#barely scraping by with a little money from the at most 10 hours i work a week (not that i could even work much more than that anyway...)

[quirkypossum]

okay fuck that i need to rant

i try so hard to fight with myself about feeling okay, but like the sicker i get, the worse i feel and the more awful a person i am. like yeah being sick doesnt make me unlovable, but the shit ass attitude it gives me sure does. no one wants to be around someone who is miserable and sick thats just how it goes. you dont seek out someone whos going to snap at you because theyve been overstimulated for 6 months, or someone who cant do everything that everyone else is doing at their age. like no one wants a friend or partner who is incurable and perpetually in the worst mood imaginable

[mayakern]

hello!! if you don't mind me asking, what was your professional art journey like? (esp the earlier years) was MonsterPop! your first big project online? were you still taking client work when you opened up your shop? you're a very inspiring artist and I hope to be in a similar position as you one day! thank you so much for your time!

oh boy this is a doozy! and also a lot of this involves devin bc our success is completely intertwined

i went to art school (MCAD) from 2009-2013. i majored in comic art but had a secondary unofficial focus in illustration, specifically product design, and i interned at paper bicycle (the company of my product design teacher) my senior year, the same year they opened up light grey art lab. i mailed out a LOT of tarot decks. they didn't have a label printer so this took forever.

during that time i took some freelance illustration and comic gigs and also created some comics that got an amount of traction online (mostly on tumblr but i also got an io9 article written about me iirc). i also started making monsterpop (in 2012 i think?).

in 2012 i ran my first kickstarter to crowdfund an anthology of some of my short comics (how to be a mermaid, the little robot girl, fairyfail) and got my first taste of proper self publishing. sadly this was before i created redden (which was my senior thesis comic) so it wasn't included. i didn't have label printer so mailing out the books (i think i sold around 200) took forever and i ended up throwing a pizza party with my friends and having them help me.

after graduating i moved to the LA area in search of work. it honestly sucked ass and most things didn't pan out but eventually (2014) i got a remote job contracting for gaiaonline and i moved right back to minnesota bc i absolutely hated LA.

i met devin (my wife) 20 days after moving back to minneapolis. in 2015 i ran a kickstarter to fund printing the first volume of monsterpop and people bought almost 400 books. it was insane. i was dying under the stress of trying to mail it all out those packages and didn't own a label printer yet. between having to hand write the addresses, being both dyslexic AND slow, and getting headaches from the fumes, i could send out a max of like 10 packages a day. once again i was planning to throw another pizza party to have my friends help me out, but devin swooped in and got 100 packages done in just a couple hours and when i tell you that no one has ever done anything sexier for me in my life, i truly mean it.

at the time devin and i were both broke living paycheck to paycheck. gaia didn't pay well and the patreon money i got helped, but wasn't that much. i took some freelance/commissions and got some store and convention sales, but i was making around 22-26k and was constantly overworked. devin was in significant credit card debt and was barely scraping by between managing a gas station and school. i started making my very first skirts and then at the end of 2015 my arm, the thing that made me what little money i did make, gave out.

i couldn't draw anymore. this could have literally ended my art career, but instead devin stepped up. they took a look at all the things i was already selling in my store and figured out a way to repackage/bundle the items together in a way that was fun and appealing. and people actually bought the bundles! at that point the vast majority of my sales were at conventions and i wasn't very good at selling online, but that was the beginning of a new era. devin started working with me part time to manage the online store and go with me to conventions and things started getting better. at some point during this saga we finally bought a goddamn label printer.

by 2017 devin started working with me full time. we also got married and moved across the country to upstate NY. in 2018 we got a CPA and became an SCORP and monsterpop became a finalist for the prism comics award, which scored me an invite as a guest at SDCC. i really wish i had enjoyed that experience, but unfortunately i was dealing with some Bad Medication Issues and was extremely sick the whole weekend. otherwise it was great tho and devin had enough fun for the both of us. this is also around when i officially stopped taking freelance work. prior to that i'd only been taking a couple jobs a year, but the store was finally making enough that i could stop.

in 2019 i made the difficult decision to end monsterpop. this came with a lot of heartache but it was the right thing to do. i am much better now for it. i think 2019 is also when we became an SCORP.

we hired our first employee (lindsy) in, i think 2021. it might have been the end of 2020. and in 2022 we hired our second employee (ariel), who had been modeling for us already for a couple years bc she is our very close friend and actually the reason we moved out to NY in the first place. in late 2022 we started working with ash, who now manages our product supply chain and also is patterning new garments for us.

there's probably a bunch of stuff i've missed but this is roughly it! neither devin nor i were able to succeed until we started working together. our strengths and weaknesses complimented each other well and somehow things just worked out.

and if you take away nothing else from this, please leave with this info: if you sell and ship any amount of product online buy a goddamn label printer

[riflebrass]

Today was my first actual gun class. My proficiency is pieced together from family, friends, and self taught stuff. I'd like to think I'm an above average shooter, but I've really wanted some professional training to learn better technique while unlearning bad habits I've picked up. It's going to be a long post so I'll hide it under the read more link but the tl;dr was that it was a great day.

Unfortunately most classes I've looked out are at least $500 and require at least a thousand rounds of ammo, neither of which I can afford. Fortunately I found an instructor recommended by some of the locals who train pretty regularly and his classes were a lot cheaper. It was just $150 for the class and the ammo I already had saved up. This class was just what I was looking for too. It was advanced enough that the instructor expected us to already know the fundamentals of gun safety and how to use our guns but we weren't doing a ton of running around or timed drills. We focused on drawing from the holster and getting shots on target, shooting from awkward positions, drawing and shooting one handed with our weak hand in case your dominant arm gets shot before you have a chance to draw. Stuff like that. He made sure to emphasize that this was meant to be slow fire to really get the techniques down.

The instructor also had a neat motorized target stand that uses two-sided targets. It starts off holding the target sideways. Then when it flips one way the target is a guy holding a gun. Facing the other way it's a guy using his phone to take pictures. It presents the target for a pre-determined time then flips back to sideways. So the idea is you have to determine quickly whether or not the guy you see is a threat then you need to get shots on target. For most of us the target was presented for 3 seconds before turning away. One of the more experienced students was given 1.5 second intervals. The instructor also threw everyone a curveball by flipping to the camera guy for half a second then immediately switching to the guy with the gun. I really liked that.

After we finished the pistol break he brought out a couple blocks of ballistics gel for us to test our carry ammo in. I already posted about it earlier. It was really cool. Then we transitioned to rifle work. Unfortunately today's class was a few hours shorter than he normally runs so the rifle stuff was really rushed. We spent most of the rifle course checking and adjusting zeroes. Afterwards we did some work at 100 yards, 50 yards, and 10 yards to work on our up-close holdovers. The instructor said next time he wants us to work out from 100-400 yards to practice our further holdovers. Since I barely touched my ammo it's just a matter of scraping together the money for the class.

Also the instructor was a really nice guy. All his pics on facebook have that tough guy/resting bitch face look but he was all smiles and a cheerful personality in person. Also really patient with me. There were a couple times I got a little too lax on safety and he had to remind me to stay aware. There were a few other things we were doing that I had difficulty understanding and he had to explain it a few times because I'm a little retarded. Anyway he was still really patient with me and supportive when I got it right. I really appreciated that.

So I hope I'll be able to do more classes with these guys. The rest of the attendees were all regulars with the group and all really nice guys.

[copias-thrall]

Cause I'm Young and I'm Here and So Beautiful

A look into the rise and fall of Mary Goore's flash-in-the-pan modeling career.

~12.5K Mary Goore/Reader *drug/alcohol use; mentions of past child abuse; brief homelessness; plot no porn; POV shift*

This fic was inspired by and is very loosely based on Aurelio Voltaire's early days in NYC in the 90s, though I have set it in Boston in the early aughts. 😊

Many thanks to the artists who did commissions for this! 🥰

One Way Streets

Mary stepped off the regional rail and gripped his backpack. He had $72.57 in cash rolled into his socks and a give-em-hell attitude.

When he’d packed his bag the night before, he wasn’t even sure if he’d go through with it, but he couldn’t stand being home anymore. Some of his friends had told him he was crazy.

"Three more months, dude. You got this. Just finish high school, then bounce."

But they didn’t have to live with his dad and the step-monster. Every day was a new indignity. Having them bitch about his music and his style was one thing—that he could have dealt with—but everything else had just kind of…escalated.

Now that the kiddies were older, they’d turned into gremlins. They’d somehow sensed that Mary wasn’t their beloved older brother—he was some sort of half other. They’d stopped questioning why "mom was so mean" to him and had accepted that she was because there was something wrong with Mary. They realized they could be little shits and blame everything on him.

And dad just didn’t care. He’d throw up his hands and say, "I have to live with her"—as if Mary wasn’t in the same boat.

Dad hadn’t stopped her when—in a rage—she’d smashed every single vinyl album Mary had owned because the twins ruined her nice tablecloth. He’d shrugged when she cut all Mary's guitar strings so he couldn’t play "the devil’s music." He’d held Mary back when she took a match and burned all his secret stuff that Mary kept under his bed—action figures, books, guitar mags, journals—in the backyard because he got detention for smoking. He hadn’t said a word when the police showed up after she came at Mary with scissors because he’d dyed his hair black and he’d pushed her away before she could scalp him.

Mary thought for sure he was going to get carted off to jail as she screamed about him terrorizing the family and being afraid he was going to kill her sons in their sleep, but the officers had just looked at her bored and told her being a teenager wasn’t a crime.

