#hurryhurryhurry

[lookforanewangle]

got tagged by @curiosity-killed !!

Gimme a line from your latest WIP or project that involves hands. (Search-find hand, hands, fingers, fingerpad, nails, wrist, palm, thumb, heel, lifelines etc)

“Stay right here, Chris,” he says, and he and Bailey jump up onto the cab, extending hand and maw to get people to safety. Bailey has someone’s shirt clamped in her jaws, scrabbling for purchase against the metal; Buck reaches for them, helps pull them up the rest of the way and turns to the next, hurryhurryhurry just hang on—

tagging: @boasamishipper @coureirsix @doodledrawreblogs @forasecondtherewedwon @qin-ling @inell and anyone else who wants to play!!

[writinginthesecrettrees]

So yeah.

Dean finds the porn Sam did to make ends meet in Stanford, and he doesn't say anything. But suddenly Centerfold is playing non-stop ("Driver picks the music, bitch.") and belting out "My blood runs cold, my memory has just been sold, my angel is the centerfold" and it doesn't take a pre-law genius long to figure out what's eating at him.

And maybe they never really broke up but that last time (furtive, angry, desperate, hurryhurryhurry before the bus pulls up) had been a goodbye and they both know that Dean's flings and Sam's almost-fiancee in those years weren't cheating. But this... getting money for getting fucked on film feels like a betrayal. If Sam would rather do porn than call Dean for help... Maybe the betrayal was his. He could have gone with Sam, could have kept him safe, could have gotten a job or hustled pool or, hell, he could have done the porn so Sammy could focus on school and stay his only. If Sam was doing porn, Dean had failed him. As a brother, as a lover--

Sam's voiice cuts through his thoughts. "I pretended they were you. I just... I was so empty without you."

And he wants to say he was too but instead he says "looked stuffed full to me," under his breath, half-hoping Sam won't hear and he doesn't look. Can't bear to see the kicked puppy hurt in Sam's eyes that he doesn't deserve because it was Dean's failing. Dean's fault.

And that's why he deserves the "Bet it took you all of an hour to fall into some bar slut's bed" Sam throws at him and the only time he's ever heard that venomous tone was aimed at Dad. Dean takes a breath, tries to pull his thoughts into some semblance of an argument and maybe if they get it all out, bleed out the poison, they can be them again, but Sam sighs before Dean can respond. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean says, because he still wants that fight but if Sam's gonna be all mature. He glances over to see Sam with some wry smile and a bottomless sadness etched on his face, quickly hidden when he notices Dean looking.

"Yeah, whatever," Sam says and maybe it's his imagination, maybe wishful thinking, but Dean could swear there's longing there, some note that reminds him of years gone by. Back when they still tried to be just brothers.

And it's the way Sam chuckles as he calls Dean "Jerk" that has Dean changing the music, and he's not belting it out but he still sings along with "buckle up baby, it's a bumpy ride, we're two kids hitching down the road of life" and the ache in his heart eases just a little when Sam's hand slides over to brush against his leg.

[great-shot-terrible-gambler]

Did that really just happen? Because it felt too dreamy, even when it shouldn't have. Cayde was still injured and--did that really just happen?

"Er--right! Right..." He kneels down and helps Cayde stay sitting up, allowing him to lean heavily against him.

Tikaani stared at Andal, taking in the amount of lovestruck shock he was in, before she turned to Sundance.

"Oh, yeah--you just missed the scene of the century. Hurry up and fix Cayde! HurryHurryHurry!" She fluttered around the other Ghost in a happy bobbing pattern.

Cayde's chest feels tight at Andal's confession. "Your Ace?" He huffs out, trying to not let his emotions get the better of him.

Cayde shifts one hand away from Andal's shoulder, to cup his cheek. "My King..." He breathes out, closing the distance between the two of them as their lips meet. Cayde's kissed a lot of people in his lifetime but this feels different, feels real. It was short, sweet and just the right amount to try and articulate more than the words could ever say between themselves.

"Talk later...head's spinning and I dunno if it's from the kiss or not..." Sundance is able to find her way back to Cayde and Andal, materializing before them. "I GOT THE JAMMER--oh...Did I miss something here?" She gestures with her shell to the proximity of the two Hunters. "Yeah...mind patching me up? I think me and the ground might get real acquainted soon..." Cayde laughs a little lightheaded.

