relic you’d be grateful to receive. What an honor. The stinging aftermath of his bones against your bones.

“So this,” you tilted your face forward, showing him where his forearm landed this morning and the pulp of your skin that ice, for fifteen minutes after, did nothing for, “This is a favor?”

He frowned, something complicated skittering across his face.

After a minute, which was quite a long time for Steve to meditate when you were obviously baiting him, he said, “It’s a warning. Enemies won’t go easy on you. I can’t either, even if I wanted to. It’s my job to make sure you’re prepared for whatever is coming next. It’s my job to bring you back home.”

“That’s nice—"

He cut you off, firm. “That’s the truth.”

The truth.

You felt it with your entire chest as Steve stood there, attention fixed upon your hand, his own circling your wrist and palm and then between the sensitive webbing of your fingers with diligence.

A lock of hair fell over his forehead, obscured one eye, and when he looked up behind it in wait of your reply with that open, honest expression, you gulped.

The truth, he asked in your dream— that he seemed to be wanting now wordlessly. That you’d been punching down every morning and night because it was so simple, and excruciating.

The truth was, you were stupid for him. And just stupid, in general, because you could never tell him. Because he was Steven Grant Rogers, for fuck’s sake. He was stunning and tortured and you wanted to die sometimes, just looking at him because you didn’t know how else to express it.

Because there wasn’t a world where you could step up to Steve, stare down the magnum opus of his monumental hero’s journey and feel like you could be a contender for a single, sad crumb of his attention. 

And yet you could never quite help yourself.

The truth:

Sometimes you’d do it to get his hands on you—to motivate him, to have him spare a single glance your way. Screw up the training exercise just so he’d spend an extra hour beating the drill into you.

Because outside of your private quarters and battered-tired imagination, when would he ever?

Because short of begging him to touch you, when would he ever?

The baiting. The backtalk. Challenging him at every turn. You were a spiraling addict, grabbing any high within your reach.

Hell, you were just as deranged as the rest of them. DSM-5, eat your heart out.

He dropped your hands, finished, and brought his thumb up to your temple where the welt throbbed under his pulse. “There,” he said. Almost silent, almost like you imagined it.

Then between one heartbeat and the next, his lips parted, bottom one pulled in almost imperceptibly— and— fuck, you didn’t understand a damn thing.

You made a noise like a fish out of water and he rubbed the back of his broad neck, craning his sight to the high ceiling. When he turned back down, he was soft at his edges, the tired years on his face placated.

“I know what you’re doing. You don’t think I know?”

You were nearly sure you were still in bed, and the fantasy was turning on its head, coming up absurdist and you were ready, nowpleasegod, to wake up.

“Pickin’ fights in alleyways since I could throw a punch. Why’d you think so?”

You sputtered, because you’re a ham-fisted, sleep-deprived, single-minded moron, “Because you’re a glutton for punishment?”

Steve snorted. “Like you are?”

You could feel the burn of agony twist its way up your neck, the way fact exposes itself when there’s no other cowardly avenue to run down. He watched, his sea-glass eyes stormy and insistent, and the lights of the compound gym were like stage spotlights now, white, and localized.

You found interest in your feet, because you were still missing shoes, and Steve followed the path and saw your toes curled up tight like hiding themselves.

“Jesus,” he huffed with dismay.

“I was tired. Am. Still tired.”

 “Go back to sleep.”

“I tried. Why do you think I’m here? Have you ever seen me here?” You swept your arm out toward the abundance of equipment that have not yet been acquainted with even your shadow.

“Now that you mention it,” he replied.

“Not once—my god, Rogers, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Hey,” he said, because you were doing that horrible, compulsive, nervous-tic conflict thing again, and this time he put his hand on your shoulder and it was warm.

Your skin crooned his name.

“What. Are you doing.” Your throat was bone dry.

He stepped closer—not a dream, he was real, he was there, he was breathing your hair and touching your shoulder—and he dipped his head down, in wait.

“Oh,” your mouth decided sentences were beyond its means. “O-oh.”

“That a yes? Or no.” He moved to step away, his serious expression fluttering into embarrassment, and then guilt, and then you were doing an aerobatic move between a hop and a hurdle to reach for his face.

Teeth clicked, and you winced. He didn’t seem to mind, only stabilizing you with one hand on your neck and the other at your hip. His lips were full, hot, like there was a pulse in his mouth that was trying to overcome yours. He towered, not just in height, but—you couldn’t describe it. Your head was swirling, dizzy.

“You haven’t had any water today,” he murmured—and what kind of psycho would say that during a kiss.

“Do you mind?” you grabbed at his hair, “I’m trying to—” You kissed him some more, your brain a fluttering, ecstatic mess. You shivered when he licked your tongue, fisted his collar when he made a huff—a moan—and then he was gone, a faint hiss between his teeth and his eyes burning darkly.

You wanted to fall down to the gym floor, take him tumbling with you, hands impatient and wild as you felt for each other. Up t-shirts and down waistbands, tongues sloppy and missing each other, leaving lines of spit along chins and necks.

It felt silly—stupid, reckless, fantastic—but it was damn good. Like two kids figuring out their bodies for the first time. So natural and luxurious that you could literally fall forward into him, let him do everything. Strip you naked in the damn gym, fold you in half atop some mats, over a bench, leave marks down your spine and up your throat. Curl himself so deep you could feel him in your mind for days after—you wanted it all.

He was laughing a little bit, the creases of his eyes lit with joy as he weaved left and right, getting all the right angles to mouth at you with. He pawed and squeezed and sighed as he touched you, feeling every inch. He was excited, and it kind of killed you to know—made your belly swelter and clench with pride.