So, no: Mary couldn’t wait 3 more months.

He’d scraped together what money he had left from his secret shifts working as a busboy under the table at a local dive downtown, packed his backpack with the essentials, and walked the 5 miles to the train station instead of going to school.

Eighteen was 10 weeks away. He could fudge it for a few months, especially since he could already get away without using his fake ID to get into shows most of the time.

So, to the big city it was.

He shifted his weight and tried to pretend that he belonged here in Boston, but actually facing the busy streets was a lot different from looking at a bird’s-eye view map. He had a printout in his pocket, but he didn’t want to look like a doe-eyed tourist. So he set off down the seemingly labyrinthine streets in the direction he could have sworn was the correct one.

It wasn't.

When he came out a side alley into Faneuil Hall, he almost wondered if he'd gone through a fairy portal, since he was clear on the other side of town. Begrudgingly, he checked his creased map, and set out once more.

And ended up spit out by the State building.

Finding the hostel turned into a fraught adventure, and he got turned around several times more. When he tried to ask for directions, most people pushed past him while one lady shoved $5 at him. He used the cash to buy a hotdog, and it was the vendor who ultimately gave him directions in his thick, Southie accent.

Of course, making it to the hostel ended up being just part one. The rates were almost double what it stated online ("Sorry, honey—that site hasn’t been upgraded since the 90s."), and two nights were practically all his savings. Mary had thought he’d at least have a couple of days to find a job, not 36hrs.

He left the hostel, wondering for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t go back home…but he decided it was a nice day out. Surely there was some place he could hunker down. Just for the night.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the cops at every fucking turn telling him to move along. And any place out of line-of-sight seemed to already be inhabited.

He finally found a place behind some rocks in the Seaport where he didn’t think he’d be murdered in his sleep, curled around his backpack, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Mary woke up damp from the dew and the morning sun streaming into his eyes. The birds were creating an awful racket, but Mary guessed it was as good an alarm clock as any.

He ran his fingers through his bird's nest of hair, and he made his way back to the South Station. The men’s room may have smelled like a sewage treatment plant, but at least it was free. He had expected it to be mostly empty at the crack of dawn, but it was full of commuters making that last run to the head before they had to take the train 2hrs out of the city for work.

And it was a sight: a bunch of suits with their fancy lattes washing their hands, and Mary in the corner trying to surreptitiously wipe down with paper towels under his Misfits t-shirt and his shredded jeans. At school, he’d have probably gotten into several altercations by now—no one would have let him just turn into Mary Goore without a fight—but this was Boston, and no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just another college kid.

It emboldened Mary to go full-out in the kind of way he had only done when going out to the punk shows downtown at night: kohl all the way around his eyes, and some on his cheekbones; mascara because his lashes are long and thick, and he knows it (his dad had said it made him look hard, and Mary had sneered that maybe that was what he’d been going for. But maybe it had been because he’d liked the way it had made his green eyes pop.); a smear of the step-monster’s fanciest matte lipstick on his full lips; and airplane glue in his hair to give it that lift.

He made a kissy face at himself in the mirror, and headed back out.

It was a nice Spring day—almost boiling in the direct sun—and it tempted Mary to wear only his battle vest, but even he kind of figured applying to jobs half dressed was a mistake.

He walked all over the city, trying not to get lost, looking for any kind of work—dishwasher, busboy, barback—but all he had to show for it was blistered feet and a raging appetite. The only good part of the day was that he noted any restaurant or bakery that looked like it might toss perfectly good food at the end of the day.

He and his friends had become experts at dumpster diving in his podunk town, and he felt confident that he had a good feel for a jackpot. Mary staked out a bakery and was rewarded with a find of "old" bagels. He shoved as many as he could into the nooks and crannies of his backpack before slinking off to the Commons to inhale at least two of them.

Cold, stale dough never tasted so good.

He watched the tourists and the professionals walk by in ones and in groups while he ran his bare feet through the grass. Some laughed with each other as they sauntered down the path while others seemed singularly intent on their ultimate destination. A pack of dogs ran and played with each other as their owners looked on fondly, and nearby the baseball diamond hosted a casual game.

Mary counted his lucky stars that his first week in Boston was April at its kindest—always mild during the day, even when it turned cloudy, and a few times even downright warm. The nights turned chilly, though, and it had Mary in more layers than an onion. If the birds or damp didn't wake him, his butt cramps from being curled in a tight ball all night did.

He spent those days walking around the city proper looking for work. He wasn't adventurous enough to make the leap across the bridges to Cambridge just yet, but his travels gave him a good sense on how the different sections of Boston connected—and showed him potential places to crash at night. He didn't even mind living off day-old garbage food and drinking from bubblers (he'd bought a water for the express purpose of reusing the bottle), but the barren wasteland that seemed to be the job market was beginning to weigh on him.

At home, he could always find a shit job if he was willing to put up with shit hours and ridiculous requests. Here, though, Mary was just one of many desperate people willing to do desperate work.

And he didn’t look particularly trustworthy or reliable.

@dipendancesld

Hashtag WTF

I’m scrolling through Insta on the T, and I’m way down the rabbit hole of hashtags. New content was at a minimum this morning (how can I follow accounts in triple digits and only see the same 4 posts?!), so I’d started with some art tags and ended up where I usually end up—trolling social media for blurry pictures of my boy.

His band has been a local staple for years—or at least that’s what he told me on our first date. I had just moved from New York after a nasty breakup, ready to start fresh, and I’d seen him at a coffee shop hanging posters for his next show in his leather jacket, asymmetrical Metallica crop top, and stomping boots.

Fresh had never looked so good.

Then, a few months back, an online publication had featured his band in the year’s 50 best bands "you’ve never heard of," and now the band's starting to gain traction.

He’s starting to gain traction.

Finding the new online content of him first has become a game the two of us play. We had to stop counting images posted from the popular fan accounts because Mary's now acquaintances with most of them, and I said it was hardly fair to snipe me that way. Mary had pouted—but it was to cover up his grin. So now we troll for the pictures of his latest gig or at his favorite haunts from either his  casual fans or one of his new ones. I even have a whole range of hashtag typos saved if I really want to triumph, since Mary just doesn't have the attention span.

I usually win, though, by virtue of not keeping Rockstar Hours—and because Mary doesn’t have a smartphone. Mary delights in spending the wee hours while I'm sleeping finding new content, and I'll often wake to one he's pulled up on my laptop and a "suck it" sticky note stuck to my monitor.

(But I’m reigning supreme.)

There’s a thirst tag I sometimes comb through (for reasons), and today I’m desperate for that morning serotonin to keep me from dozing off, which is why I stumble across a particularly convincing cosplayer in some…risqué poses and outfits.

The dude is really good, and I have to admit he really does have Mary’s mannerisms down pat. He’s younger and a little skinnier than Mary is now, but his facial expressions are on point. I zoom in to see the contouring technique because he's using one of those filters to make it look old…and that’s when I sense something off. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but usually there’s an uncanny valley to his serious cosplayers, and this dude looks so real. He’s even 100% accurate with the mole placement, which is something I never see.

My heart does a flip-flop.

Is that…actually Mary?

Foundling

Mary's sixth night in the city, it rained. It was more of a brief Spring shower, but it was still enough to soak him and his backpack through. He shivered through the early morning hours until the sun came up, then he made his way to the Commons to lay his belongings—and himself—out into the sun to dry.

By midday, he had a slight sunburn across his nose, but most of his things were dryish—though the food was a soggy lost cause. He cut his losses and decided to buy a sausage from the hotdog vendor, even if that meant he was down to $52.37 in his sock bank.

It was the most amazing thing he'd ever eaten in his entire life (sometimes he still dreams of it), and he gobbled it down as he sat in the grass and watched the show of people pass by.

He could take today off from his job search.

Just another Groundhog Day of rejections.

A gaggle of kids about his age walked past, and he lit up when he saw them: studs and bright hair and cuffs and combat boots. They ran and shrieked and shoved at each other, and Mary had never felt such longing to be a part of something.

Not that nebulous feeling of "my world is out there somewhere," but "my world is right there if I can just get to it."

And he realized maybe he could.

These were his people.

Mary hopped off the bench and approached the boisterous group.

"Uh, hey…guys."

The pack stopped and looked him over, confused but not hostile.

"Oh hey, man" said a girl with green fins and a studded, leather jacket.

"Hey."

I have nowhere to go. Can I go with you?

"Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Oh, you don’t—"

A guy in a tight striped shirt, snake bites, and blue hair interrupted him.

"Shit, were you in my intro into film class last year?"

Mary was a high school dropout.

"Nah, dude. I’m new and shit."

…But he wasn’t stupid.

A curvy white goth with bleached blonde hair and a cream princess dress smiled at him.

"Aww, that’s rough, honey. If you think about it, they really ought to give transfers on-campus housing. It sucks to be so new and away from the action."

Mary nodded. "Yeah. Sucks."

"Well, we’re going to The Pit, wanna come?"

"If you guys don’t mind…"

"Fuck, the more the merrier!"

Mary smiled as they assimilated him into the group. He found out the goth’s name was Vanessa ("But call me Vanity."), green fins was Alexa ("Or Alex. I’m trying it out."), striped shirt was Billy, and the two other punks were Mandi (Manic Panic red) and Aaron (band tee, spiked collar).

No one laughed at him when he introduced himself as Mary or asked him why he had a girl’s name.