[im-really-confused121]

I like to write my palm cards with annotations such as

Literally breathe

S l o w D o w n

For gods sake flip the palm card over

Hurryhurryhurry

[comicframeswithoutcontext]

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[eaglehorn]

This actually the basis for my theory of why in the US South everything moves slowly, and in the US North it’s always hurryhurryhurry.

You move quickly in the South, you DIE. You move slowly in the North (without proper gear), you DIE.

I don't know if this is common knowledge - or common sense - but just in case someone doesn't know this and needs to know this: Walking speed affects comfort temperatures in clothing! I'm a fast walker who hates thick bulky winter clothes, so my survival tactic for cold weather is breezing through it as fast as possible. The exercise keeps me warm, and if I start feeling chilly, I simply walk faster. At roughly around -30 celsius I am invisible to the naked eye.

My partner, however, is simply built different. Got every recessive Neanderthal gene in his entire family bloodline, and he collects camping gear. He's got winter clothes that he looks forward to trying out in -25, insanely freezing temperatures do not come often enough for him. He doesn't need a survival tactic for cold weather walks, he's the human version of those sled dogs that take face down naps in a pile of snow and refuse to come back inside. His comfortable preferred walking speed is also about 50% of mine.

It was about -18 celsius today when we decided to get groceries on foot. We both got dressed in what we respectively consider a reasonable amount of clothing for a 3 km walk in this weather. Neither of us was incorrect, there was only the slight problem of not considering the walking speed mismatch.

We took turns in almost dying, alternating between my inability to keep warm and his inability to keep up.

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[rawmmanews]

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[gulottaart]

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[petricakegames]

Devlog #3: Haesel Hotel

You know what's really fun and definitely a *crucial* part of the creative process? Designing fake logos for your fake world:

"What an odd concept that was to you at first--that some people live at the Haesel. A hotel isn't a home, you had thought then, it's a place you go to get away from home. But the more time you spend here, the more you understand never wanting to leave."

On the plus side, a bunch of actual work has gotten done on the game, too! I'm still slowly figuring out a lot of back-end and UI stuff but I'm pleased with how it's coming along. The entire prologue sequence is written and mostly scripted. The first third of one of the branching paths is written. And I've got squishy plot shapes for the others--plot gummy worms, if you will.

Word count: 5,000 approx

I've been working a lot on improving my descriptions and setting the vibe. There's still a lot of room for improvement, but it's been fun to recognize the moments in my writing that I can make better. In the past, I've rushed to the finish line--hurryhurryhurry get it done get it posted get on to the next thing. It was not a process that brought me much satisfaction or happiness. With this, I'm taking my time. I'm mulling and pruning and making it better. (I hope, anyway) Though I'm looking forward to the finished game and sharing it, I'm not racing to try and get there. Damn, it's such a relief 😂

Suspect #2: Tiffani Delareux (formerly Brightman), the ex-wife

"Mrs. Brightman--you mean Ms. Delareux--is a newer addition to the regular faces at the Haesel. Former wife of Jason, the deceased, she has been a long-term guest of the hotel for the last few months as her condo undergoes renovations.

Supposedly.

Host of the local morning show Rise Happy, Y'all!, frequent star in tv commercials and a featured extra on an episode of Murder She Wrote, Ms. Delareux brings the allure of celebrity to your hotel. Though several of the staff believe the allure has more to do with her ex-husband and their less than secret affair. You're the only one who seems to have heard anything about their new business partnership..."

Up next: the Detective, more writing and more scripting!

[withoneheadlight]

ok i saw this cap of zoë kravitz in hf and she's got such a dreamy expression, she looks so deeply self-absorbed and infatuated by whatever she's imagining and those lines. and i couldn't stop picturing billy exactly like that for days so,

,

There’s a pretty unusual sound coming off the house when Max comes back home, that summer afternoon.

Full volume. Walls shaking. And she quietly walks to the source of the sound, holding back her breath right in front of Billy's room because, there's this second sound? Stranger and way more unsettling and Max's not sure-sure at first but then Steve Perry’s voice takes off and Billy’s follows it and then he's like, singing along and. Well. Max did know Billy liked Journey but not like, their 'stuff for pussies' but uhm, he does, apparently. Rasps his voice all the way through ‘Faithfully’. Kind of, sighs. Longingly? When it ends? But pfff, ok, big brothers are weird. Definitely weirder after being possessed and then kind of resurrected. Even if it's in a good-weird way but, whatever. So Max's just about to sneak to her room, dutifully rolling her eyes, steps muffled by the first chords of 'Edge of the blade' when―

Click. Click. Billy stops the tape. Click. Takes it out. Tap. Tap. Click. Puts on― Billy puts. On,

Heaven.