You rolled your hips lazily into his, and he backed up until he found a bench to sit down on, pulling you by the hand, the wrap yanking open and unspooling onto the floor.

“This okay?” He asked.

You made a low, pained sound.

“Hey,” he said, and you blinked at how concerned he was. He steadied your shoulders, his long fingers comforting and heavy. “You okay?”

You yawned, and when you looked at him again, he was confused. And he was standing.

You couldn’t keep up. You looked down dumbly at your empty hands. He was just there.

Oh, gods.

Steve was standing—at the punching bag, not sitting on a bench with you between his thighs. And the wrap that had unspooled from your left hand was limply hanging from your right, the necessary supplies in a bag next to your foot.

You went ice cold.

You wobbled and caught yourself, because you were standing in the middle of the gym idly, realizing that you’d spent the last 10 minutes losing yourself in a fever dream about Steve.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, recoiling when he side-stepped from his position to head toward you. Your knees trembled, the place between your thighs warm and clenching madly on nothing.

“You don’t look okay.”

“You’re… worried about me?”

Steve narrowed his eyes and said “yes”, like you were stupid. But then he breathed soft, and looked so much like that fantasy you’d conjured up a few seconds ago, that you turned and made ready to bolt.

He caught your wrist.

“I need to—” he began firmly. “You need to listen--”

But you didn’t. You licked your lips because he was so close and you were insane with want for him, and he stopped dead in his tracks for a split second, eyes tracking your mouth and the short, puffs of air that your chest was pushing out without you meaning it to. Just quick huffs as you bit down on your lip to make yourself quiet and small and unseen.

Steve swallowed. He said something almost silent and it sounded like sorry before he leaned forward and caught your mouth with his.

He sighed into it. Breathed into it. He placed one hand on the small of your back and pressed your entire body to him, and you moaned like he tore it out of you.

And this time, it was real. The two of you scrambled for each other, heaving and loud.

He took you to the floor, only took another few impatient, hotheaded licks of his tongue and then he was inside of your shirt, his mouth sucking round, wet brands up between your breasts.

You bucked up to get closer, and he sank down, licking and sucking and all ten of his fingers dug into your hips and waist.

“Shit,” he said.

“Uggnnn,” you replied eloquently before your better judgement pivoted and decided to swipe at reason. “What’s—“

“You make me fucking crazy.” Steve rushed out.

“Fair,” you gasped when he began rolling his hips against yours. “Feeling’s mutual—oh, what are you doing--”

He only answered with more of it, and harder, up and down, his forehead pressed to yours—his entire body, really, pressed like he wanted to swallow you whole.

It went on for eternity, it felt like, the two of you messy and starved, every second of contact a half-fight, half-resignation. Between the rushing blood in your head and the high-pitched ringing of excitement, there was a relief, like your skin was singing finally, oh god, finally.

Steve, above you, was smiling—was happy—almost as if he felt the same.

-

“Next time just say something,” you said, when you could finally breathe again.

“Like what?” He wiped his forehead. You did that to him.

You sputtered, the taste of his tongue still in your mouth, “Like—just don’t hit me so hard. And don’t say you have to.”

He opted to say nothing instead, only rolling his eyes, and you found the perfect opportunity to continue pestering. “Do you ever pull your punches? Could you maybe try?”

He only grinned with that wet, red mouth, and his eyes flicked down to you like a challenge. “I hold myself back more often than you think.”

“Name one time you held back from anything.”

His lips pressed together, a smile squirting out of the corners as he looked at his bare feet, toes flexed against the mat. His lashes were fluttering as he pondered, looking so shy and mischievous all at once.

“Just now.”

“Now?”

Beneath your collarbone, the bruise Steve sucked into your skin stung with embarrassment. The sound you made when he did it should be burned out from all memory. You had to beg him to stop, you could have cried.

“I had it all wrong. I thought you might have liked getting bossed around in bed, but you’re a sadist, Rogers.”

“No, no. You can boss me around.” He paused, “Maybe. You can try, go ahead.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, try.” And if you were to look up the definition of shit-eating, annoying, and contrary-bastard-even-more-so-than-yourself, you’d find his smug as sin picture.

“I need to go to sleep— team captain, my ass. Don’t you care about my well-being, Rogers? What even is your refractory period?”

“Don’t have one.”

Your brain was a watery 7-11 slushie, and instead of saying anything comprehensible back, you only babbled.

Just then, the gym doors slid open and both of you were on your feet like someone had been shooting them.

Natasha looked you up and down. From the crumpled bedclothes to the unruly hair and then to your mouth, which was slightly open and catching your breath. She narrowed her eyes, glanced over to where Steve stood leaned on the wall, shuffling his feet in an attempt to sort out his sweatpants.

She made to remark something else but then Bucky sidled up wearing nothing but basketball shorts and grey socks.

“It’s ass o’clock,” he complained loudly. “Why are any of you awake. Never mind, Steve you’re a degenerate. You wake up at 4. I was having a great dream, then Nat drags me up, then you’re already here? You fucking animals.”

“Hm, a dream?” Nat drawled, “Anyone I know?”

She flicked his chin already knowing entirely too fucking much.

“Can’t remember the details,” Bucky turned to you offhandedly before recognition lit in his eyes. “Oh,” he chirped, leering. “I remember now.” He wolf whistled, muttered, “Hello nurse,” and rubbed his palms together like he was warming them up.

You backed up, covering as much of your body as possible with two hands, and bumped your ass into Steve, dick-first, who cleared his throat loudly.

Nat only cackled.