They took him onto the T at Charles MGH, and Mary marveled at the setting sun over the Charles River before the train ducked underground to barrel in Cambridge. At Harvard, they ushered him off the train and directly into The Pit, and Mary almost cried when he saw the pit rats there playing hacky sack, strumming guitars, and smoking cloves. Mary watched as his group high-fived, bumped chests, and hugged nearly everyone there before introducing him as if they’d known him for years.

He was shit at hacky sack, but he accepted a round on the guitar and shared a clove with a white girl who had a rat's nest of hair.

"Fuck their beauty stands," she said when she caught Mary staring.

Mary smiled and pointed to his own mess of hair. "Fuck ‘em," he repeated.

She cackled and handed him a brown bag with what he expected to be whiskey, but tasted like turpentine.

She laughed harder at his face as he coughed, and she pounded him on the back.

"Moonshine, dude. Lenny makes it in his bathtub."

"Which one is Lenny," Mary asked as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, he’s not here. He goes to MIT. We have a strict trade agreement—booze for pot. I’m Katie."

Head fuzzy, Mary had made out with her until Aaron tugged on his arm.

"Shit dude, we gotta go before the T closes. You live close to here?"

"Uh…"

"Aww, I think he got into Lenny’s moonshine," said Vanity. "If he’s a transfer, I bet he’s at some shithole in Allston. You in Allston, honey?"

Mary just nodded.

"All right then," said Alex, taking charge. "We’ll put him up tonight. There’s no way he’s gonna make it back to Allston by himself, and I’ll be fucked if I’m trekking out there without a BU party to crash."

Mary wobbled slightly as Alex took his arm in his and led him to the T.

"Ok, we gotta go now or we’ll all be hoofing it."

They took Mary back to their dorm by the Hatch Shell and signed him in as a guest.

"Is this ok?" Mary asked warily—he didn't want to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

Mandi patted him on the back.

"We do it all time. No one really gives a shit. Vegan Mick dropped out 2 semesters ago and they don’t even check for his ID."

That night, Mary slept in the common room on a lumpy couch that was half as long as he was.

It was heaven.

The next morning seemed like the end, and Mary slumped as Vanity to sign him out. For one brief day he'd been a part of something, and now it was back to Mary, party of one. But Vanity took one look at his face and asked if he wanted to get breakfast at the dining hall.

Of course, he wanted to…but he thought of the dwindling cash in sock bank and hesitated. Vanity, bless her, misread his trepidation.

"It's on me, sweetie. I know most transfers don’t opt in. Too expensive when it’s not bundled. No worries, I got a ton of points I don’t use."

Alex and Aaron were already half done with their food when Vanity and he joined them, and they looked on in amusement as Mary ate half the breakfast buffet.

When the subject of classes came up, he shrugged off questions.

"None this morning."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him.

"What year did you say you were?"

"Sophomore."

"Not a freshman?"

Mary shook his head. "I’m not a freshman."

She seemed about to ask another question, so Mary quickly changed the subject.

"I thought I’d spend the day applying for jobs. You guys know of any place that’s hiring?"

"No work study?"

"No."

"What kind of work you looking for?"

"Shit, anything. I’ll sweep the fucking floors."

They bandied about ideas, places for Mary to try, but no one had any leads. Too soon, some unknown gong had them scurrying to get to class.

Mary suddenly panicked.

"Hey, do you guys mind if I spend the night again? I mean…"

"Yeah, sure," said Vanity. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, man. Meet me after class and I'll swipe you in."

It apparently was a time-honored tradition, passed down from upperclassmen to underclassmen, on gaming the guest system. Most kids used it to essentially move their significant others into their dorm rooms, but a handful every year used it to give haven to others who had questionable housing situations.

So, just like that, Mary had a place to rest his bones.

@dilfpassing

A Deeper Look

I’m so intent on scrolling through the comments on the grainy pics—which I'm sure now are actual scans—that I completely miss my stop, and I have to put my phone away so I can wheeze lightly jog my way to where I work as a receptionist at an alternative hair salon.

It’s really important that I start a good hour before we open so I can return any calls left on our voicemail first thing in case I can fit anyone in today. Which means I have to shelve my find for now, much to my irritation.

Mornings are super-busy because apparently there are some people in the world that like getting up with the sun and want everything done by noon. (June Cleaver’s salon lets me get away with a lot—like coming to work in denim short-shorts and ripped tights, free hair colors, and a snarky attitude—but late start times aren’t one of them.) I honestly don’t have room in my brain to obsess about the pictures because I’m too busy answering calls, making coffee, settling accounts, and giving the new customer spiel for the 57th time to a walk-in.

It’s just after midday, when Penny, the shampoo girl, collects my cash for the salon-wide sandwich run, and I finally have a moment to breathe. And obsess.

I take out my phone again, and I have to retrace my steps because of course the app has refreshed, which is why Sonia has the time to look over my shoulder.

"Missing dream boy’s dick so much you gotta spend your lunch hour ogling pics of him on the internet?"

I zoom in on the one of maybe!Mary in his underwear.

"Who does that look like to you?"

Sonia makes a guh sound in her throat and backs away.

"I don’t need to see your intimates!"

"That’s the thing! It’s not mine!"

"Your boy’s nudes get leaked??"

I wave my arms around.

"I don’t freakin’ know! They may not even be him. Fucking. C’mere and help me out!"

Sonia warily creeps back over, and so does Ryan, since all the yelling has attracted him.

The three of us peer over the phone as I scroll through the images again.

By the time Penny comes back with lunch, we’ve gone back and forth on who’s in the images—Mary or a fake—and I haven’t been able to do any actual research. The afternoon rush starts, and I have to table the whole thing again, having made no progress at all.

It isn’t until near-closing, when most of the other stylists have gone home—and it’s only June who does the post-work crowd—that I can really dig into the matter.

A deep dive and a couple of defunct, decade-old forums later, I find that what I took as an aspirational hashtag was actually the name of a zine called "Heroes."

There’s like, zero online trail about it—except for a few other grainy scans of other pages of articles, poetry, concert pictures, and art—but it seemed to be an early aughts missive for local underground culture and color.

It still doesn’t explain why Mary’s in there in various states of undress and poses.

Or why Mary has never said a word about it to me.

Stripped Bare

Mary settled into a sort of routine. He spent most days looking for a job—any job—with his backpack full of food from their dining hall. Most nights he rotated couches on different floors so the RAs didn’t notice that he basically lived there.

He made friends with Vegan Mick for about 5 seconds until Mary had eaten an entire Rotisserie chicken from 7-11 in front of him. Mick had launched into a whole spiel, and Mary had pointed out that Mick's jacket and Docs were made of leather. He’d only meant it as a joke—a callout in answer to a callout, like he'd do with his friends back home—but Vegan Mick had turned purple, then iced Mary out every time he saw him after that.

Oops.

The brief friendship had lasted long enough, however, for Mick to give Mary some tips and tricks of being homeless.

Homeless.

That had been a tough pill to swallow. Until Vegan Mick had put Mary’s situation like that, Mary had just thought of himself between places.

But it was true: he didn’t live anywhere. He skated by on the kindness of his new friends, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the ruse of "transfer student who didn’t like his shithole apartment and was too busy job searching to concentrate on classes."

He still spent a few nights a week finding an out-of-the-way place outside to hunker down in or huddling in with Katie and a few of the other gutter punks under their boxes in the corners of the T stations. He knew they would have been more than happy to make room, anyway, but Mary always emptied his backpack of all the pilfered dining hall food for distribution amongst them.

It honestly wasn't so terrible now that he had friends and a warm place to go on cold or rainy nights, but.

He needed an actual place to live. To afford an actual place to live, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a place to live.

It seemed like a catch-22, and he began to despair that he’d never get ahead…until Mandi offered him a leg up.

Mary was sitting on the grass in the Commons in the shade, thinking that with summer coming up, maybe he could fudge it until the gang came back in September. There was always Katie and The Pit, and Mary was sure he could chip in somehow.

Mandi sat down next to him.

"I thought that mess of hair was you, Mare."

"Hey, Mandi. What’s kicks?"

"You still looking for a job?"

Mary put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Don’t remind me."

"You over 18?"

Just last week. But Mary hadn’t said, since they thought he was a Sophomore.

"Yeah."

"Wanna be at least 21?"

Mary grinned at her.

"That’s what my fake ID says."

She laughed, a tinkling thing.

"You got anything against strip clubs?"

Mary furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh…what’s the right answer here?"

She shoved him playfully.

"Do you want a job?"

"Yeah?"

"Then say no."

"No. No problems with strip clubs." He squinted at her. "Are they looking for male strippers?"

She laughed again.

"Definitely not." She canted her head at Mary. "I mean, you're very pretty, Mare. I could probably put you on as one of the girls…even with these triple As," she flicked playfully at his nipple, which had him grunting and batting at her, "but I was thinking more behind the scenes."

Mary held up his arm and made a weak muscle.

"I don’t think I’d be much of a bouncer, Mands."

"You said you’d wash dishes, sweep floors and shit, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the club I work at—"

"The club at you what now?"

Mandi gave him a strange look.

"Yeah. The strip club I work at."

Mary’s eyes bugged out.

"As a…waitress?"

"As a stripper, Mary. Duh." At his dumbfounded look she shook her head. "It’s kind of extra credit, as a dance major. I’m going to turn it into my thesis. Plus, I make hella bank."

She swept her arm across the park that made up her college "campus."

"How else do you think I can afford this rock-and-roll lifestyle? Not all of us are here on scholarship or mom and dad’s dime."