Bryan Adams’ Heaven.

And Max―

Being a younger sister is a meticulous kind of full-time, private detective job. You gotta learn how the person you’ve been watching so carefully for years and years works. Hafta develop some sort of―sense about your target. And Billy’s been—un-Billy-like? These past two months. Smiling more. Telling more jokes. Playing ‘You shook me all night long’ in a loop on their drive to school and back, not complaining at all but even joining when’s Max who can’t help but sing along so.

So. She retraces her steps. Knocks. Takes the distracted grunt she gets as a ‘Yeahyeah, c’mon in c’mon in’ and,

Creak. Creak. ‘―baby you’re all that I want’

“Billy?”

Billy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Radio close to his knees. Cassettes scattered everywhere. Piles and piles of breakwater surrounding Billy’s old, rusty beacon of sound. He’s reading through the song-list of one of the tapes, a smoke locked on the corner of his mouth, bouncing up and down with every little, absent suck he takes, and he looks. He looks―

Self-absorbed and even. Relaxed. Happy. Like whatever he’s thinking about right now is actually carrying his thoughts away to fucking heaven.

“Ehh”

“Uh-hu?”

‘When you’re lying here in my arms!’

“Billy are you. What―” ‘I'm findin' it hard to believe. We're in heaven’ “What are you doing?”

But there’s this orbit around the sun and then there’s whatever one Billy's been spinning along with the last couple of months so he completely ignores her question. Shakes the tape on his left hand. Picks another one from the pile on his right. Asks her.

“Is Billy Ocean too much? ‘Cause I think it’s too much. But it kind of fits into what I'm trying to say so” he says, shrugs, looking up at Max and waiting for the answer of what she realizes was not really a question. Not at all. So she does her little sister job and just, nods “Right. That’s good. I think it’ll slide just nicely into Bruce Springsteen and―”

“Billy” Max insists, waiting for the charm of the third time to work. It doesn’t. Not really. But keeps Billy's eyes on her long enough to squeeze an “A mixtape?” And, uh. That’s what gets it on. The charm “Are you making a mixtape?”

“Uh?”

And it’s like Max just shook Billy out of a daydream. Ash plopping down from his cigarette as his lips try but can’t purse and Max― she’s good. She’s stellar at this detective thing. Recognizes an opening the moment she sees it, right there in front of her, frozen in the middle of shaking Billy Ocean and Bruce Springsteen in the air right before cocktailing them together. Shaken, not stirred, please. Max’s upgraded to James Bond-level just right now.

“You’re making a mixtape for someone”

“Oh-nonoMaxi―”

“But you didn’t have those tapes before. Not even in your secret stash”

“How do yo―?”

“Holy. ShIT. You’ve been listening to somebody else’s music” This is. Oh, God. This. Is. GOLD. Max gotta take a moment. Blink. Breathe. Process. Her hands move by themselves, palms spread toward Billy in a wait-a-minute kind of gesture except. Max’s gonna need way more than a minute for this “You’ve accepted a music recommendation”

“Maaaaax”

“Gosh, you’ve even listened to the tapes enough to. Make―”

“Max!”

“I just can’t believe it”

And Max was glad. Well. As glad as one can be. Bunch weeks ago. Her mom and Neil out for the day. Coming back home a little earlier than she usually does to hear those ugh. Those other noises. Happy screams. Again. After months and months of Billy being basically alone except for her and the party and Steve. And Max’s so glad, of course she is. But she’s also a little sister. And all this investigation work has a high, rightful purpose.

Make her big brother’s life a living. Hell.

“Oh my god, you must be so gone!” Max brings her hands to her mouth. Takes a deep, deep breath that’s more a poorly restrained giggle. Shoots her index at him “Is it Bon Jovi? What I’m seeing right there? Goddam, Billy are you in lo―”

Bam.

Bam. Bam!

The front door.

What a way to spoil the fun. Max doesn’t have time for this. She’s working.