She tilted her head at him.

"I thought you’d get it."

When Mary didn't respond, she touched his shoulder.

"Mare. I know you don't go here."

"W-what…? I…"

He looked at her, wide-eyed as the blood drained from his face.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not gonna tell anybody. Not if you don't want me to."

Mary looked down. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know that means I've got no address."

Mandi bumped his shoulder and waved his words away.

"A lot of the girls dance. Paddy is used to dorm rooms as addresses. You can use mine."

Mary looked at her, hoping he could convey every ounce of gratitude he was feeling.

She grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

"So, you up for it? Sweeping floors and bussing tables?" She leveled a look at him. "Cleaning up puke?"

Anything.

"Fuck, I’m desperate, Mands. I’ll hold their hair back if it means a paycheck."

"That’s the spirit!"

***

Mary was sure Patrick was part of the mob—or at least in cahoots. The guy had taken one look at Mary’s ID and had said, "But how old are you really?" and Mary had said, "Nineteen."

Patrick had thrown up his hands. "Well, you ain’t gonna be serving alcohol anyway, kid. Your job is to do whatever I tell you. Some asshole breaks a bottle, you clean up the glass so the girls don’t hurt themselves. Some idiot ralphs all over the toilet seat, you scrub the shit out of that fucker. A bachelor party leaves a table a hot mess, you better be out there clearing off the table for the next one, got it?"

Mary had nodded.

"You show up at 5 to help the girls set up the bar. You stay til whenever it takes to close down—but you only get paid 'til 2am—and you get an hour to eat, unpaid. You don’t bother the girls, and," Patrick had leaned in, "you don’t steal from me."

Mary had gulped and nodded emphatically.

Patrick had jabbed a finger at him. "That includes the booze. If I get fucked because some snot-nosed, underage kid is drinking with my good friends Jim and Johnnie, I’m gonna be very put out."

"Got it, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. I’m Paddy to my friends, so you can call me Patrick."

"Yes, Patrick."

Patrick had looked him over.

"You get paid as an independent contractor just like the girls, so you gotta deal with your own taxes, you got that? I’ll start you at $10 an hour."

Mary’s eyes had gone wide. Back home he was lucky to get 5.

"Ten…?"

Patrick had tilted his head again.

"No, you’re right, 12. Do a good job, and I’ll think about raising it to 15."

Mary had to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"You do weeknights for now so if you fuck up it’s not that much of a problem. If you don’t fuck up and the girls don’t hate you, you can get weekends. Deal?"

Mary had sat up straighter. "Deal." He’d held his hand out, but Patrick had just looked at it until Mary pulled it back into his side.

"Ariel vouched for you, so I’m giving you a shot. Don’t make her regret it."

Mary had shaken his head as Patrick had handed him some forms to fill out.

"Come back at 4 tomorrow with these and we’ll get you started. Now, get out, I got shit to do."

Mary had taken the forms and skedaddled.

Mandi was outside waiting for him, all smiles.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but fuck—your boss is scary."

"Nah, he’s a teddy bear."

***

The job was awful.

The puke was an almost nightly occurrence, and by the end of the first week, little cuts covered Mary’s hands from the broken glass. The customers were loud, rowdy, and acted as if their mother was going to clean up after them.

Mary swore he would never get the beer smell out. It now lived in his soul.

One dude punched Mary and broke his nose for no reason Mary could tell before the bouncers dragged the guy away. The girls gave him some tampons to stop the bleeding, and Mary finished his shift.

Patrick paid Mary in cash at the end of every week with a "It’s your job to report that, not mine," and at the end of the month, Patrick bumped Mary up to $15/hr. He worked 5 days a week because, according to Patrick, "The Lord gave us a day of rest, and you get one day off per week."

Mary never reported a single cent to the IRS.

The girls loved him, and joked that Patrick had gotten them a pet. They showed him winged eyeliner and smokey eyes and how to contour. They guffawed when they watched him try out their shoes like a newborn deer. On slow nights, they tried to show him pole techniques.

He saw the gang less and less because by the time they were getting out of class, he was going into work, and when he was done work, they were crawling into bed. Fortunately, the desk sitters seemed to forget that he wasn’t an on-campus "student" and didn’t even bother signing him in anymore. There were a few sticklers, but Mary found that—while back home he was less than scum—here, he attracted all the right kinds of attention…and a smirk with the right compliment went a long way.

By the time their school year ended, Mary had saved up $1,000 (and he needed to transfer his money out of sock bank and into the ripped lining of his jacket).

Even though they didn't know just how much they'd saved him, Mary showed up on the last day as thanks to help them all move their stuff into family cars or rented trucks. They hugged him goodbye and said to ring them next semester.

Mandi bopped him on the nose and told him to keep his nose clean.

Mary took a sublet in Allston with 2 BU kids and a Berkley grad student. The "room" was a closed-in porch with a sleeping bag left by the last resident—but it was $400 a month until September, utilities included.

At first, Mary didn't know why the gang was so snobby about Allston, but the summer seemed to be one continual party. It didn't matter what day Mary got up, there were always broken beer bottles and stale beer on their front stoop, and the apartment had a designated watering can for washing away the vomit that dripped down from the top porches to their own.

But he took it in stride, and when he wasn’t at the strip club or sleeping, he was partying with the BU kids, or letting the Berkley grad show him better string fingering techniques.

Mary still tried to get out to The Pit with what groceries he could spare, but Katie had moved on with some of the others to do a protest tour with an activist street band that had come through town, and without her or the gang, it made Mary feel lonely.

By the end of the summer, Mary had saved up enough money for first, last, and security. He even had some left over to buy more than ramen and some new clothes. To Mary, it felt like a million dollars. He rented a garden-level apartment in the cheap part of Jamaica Plain for September 1st and spent that entire day with the BU dudes driving around in their rented truck for Allston Christmas’s best furniture finds.

Mary ended up with a mattress that he hoped on a wish and a prayer didn’t have bedbugs, a mismatched set of dishes, plastic drawers that were slightly warped, and a broken futon frame he swore he would fix. Throw in a few sets of slightly used string lights, and Mary’s cave felt downright homey.

When the gang got back, he simply told them he’d dropped out.

"Yeah, I just don’t think college is for me. Music’s my real passion, you know?"

Alex had groaned.

"I knew that Berkley kid was gonna be a bad influence on you."

Mary shrugged.

"My grades were shit anyway. But I’m still around, you know. The strip club’s only a block from campus."

"Because we saw you so much then," deadpanned Billy.

"Hey! Stop piling on Mary," said Vanity. "He’s following his path."

Mary shot her a wide smile.

"Thanks, Vanity."

Patrick finally gave him a little more leeway with his days off, and Mary started taking Saturday night to join the gang in Harvard Square for the shadow cast of Rocky Horror. One of Aaron’s classmates, Amber, was in it, and they all wanted to support her.

Mary felt that something again. That thing that told that this was his place and his people. This eclectic group who got up in front of strangers every week in their underwear for free enthralled Mary.

He and Amber bonded immediately, and Mary began going even without the gang. The cast welcomed him in as an honorary groupie, and Mary's friendship with the gang waned. There was still Mandi to cavort with at the strip club, but now when Mary wasn't there, he was at any one of the Rocky crew's apartments getting high and playing dress up.

"You’ve got such a Look, Mare," sighed Amber. "I’d kill for your cheekbones."

"I’d kill for your tits."

She slapped him playfully. "Don’t be gross."

"No, I’m serious. Someone once put it in my head that I'd be a hot chick."

The girls had giggled and proceeded to dress him up in bras and corsets with cutlets. They added a wig, and the glo-up surprised even Mary.

Still buzzed, they went out for girl’s night and hit up all the bars in Fenway and flirted their way to free shots from the dude bros before batting their falsies at bouncers to let them into the clubs ahead of the line and without the cover.

The cutlets eventually became a nuisance—and soon they were all flapping them about above their heads as they danced—but Mary had loved the feel of the lace and satin corsets against his skin.

When they’d all collapsed in a pile at the end of the night, Mary wondered if they’d tell him where to get some lingerie for himself.

***

By August, Mary was ready to quit the strip club.

He was tired of cut fingers (they were making it hard to play the guitar he’d bought), the drunks, and the sick everywhere. Now that he had a little cushion, he thought maybe he could at least find something with better hours.

Mandi had graduated and was well into a summer internship at Disney in hopes they’d bring her on as a dancer.

Alex had also graduated and moved out to LA to make it as a film editor.

Vanity and Aaron had started dating after finals, and they had moved in together in Cambridgeport for their last year.

Billy had stopped going to classes before dropping out altogether. No one seemed to know what happened, and when they called his home, his mother just said he was unavailable.

There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around the Grid anymore, and it was a bitch of a commute back to his place if he wasn’t going to hang out with the Rocky crew. He landed a job at a record store that was walking distance to his apartment.

Patrick seemed surprisingly sad to see him go, saying, "Ah, the good ones smart up," and gave him a $500 bonus for not "fucking up."

Tim, one of the older Rocky people, turned out to not live too far from him, and when Mary started hanging out there, so did the party.

Now that Mary was no longer shackled by the strip club’s hours, his world opened a few more degrees. He spent his nights dressing up while he watched the cast rehearse. (When he showed them a move or two he learned from the women at the club, they tried to get him to do a guest star as Frank. But Mary had shaken his head and said that wasn’t the kind of performing he wanted to do.)

When they weren't rehearsing, they dragged Mary to TT The Bear’s, The Middle East, and The Milky Way Lounge for underground shows. They took him to fetish night at ManRay after a trip to Hubba Hubba for pleather and lingerie, and Mary made a lot of new friends.

Sometimes, Mary would show up to work straight off a night out in his club clothes, eyeliner smudged and lipstick smeared. It should have got him fired, but his boss just shrugged.

"I used to keep rockstar hours too."

Mary still wore all his old vestiges—his battle vest and his ripped jeans—it was just that now he sometimes added a corset and heels.

Wherever Katie was now, he hoped she knew he was still fucking their beauty standards.

ry.omen Insta

Answer Me This

I practically vibrate the entire way back to our place. I'm still trying to wring information out of the internet like it's too-wet clothes, but the only thing I accomplish is making myself motion sick on the bus, so I put my phone back in my pocket and breath through my nose.

When I get home, Mary is sprawled across the couch in his pjs with various limbs hanging over sides and edges as he watches some extreme sport show on my laptop.

I wonder if he just got up, but I see the start of dinner on the stove, so I decide not to snark at him.

"Hey," he says without looking up.

I am, however, gonna need some answers on "Heroes."

I gently close the laptop, and he meets my eyes.

"What?"

I climb onto the couch, and Mary’s limbs recede like vines to make room for me as I scroll through my phone to my photo app where I’ve saved screenshots.

"Lucy," I say in a terrible accent, "you have some ‘splaining to do!"

Mary squints at me and takes my phone, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"Shit, babe. Where’d ya find these??"

"So they are you!"

He chuckles.

"Christ…I haven't thought about these in fucking years."

"Mind telling me what the fuck?" I ask, my hands on my hips.

I'm only half joking.

Mary grimaces at me.

"Ah."

"I'm gonna need more than that, mister."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you know those were hard times for me."

I know about his family, the homelessness. I know he tried out a lot until he found a life that fit. He'd given me the overviews with occasional anecdotes filled with names I never remembered.

But none of them included naughty pictures.

I worm my way under his arm.

"Yeah, I know, Mare."

His hand strokes down my arm.

"I mean, shit. I was kinda an asshole, you know?"

I wrap an arm around his chest.

"You're still kind of an asshole, Goore."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

When he doesn't say more, I poke him hard in the side.

"I’m literally dying here."

He laughs a little.

"Fine. But you gotta remember you asked."

Model Behavior

One day, Mary was walking down the street on his way to drinks with the new friends he'd made the weekend before. It was a good day. He wasn’t hungover as fuck, his makeup was only smudged artfully, and he was pretty sure he was going to get laid.

A guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans maybe a few years older than Mary stopped him on the street.

"Hey, man! I love your style."

Mary batted his eyelashes at him. "Thanks, dude."

"You ever think of dark modeling?"

Mary squinted his eyes at him.

"Dark what now?"

"You know—modeling but like," he gestured up and down Mary’s form, "for dark beauties. Show the world beauty isn’t cookie cutter."

"For like what? A website or some shit?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a card case, and handed one to Mary.

Heroes Greg Karson, Photographer/Web Design Butera School of Art

Actually, Mary had heard of this. It was a zine about the local happenings around town—concerts, art shows, parties, etc. There was a stack of them next to "Rrriot!" in the record shop. He’d flipped through one occasionally, mostly interested in the band reviews.

"We’re really on the lookout for anyone with the right look. You know, wear stuff you already own."

"So like a street fashion spread?"

"Well, we might do a little more with it, but—you know how it is. Most of the budget goes toward printing costs."

Mary perked up.

"Would I be paid?"

Greg laughed.

"Peanuts, my dude. But yeah. Even if it’s a T token. You interested, then?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Mind if I take a few test shots."

Mary smirked at Greg.

"How do you want me?"

"Just natural."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mary arched his back and gave Greg his best snotty hipster face.

Greg dug out a digital camera from his carrying case and took a dozen or so pictures of Mary from different angles while telling him to turn this way or that.

Afterwards, the two of them huddled over the camera and scrolled through the shots.

"Aw yeah, this one. I love the attitude. The guys are gonna love it. You have a number where we can reach you?"

Mary gave him the number of the record shop. (His apartment had a phone, but he’d never gotten around to wanting to pay for service.)

Later, he and Amber looked up the Angelfire website on the back of the card. It was one page that contained the mission statement, bios of the creators, and locations to pick up the zine.

"Omigod—you’re gonna become a famous model, Mare!"

"Yeah, right. You know most of it ends up in the trash, right?"

But when Ben called, Mary said he was game. He directed Mary to a co-op in a converted warehouse in Dorchester, and Mary brought his favorite clothes in a borrowed duffle.

A girl in cat pajamas opened the door and pointed at a set of metal stairs with her cereal spoon.

On the second floor, Mary found Greg setting up a makeshift studio. A girl with multiple piercings and yarn dreads leaned against the wall in her black babydoll dress.

Mary sidled up to her.

"You here to model, too?"

She gave him an unimpressed once-over.

"I’m the art director, asshole."

Mary flushed hard as she turned to Greg.

"Couldn’t find one with brains?"

She turned back to Mary.

"I don’t know if you thought this would be a good way to meet chicks or what, dude. But I’m letting you know right now that I’m here on my day off to make sure this adheres to our aesthetic, so if you're not serious, fuck off."

Mary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shit, sorry. I was expecting a dude named Ben."

She waved her hand in the air as if dispelling Ben.

"The Bens are morons. Good idea, terrible execution. I’m here to make sure we remain true to the idea of 'Heroes,' so don’t fuck up my shoot." She gave him a once over. "Christ. You have any experience?"

Greg turned from where he was testing the white balance.

"Angelique, stop harassing the talent. We get it, you have a degree from RISD."

Angelique snorted.

"As if I don't hear you going on and on about being a professional photographer. 'Hey, lemme shoot your portfolio, baby.' Whatever. As if we're not your only professional credit."

"Hey—you wanted a photographer for peanuts? You got me. You wanted models for peanuts? You got him."

Mary gave her his full snaggle-toothed grin.

"I take T tokens."

Angelique sighed, then pasted on a smile.

"Hi! So happy you’re here!" Her smile drooped. "You got your wardrobe in there?"

"Yeah."

Mary handed her the duffle, and she handed him release forms.

"Here: sign these"

She pawed through his offerings.

"Not bad, not bad." She pulled out a corset and his heeled boots. "We'll keep you in your jeans and have you wear your jacket over your corset. Cool?"

Cool.

The shoot was as professional as a shoot in a warehouse in what Mary was taking to usually be a living room could be. Angelique directed Greg with what she wanted. Greg called out positions and expressions for Mary to pose in.

It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of a solid hour, his smirking lip was getting tired. Angelique and Greg scrolled through the shots, murmuring to themselves and nodding.

Mary waited—greeting at the other inhabitants as they squeezed by on their way either up or down—until Angelique approached him.

"That’ll do. You mind if we post on our website?"

Mary preened.

"Yeah, that’s kosher."

She handed him a pen and pocket notebook.

"Write down a quick bio."

He scribbled down a quick elevator pitch

Into general skulking and metal \m/

and handed the notebook back to her.

"Great, thanks."

She handed him a $20 bill, her eyes skimming him up and down.

"Next time we should show off those hip bones. Just jeans, I think."

Mary perked up. "Next time?"

"We’ll call you."

***

"Omigod, omigod!"

Amber perched on the record store counter, flipping through "Heroes," as Jon peered over her shoulder.

"Mary…look at you!"

Mary tried to swallow his smug smile.

Failed.

"Yeah. I’m hot shit, ain’t I?"

She bopped him on the nose with the newsprint.

"Don’t be vain."

He showed her his toothy smile.

"I like to think of it as confidence."

"So did Icarus."

Mary snorted and went back to putting prices on the new CDs.

"The camera loves you," said Jon, who was always quiet and reserved as you please…until he put on Frank’s corset and heels.

Mary had tried flirting with him, but Jon always ducked his head and played it off.

"Thanks, man," said Mary, giving him a softer smile.

"So??"

"So what, Amber?"

"Are you gonna do it again?"

Mary shrugged.

"I mean, if they call me, sure."

But he was kind of hoping they would.

When the next issue came out weeks later, Mary stared at the cybergoth on the pages and felt himself deflate. Listlessly, he thumbed through the delicate print, barely skimming the section devoted to the World/Inferno Friendship Society’s set he’d been at the week before.

He set it down with a sigh before he picked up his guitar and plucked out a tune he was trying to coax into a riff.

By the time a Ben called again, Mary had given up the modeling thing as a one-off.

"Hey, dude—thought maybe you guys forgot about me," Mary said in a teasing tone.

The Ben on the other end chuckled.

"It’s like herding cats to get shit out. Nah, dude—we definitely want you to be one of our regulars. You in for next Saturday?"

He was.

***

Over the course of a year, "Heroes" had Mary come out multiple times for shoots. Mainly, Mary wore his own clothes and did his own makeup, but occasionally, Angelique wanted something specific.

"How comfortable are you with boudoir shots?"

"With what?"

"Like a pinup, but more…saucy than sexy."

I'd pose nude if you paid me enough.

(Sure, he was a noodle boy, but he knew he had the goods.)

"Yeah, I’m cool with that."

Angelique brightened at him.

"Great!"

She picked up a set of complicated leather garters and thrust them at him.

"Put these on."

Mary had only ever worn lace garters—mostly out to clubs, but occasionally under his ripped jeans for an extra pop—but he found he liked these even more, liked the way they emphasized his thighs.