“BILLY?” comes a voice from the other side “Billy are you in there?”

Steve.

Oh.

What a way to make the fun a hundred times better.

Bam.Bam.Bam!

She’s starting to move to get to the door, sinsonging “Well, I guess Steve’s gonna find out you’re so stupid in love you’re willingly listening to―” when she realizes Billy’s eyes have widened and he’s jerkingly trying to unfreeze, he’s mumbling something in around his already extinguished cigarette in the ways of “Can’t” and “Find out” and “Surprise” and “Fucking help me!” While literally trying to shove the huge mass of tapes under his bed, his tone like hurryhurryhurry!, like he would start gagging and throwing his lungs out at any given minute, so nervous he looks.

So Max doesn’t go for the door. Yet. She basks in the enjoyment.

“Oh, is it a secret romance or something?” She sighs happily, leaning against the doorframe instead. “‘Cause you look pretty worried”

Steve’s banging the door now, voice wavering a little as he asks-shouts “Billy? Billy answer me! Hey, bab―Are you ok?”

“Max, please” Billy begs. Begs. Crawling over to where a Madonna’s Like a virgin is laying with the tape looping slightly out “He really can’t find out”

“What? That you’re in lo-o-oh-oh-OH―”

Billy stops at the tone, right there on his knees. Spits his forgotten cig to the side. And in the instant it seems to take him to make up his mind they both can hear Steve shout “Ok. I know you’re in there!. I’m coming in now!!”

“Fuck! Yeah. I am. Ok?” he looks like he just realized he’s tripped. Blushes. “Making it, I mean”

BAM!

And Ohhhhhhh.

Zero-fucking-zero-fucking-seven.

“Steve,” Max gasps. Because. Hear it makes it like. Easier. To process “You. And Steve”

B A M!

“Yeah, Max, Yeah. And this is a fucking surprise and he’s gonna―”

‘I've been waitin' for so long. For somethin' to arrive. For love to come along’

Ok. Oh. Okok.

“Door!” Max hastens him.

“What?”

“You. Door. Run!” She commands, and Billy― sometimes Max can’t honestly understand how he's got the grades he's got, because Billy blinks, looks clueless “C’mon slow ass. Hurry! I’ll hide all this shit”

And Billy finally gets it. Nods. Slow. Then fast. Stumbles up. Literally runs, to get to the door.

Max still gets to hear his labored “Fuck, pretty boy. “That was really hardcore of you. That's how bad you wanted to see me?” And Steve's own breathless “Really?” Before pushing Billy's room door close with her back, and kneeling on the floor to check for stray, incriminating cassettes.

Pretty boy. Maybe Max isn't as clever as she thought she is. Or hasn’t been doing her job right, clearly.

It's when she’s making ‘It’s a kind of magic’ disappear into the rest of the pile that she lays eyes on it. The case. The J-card written almost all the way down to the B-side already. A mixture of songs Billy's heard so many times there are parts where his tapes screech, and others she'd bet her life he wouldn’t have deigned to listen to. Not ever. Definitely not because―no, for, somebody. Bowie and Cher and Cindy Lauper and Bob Seger right next to Metallica and Guns n' Roses and Meatloaf and― there. There. Almost hidden in the back of the spine. A note. A tiny, thin-lettered thing Max really, really shouldn't be reading but―

‘Thanks for driving me back.

Love. Billy’

But. That's what little sisters do too, she guesses. Intrude. Annoy. Snoop. Feel this sudden rush of relief. Of happiness. When Billy laughs softly, on the other side of the door. When Steve laughs back. Maybe a tear. Or two. But just maybe. She’s really good at this little sister thing, after all.

Hopes for stellar.

,

or: that post s3 where steve lets a camaro-less billy drive him around in his own car "really? again, hargrove?" almost every single day, for months, after he comes back, because "you’re gonna perpetually stick yourself to my ass at least let me do the one thing that frikin’ calms me down" which results in steve resigning himself to deejaying in the shotgun even if "jesus, what's that shit, harrington?" "my car, my rules, sweetheart" which results in billy developing a ‘songs steve harrington is in love with’ mental playlist, realizing he’s probably a little bit in love with the way he loves them and, possibly, a little much love with steve and then stealing steve's tapes one day and,

making a mixtape about it.

(the first of a whole lot, of love letters)