"Hey—where’d you get these…?"

(He was already thinking of what he could pair them with for goth night.)

"Local leatherworker. He mostly does pieces for Renn Fairs, but he'll also do custom. I can give you his info."

She led Mary into what was clearly someone's bedroom.

"Don't fuck anything up, or Joye will never let us use this again."

Mary shot her his best shark smile.

"Hey, I only mess up the sheets if someone asks."

Angelique gave him a flat look and called for Greg.

(But when he draped himself over the bed and told Greg to "Paint me like one of your French girls," Mary could have sworn she almost smiled.)

On one memorable occasion, she brought in a guy whose rope bondage demo she watched at a sex convention.

"Put on some of that lingerie and we'll truss you up. You ok with that, Goore?"

Mary ran his fingers over the coils and gave her a wolfish smile.

"You know I'm game for anything."

She gave him a vulpine smile of her own then, and she looked down at him from the height of her platformed boots.

"Good. I thought you should be submissive for once."

Mary had no witty rejoinder for that.

He listened with interest as the guy carefully explained what he was going to do, complete with pictures, and he relaxed easily into the process. (They put bunny ears on him, and it would be much, much later that he got that particular joke. Well played, Angelique.)

The ropes hadn’t let him do much posing, but Mary had kind of liked the constriction, and his thoughts were already on asking Amber to help him create a more versatile version for fetish night.

He’d left that day with a new kink…and the guy’s number.

"Why not just do one big shoot?" he asked another time. "Get it all done in one big bang!"

Angelique held up his garments to eyeball over him.

"Honey, we never even know if there's gonna be a next issue. The Bens spend most of the time arguing. My god you should hear them—Ben bankrolls the whole thing, so he says he should get final say on shit, and Benji wants total artistic control because it was his idea, because 'he's the graphic designer', and because it's his Kinko's employee discount they use."

She gave Mary a curled-lip smile as she tossed a few items at him.

"In the end it's this bitch you're looking at who gets shit done."

Mary began to change (they were long past modesty).

"How'd you get involved?"

"Went to school with Benji."

"Ben too?"

"Neg. The Bens are childhood friends. Ben works some cushy start-up job, so Benji lets him bankroll them both. Rent, utilities—everything. I love Benji to death, but he's a giant mooch."

"Shit, that must be nice."

Angelique shrugged. She stood back to appraise Mary's look.

"It's fucking lame. But it least it gets us fucking paid."

Mary didn't say I'd do this for free. Instead, he struck a pose and said, "I'm just happy for the exposure."

Angelique rolled her eyes and went to fetch Greg.

***

That year and a half would become a nonstop party with Mary as one of the VIPs; he wouldn't say no to anything—be it casual sex, club appearances, or whatever drug the current pretty thing was offering him in the bathroom.

But recognition started slow.

At first, it was customers who would leaf through the zine and recognize Mary.

Then, it was the occasional scenester who’d stop him on the street in JP as he walked about, and Mary would pose for grainy cell phone pics.

Soon, he was being approached at shows and clubs. The first time it happened, Mary was high off his new infamy and ready to please. A woman in a black bandage bra and pleated skirt with bondage straps approached him, and Mary was already thinking of what he could do with those.

"You look like that guy in ‘Heroes’!" she'd shouted to him over the music.

Mary had flashed her a crooked smile and leaned in.

"Maybe I am the guy in ‘Heroes’."

She'd given him an exaggerated once over before sidling closer with hooded eyes.

"I dunno…you're wearing way more clothes."

Mary had pulled his mesh top down by the collar in a tease as he'd curled over her.

"Take me somewhere more private and I’ll let you do a comparison."

She'd compared him all night.

And that was before he and the other "Heroes" models formed their own posse.

The Bens had thrown a BBQ and had invited everyone they'd ever met. There were people packed into their little 2 bedroom in Brighton, spilling down the back stairs, and equally packed into the little square of shared backyard. Ben had taken the 12-pack of 'Gansett beers Mary had brought, then introduced him to the other dark models.

"Now you're all here!" said Ben. He slung his arm around Mary. "Guys, this is Mary. Mary this is Mayhem, Lesley, Lola, and Bryan."

Mayhem was a rivethead, and Mary took to him instantly, but he was wary of the others. Lesley was the cybergoth who'd been in the first issue after him, and Mary still felt a bit salty at them, even though Mary knew by now the Bens rotated the models. Lola, the romantic goth, reminded him enough of Vanity that he felt guilty for losing touch with her and had him projecting a little. Bryan was a metalhead, so: competition.

Mary had thought they'd get along like cats and water, but weed, booze, and "Never Have I Ever" went a long way to creating a shared bond.

And there it was again. That pull. The magnetic force telling him that he'd found the place he was supposed to be. They quickly coalesced into their own pack, calling themselves the "Deathbutantes" (because they always killed it when they debuted for the night).

It had been rare for Mary to miss Friday and Saturday night shenanigans with the Rocky crew, but now, every night was Friday night. There was always a show or a concert or club that one of them knew about—and if they couldn't get lucky with the local color, they'd just go home with each other.

Mayhem taught Mary what Lola jokingly called the "grab a bat" dance, and the two of them cut quite the picture on the dance floors.

Lesley took to Lola, and the two of them could always be counted on for scintillating conversation in dark corners when Mary's limbst needed a break from flailing about.

The clubs weren't really Bryan's scene—take him to a sticky hole in the wall with concrete floors and a stage close enough to feel the sweat from the bands, and he was in heaven—but he liked to come along to hang. He'd drink PBRs, rub Lola's feet when she invariably abandoned her heels for the evening, and argue with Mary about the purity of death metal.

Mayhem and Lola weren't really into live music of the screaming kind, so—while Lesley, Bryan, and Mary bounced off each other in the mosh pits—they'd save a "home" base at one the bartops.

Amber noticed Mary's diminishing presence and stopped by the record shop to call him out.

"So you're not dead! Could've fooled me."

Mary was organizing the albums into order, and he grunted at her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a cad. I'll make it up to you."

"You missed game night."

"Sorry. Jethro Tull played some tiny venue in nowhere Mass, and Bryan was salivating. I mean, Jethro Tull. Can you blame me?"

He looked at her, arms out wide in supplication. But she just blinked at him.

"You have no idea who Jethro Tull is, do you?"

"Sorry, dude. But christ, Mare. You should have invited me. I'd've gone. Maybe I would have even liked them. Now you'll never know."

"I could just lend you an album."

"Nope! The moment passed. Too late!"

Mary riffled through the stock and shoved a Jethro Tull CD into her hands.

She tapped it against her thigh.

"So, when do I get to hang?"

"I can get us into 80s night free."

"No, I mean, with your cooler friends. Your 'murder models', or whatever."

"You wanna hang out with the Deathbutantes?"

Amber scrunched her nose.

"That's so fucking pretentious."

Mary kind of liked it.

"Dunno if they're really your scene."

"Oh? And what's my scene?"

"Musical theater on crack."

She mock gasped at him, "Called out!" before smacking him with the CD. "Whatever. You love musical theater on crack."

Mary draped his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't live it, you know? You guys have your niche—and fuck…I love to visit—but it's not mine."

Amber looked up at him, her expression serious.

"So the Dumbutantes are your niche?"

Mary shrugged and went back to shelving.

The Rocky crew had been good to him. They'd taken him under their wing, no questions asked, and helped him realize things about himself. Tim had taken him to the ER when Mary had come down with a serious case of the flu. Matty had taught him the basics of sewing. Gretchen had held him after a bad trip. Omar and he had had many drunken heart-to-hearts about their shitty home lives.

And Amber was his best friend. She'd been his #1 cheerleader for years and had never been afraid to call him out on his shit.

So yeah, he loved the Rocky crew…but they laughed at anyone who took anything too seriously. Mary would show up to game nights in his latest creation—with everyone else in pjs or jeans & hoodies—and they'd tease him about trying to impress the wrong people. He'd try to talk about the newest guitar god he'd been mainlining, and they'd make snoring noises at him.

How could he explain the kinship he felt with the Deathbutantes? That they were as serious about music as he was, that they just…got why he felt the need to dress the way he did to express the way he felt inside on his outside.

Instead, he said, "I'm just trying shit out, Ambs." He quirked his eyebrow at her. "I gotta do something while you guys do your real-person jobs."

(Amber had recently started as a junior marketing assistant at the American Repertory Theater. "Purely mercenary," she'd said. "Maybe it'll give me a leg up during auditions.")

She made a disgruntled scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck, don't remind me. I actually gotta go to bed a reasonable hour now."

"Don't worry." Mary winked at her. "I'll keep ya honest."

"That sounds a lot like my head in a toilet, Mare."

"I'll hold your hair back."

She gave him a good-natured shove, and he pretended to cower.

If she wanted to cross pollinate, who was Mary to stand in her way? So, he invited her out the next time the Deathbutantes went to a show, and it went exactly like he thought it would.

They disliked her, and she was equally unimpressed. They thought she was too loud and frenetic, and she thought they had no sense of humor.

"I fucking told you," Mary had snorted as they sat on the curb sharing a clove.

"Shut the fuck up, Mare."

But she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"They make you happy, though. So I guess I approve. Just as long as I don't have to play nice."

Mary still hung out with the Rocky crew—there were still game nights and drug-fueled sex parties and theater games—but the Deathbutantes introduced him to the underground scene. They always seemed to have insider knowledge about the best up-in-coming bands and the secret shows. Theme nights at the goth clubs were always a must, and they rarely missed one. Sometimes, Angelique would crash, and they'd take the commuter rail to Providence to party at Club Hell before collapsing in a sweaty, smeary pile at a friend of a friend's hole in the wall.

As a bit player in the Rocky crew, Mary had been another made-up face in the crowd. As a certified member of the Deathbutantes, Mary became the face.

They all did.

The owners loved them because they bought round after round at the bar, and if word got out that the Deathbutantes were there, their admirers came to spend money as well. The employees loved them because they were fun and talked to them as equals. The clientele loved them because they were pretty young things.

Sometimes, though, Mary wasn't in the mood to party or get laid, so he talked to the DJs instead. He'd buy them rounds and stay past closing to help them pack up while they talked about the history of punk and 80s new wave and nu metal. There was one in particular, Dave, that Mary even considered a friend.

The two of them would sit in the club past closing, sharing a whiskey and talking about life while the bartenders closed down and cashed out. Occasionally, Dave's other friends would be around, and they'd all walk back to his place; he'd fool around spinning in his home studio, and they'd drink box wine as they danced and laughed before Mary would have to sit on the ground in an intoxicated exhaustion, good for only thumbing through Dave's vinyl collection.

Mary was just happy to talk shop with another music aficionado, but Angelique had pointed out that he should leverage his minor clout.

They'd been waiting for Greg to finish setting up, and Mary had been struggle city after a particularly hard night out. It was all he could manage to sit there quietly and hope some god would put him out of his misery.

"You need to get your shit together," Angelique had said out of nowhere.

Mary had cracked a puffy eye and had slowly (as to not bring the nothing in his stomach back up) turned his head to her.

"As if I haven't seen your melted ass on the floor wanting to die."

"Fuck, Mary. You've turned it into an art form."

He'd closed his eyes and given her the finger, but that hadn't stopped her.

"You wanna be a rockstar, boy? You can't just sit on your ass and hope the right person on the right night hears you. You're effervescent and charismatic—heads turn when you walk into a room and not just because of your skinny jeans—but you need more than air, Mary, which is all you are right now."

"Fuck you, Angela."

She'd clapped in front of his face, and she was lucky he didn't Exorcist bile all over her.

"You're a fucking pain in my ass, Goore. I'm doling out the good stuff, try not to bite my hand off, k?"

"All right, all right!"

"You wanna start that band? You wanna get play and amass fans? Well, make that demo you're always droning on about and give it to those DJs you're alway fanboying over. Fucking network, Goore."

At the time, Mary had been too hungover to care, but her advice would sink in…

Eventually.

For the time being, Mary was content. He loved the attention, and it made him feel invincible, made him feel like it was finally His Time. And he was going to make up for every slight, every unfair situation, and every beat down with sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

With his newfound nightlife, Mary's day job had become an afterthought. He started sleeping through opening shifts, but with the extra foot traffic Mary brought to the store, his boss seemed resigned to let Mary slide (after a stern talking to and a pay docking).

The shadow cast had started using him as a mascot of sorts, and he was happy to show up on Saturday nights and hype up the waiting line with a pseudo striptease. (Even if it was sometimes to kick off his evening with the Deathbutantes and not hang with the cast after.)

Mary started a band ("auditioning" any and all of the many admirers who said they’d be more than happy to join it), and after a few false starts and a couple of lineup changes, they began working on an EP. (At least, when Mary showed up to rehearsal, they did.)

A Boston Phoenix reporter got wind of the Deathbutantes and called around about doing a story on them. The Bens were excited about the exposure that meant for their zine, and Angelique and Greg were excited about what it could mean for their careers. Mary did a brief interview over the phone where he answered questions about his style and talked about his dream of making his band a household name.

Mary saw his name up in lights, and he was reaching for it, full speed ahead.

But then things turned.

The story fell through at the last minute with no further explanation or contact by the reporter.

His boss finally fired him after Mary showed up too high to function too many times—or not at all.

The shadow cast had a turnover, and suddenly he was old news—a cringey hanger-on.

A trip to the clinic and a round of antibiotics for an STI had him way more wary of who he hooked up with.

"Heroes" lost momentum when imitators popped up and Ben cut off the gravy train.

Angelique moved to NYC for "better opportunities," and the Bens took their brand of counterculture to Portland, OR.

Greg took down the website when he got offered a legit job as an apprentice at a food magazine, and that was that.

The physical zines were cheap things, most ending up papering the sidewalk after trash day or lining the bottom of cages. Without the online presence, did Mary's "modeling career" even exist?

Mary was a little sad to see the era go, but when he woke up in Maine on the hood of some girl's car and only a hazy recollection of how they'd gotten there, he was beginning to see Angelique's point. He needed to get his shit together if he was ever going to become a rockstar. And frankly, he kind of felt like he needed to spend an entire month eating carrots and hydrating.

The 24/7 party had always been an ephemeral thing; it had been sand passing through his hands in a finite amount as he'd tried to hold onto it

He put himself on detox, and waking up sober for the first time in months felt like a revelation. And as it turned out, playing the guitar without badly shaking hands was way, way easier.

He found another job in another music store, and his starter!band was bringing butts into the smaller venues, like Toad.

He still had his old Rocky friends and the Deathbutantes. The club and venue owners still let him in for free, and Dave was always happy to give his demos a spin. By anyone's else's measure, he was steal one of the scene's darlings.

But Mary was beginning to realize that he needed to stop seeing himself as that scared kid who’d arrived in Boston 4 years ago with only a backpack, $72.57 to his name, and void where his family should be.

He needed to stop finding people to please into loving him.

Instead, he needed to live for himself and let them love him for who he was—fuck ups and all.

@slimylayne

Epilogue

"Honestly, that’s probably the reason I even got a band together," he says. "I was still kind of shit at guitar, but people came to see ‘Model Mary’ perform in his underwear."

He shoots me a smirk.

"I’m sure there’re pictures out there of me looking more glam than metal. I kind of played up the whole pinup thing for a while."

"Fuck, I would kill, literally kill to see that."

He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him.

"I could open up my underwear drawer and show you right now."

"Goore, you temptress."

I lean down to kiss him, and his hands sneak under my shirt, but I pull away again.

"I kinda thought I knew all your torrid secrets by now. Shit, how come Dave's never needled you about it?"

After 2 years with him, I’m surprised I hadn't even heard a peep from his oldest friend.

Mary snorts.

"Dave would miss shit hanging off his nose. Great dude, amiable as fuck, but he's always had fucking tunnel vision for his music."

I smirk at him.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Mary pulls a face at me, and I apply kisses to every line until he laughs and bats me away.

"But really, Mare—how come you never told me about your brief career in blue steel?"

He blows out a breath, his hands smoothing up my thighs.

"Fuck. Cuz maybe I was a little embarrassed at how off the rails I was then, ok? Didn't want you to know what I fuck up I was." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "And even I know it's a shit move to pitch woo at someone by telling them about banging half of Boston."

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

His hands rest on my waist.

"Christ, everything about that year's a bit fuzzy, and it was like 10 years ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else, honestly. And shit—most of those people aren’t even around anymore. College kids who moved on and 20-somethings that grew up and moved who knows where. I used to watch Amber have—what is it when it’s four people?—and now she lives in bumblefuck Pennsylvania with 3 kids. After she left, I just kinda drifted away from all that."

He shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"I’m sorry, Mare," I say as I smooth his eyebrows.

He shrugs again.

"I mean, we all kinda keep in touch. It's like the only reason I have Facebook."

"When was the last time you even signed into that?"

Mary grins at me.

"Lola's birthday."

"One of the models? What happened with them?"

Mary bites his lip and thinks.

"Mayhem found religion after an OD and kinda ghosted everyone. Lesley followed a girl to New Hampshire. Uh…Lola pursued a PhD for something sciencey involving renewable energy with sugar beets in Idaho, and Bryan moved back to Florida to care for his grandma, who raised him."

Mary leans his head back on the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I mean, shit. We were fucking babies back then. Head empty except for a good time and unlimited potential."

I run my fingers through his hair.

"You miss it?"

His eyes pop open to look at me.

"Fuck no. Not for a million dollars. Too many question marks." His eyes glint as he runs his hands down me. "I like what I got going on right here."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. The fucking sap.

Mary picks up my phone and scrolls through the pictures again.

"Fuck. I used to be goddamn adorable, though. Half this shit wouldn’t even fit me anymore."

I squish his little potbelly, and he grunts at me indignantly.

"Do you still have any originals?" I ask.

He shakes his head, his eyes wistful and his smile sad.

"Nah. Got destroyed when my roof collapsed and leaked everywhere. Fuck, landlords are useless. Glad we fucking own now, babe."

He scrolls up, scrolls back down.

"Just these four?"

I nod.

"Yeah. They were the only ones I found—and I did a lot of searching."

"Christ, I think there were at least 10."

I smile ruefully at him. "It’s not gonna be long anyway before they make their way into the popular tags and shit starts coming out of the woodwork."

He tosses my phone onto the table.

"Whatever. Just shows that I’ve always been cool."

And then he’s kissing me again, his hand tangling in my hair.

"You know, I’m your family now, Mare. Just for you."

He brings my hand up and kisses it.

"Fuck, I know that. Why’dja think I put a ring on it?"

[cloudshapedpatch]

take my money (take my heart, too)

the awkward julie & luke sugar daddy/baby au no one asked for

rated teen and up for swearing and semi-mature themes such as the concept of a sugar daddy/baby arrangement

no smut! insane tooth-rotting fluff tho

slow burn juke

and disaster lesbians flarrie side plot and (eventual) willex

also a coffee shop au because i said so

read on ao3 (chapter 1 and tag list below the cut)

* * * *

Julie is nervous. No, nervous is an understatement. Her knees bounce uncontrollably under the table, shaky fingers twirling the straw in her iced coffee. And the knot in her stomach seems to grow ever tighter.

She pulls out her phone to check the time for the third time this minute. How is it still 10:57 am? Just as she is about to put her phone back in her pocket, it buzzes with an incoming text from her best friend/roommate, Flynn.

Flynn: calm down

Julie smiles despite herself, turning around to look at her friend a few tables away. Thank goodness for her friend, willing to throw away a morning to make sure she is safe and comfortable on her blind date. She shoots Flynn a small smile. Flynn, to their credit, is taking their job very seriously, wearing an absurdly large sunhat and sunglasses, sipping on a mug of hot tea with a decoy book under her nose.

Julie turns to anxiously watch the baristas, moving around the small space with ease, mixing drinks hot and cold alike. Twirling around each other without even looking. And she lets her mind wander.

How had she gotten here? Waiting for a man whom she had never spoken to, let alone seen? And she isn’t counting their text messaging. Not really. Not even if they had been talking for weeks. Not even if they regularly stayed up well into the night just to keep talking to the other. Not even if he had her blushing furiously, toes curling from giddiness and hiding under her sheets, smiling at the flirtatious speech bubbles on her phone for longer than she’d like to admit.

Because that doesn’t count. She has never heard his voice. She has never seen what he looked like. Anyone could be a charmer, and she is undoubtedly nervous about who she might find walking through the door and towards her.

How had she gotten here? It is a simple question, and one she has the answer to. Doesn’t mean she likes it. She had made an offhand comment to Flynn at work one day. Julie is sick of working 12 hour days in the cafe (not this one. she would be dumb to meet a stranger in her workplace) and barely scraping by. She had joked she needed someone to fund her shopping sprees.

Flynn had suggested a sugar daddy.

Julie wants to bang her head on the table. Past Julie is an idiot. And now Present Julie is going to pay the price.

Why had she let Flynn convince her to download that dumb app?

(Because she has a virtually useless college degree, bills to pay, and school loans creeping up on her and she is cutting back every month. Living in L.A. isn’t cheap.

And, if she really lets herself think about it, Julie is lonely.)

She checks her phone again, pleased to find it is finally 11 am. He should be here any minute. Luke should be here any minute.

Is it a red flag that he had only been willing to share his first name? Should it have concerned her that he didn’t have a profile picture on his online dating account? Is she dumb for letting him change the subject every time she asked about his job? Solid ‘maybe’s to all of those, but! After they had started talking, they had instantly clicked. He loves music almost as much as she did, maybe even more. They bonded over that, and many other things.

This is fine.

She straightens her posture, glancing down at her dress to make sure all is in order. It’s baby blue with golden sunflowers all over, and she had slipped a cropped denim jacket on top, the one with patches of all her favorite bands. She fusses with the loose curls hanging by her face, her hair pulled into a half bun at the top of her head, leaving a clear view of her sunflower earrings. It’s the perfect outfit to be noticed in, she had told him she’d be wearing blue and sunflowers, certainly he wouldn’t miss her.

Whenever he decided to show up.

Wait. he would show up, wouldn’t he?

Of course he would.

...Right?

Before she can get too far down that rabbit hole, the chime above the door is jingling, and Julie has to fight hard not to turn and see who it is. The anticipation crawls up her spine and settles in her neck, jaw tingling.

A man comes in, approaching the counter with confidence in his step. One barista takes one look at him and gapes like a fish, turning to a coworker to nonchalantly point at him. Both girls look at each other and quietly squeal, letting one of the male cashiers help him.

Must be attractive, she thinks, and she isn’t disappointed by what she can see from the back. His sleeves are short, showing off his muscular arms and he’s tall. She’s always liked tall men.

Supposedly handsome stranger orders his drink and waits at the counter for it. One of the girls hands it to him with a gleeful smile. He accepts, then says something to her before the girl’s smile falters and points right at Julie.

Wait, she’s pointing at Julie?

Definitely handsome stranger follows her finger and lands on Julie, eyes scanning up and down her body (at least, what he can see from above the table), his face instantly lighting up in the most gorgeous smile she’s ever seen.

And then he’s turning back to say thank you and then making his way towards her and oh no what what what--

Because this isn’t her date. It can’t be, right? But Luke Patterson is stepping up to her booth, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Hey, you’re Julie, right?” His voice, sweet and thick as honey, and Julie would know that voice anywhere.

“Luke Patterson? You… you didn’t say--” She cuts herself off before she can say something foolish.

Because there is no way in hell she’d unknowingly put up her sugar baby services to Luke fucking Patterson. Not rockstar Luke Patterson. Not lead guitarist and singer and songwriter for her favorite band, Sunset Curve. Not literally in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame Luke Patterson.

“Yeah, about that… I am really sorry about not telling you. It’s just not something I like mentioning to everyone I meet, you know?”

She’s having a hard time processing what he’s saying. He’s so close. Why is he leaning on the table like that? Why is he so close?

“Yeah! Yeah, totally. That’s understandable.” She laughs nervously, taking a sip of her coffee to avoid speaking any further.

“This… this is okay, right? You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” This clears her mind a bit. She takes in the way his hands fiddle with the rings on his fingers, his shoulders raised, and while his smile is easygoing, his eyes say otherwise. Why would she be mad?

She expresses this to him, and he just looks at his hands.

“Well, because I wasn’t completely truthful with you. And I totally understand if you want to walk away.”

“No!” She says before she can filter herself. His eyebrows raise in amusement. “I mean, it’s fine! I was just… surprised, that’s all.”

And surprised is correct. Luke Patterson is the same Luke she’s been talking to for the last three weeks, the very same one who’s been making her laugh and who’d almost made her miss work last week because they had texted about everything and nothing until the sun came up.

He seems to like her answer. His smile never leaves his face.

“You seemed to recognize me. You a fan of Sunset Curve’s?”

And maybe it’s the way his cocky smile burns her cheeks, or just the fact that he’s talking to her. Panic sets in and she lies.

“Never heard of Sunset Swerve.”

“You knew my name.”

“You know it’s a household name, right?”

“Your jacket says otherwise.”

And shit. She had forgotten about the Sunset Curve patch right over her heart. In fact, it was the first patch she had put on the jacket. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Fine. You caught me. I’m a Curver. Happy?”

And though she’s teasing, he couldn’t seem to be happier. Seriously, she’s worried his dopey grin is gonna break his face. Then an ugly, ugly thought rears its head in her mind.

“Wait. You let me gush about Sunset Curve so many times and you didn’t say anything?” Her sentence ends in a laugh.

“Oh, Julie, I wanted to so bad. You have no idea!”

Julie finds herself not really registering the second half of his sentence. She had missed it, the first time he said her name due to being starstruck, and her face warms a bit when she recalls just how good her name had sounded when he said it. Like a splash of cool water on a hot day. Like sap dripping fresh from a tree, glinting in the sunlight.

“Then why didn’t you?”

He sobers a bit at this, though his eyes still hold the same fire as before. “Well, I didn’t really want to go around announcing that. Can you imagine how many matches I’d get if I put that little tidbit in my bio?”

Julie laughs at this, the absurdity of it hitting her. Of course. He’d want someone who’d like him for him, not for his status, or name, or fame or money.

Oh. Shit. She was literally here for his money.

“For sure! Must’ve been hard.”

“Oh, not really. I matched with you on day one and deleted the app once we exchanged phone numbers.”

“Really?” Julie felt a little guilty for still having the app on her phone now, even after she was pretty sure Luke was a good match. There was still the possibility that mystery man was a total creep. If she’d have known who he was, on the other hand…

“Totally! I’ll be honest, my bandmates put me up to this, but once we started talking I just knew I had to meet you.”

Julie’s mind still feels a bit foggy, like she was dreaming. A fantastic dream, might she add.

“I’ve been really excited to meet you too. My best friend also convinced me to get the app. She’s actually over there.” Julie smiled, nudging her head over towards her friend, where they were certainly trying their best to eavesdrop.

“Brought a plus one, I see?” Luke chuckled, giving Flynn a wave. Flynn hid her already shielded eyes from view with her book.

“Hey, you gotta remember I was meeting someone whom I had never seen before, and the fact that I didn’t know your last name was not helping.”

Luke’s smile turned bashful again. “Ah. She’s backup.”

“Yep! But I think they’re good to go.” Julie whipped out her phone and sent Flynn a quick message, relieving her of her duties.

“You sure? I might kidnap you.”

“I’d let you kidnap me.”

Oh god. She so did not say that.

He seemed to think it was funny. At least she was amusing. At her own expense, maybe, but amusing nonetheless.

Amusing to Luke Patterson.

If she doesn’t stop saying his last name, she’ll go insane. This is just the dorky guy she’s been talking to. The one she’ll hopefully get to talk to tomorrow.

Despite the rocky start, Julie would say it was a successful date. Coffee turned into lunch at a nearby bistro, and he walked Julie to her car a few blocks away. She didn’t get to her apartment until after 4 o’clock, and Flynn was waiting with two glasses of wine in their shared living room. Julie is eager to spill all the details, and Flynn is the perfect listener, oohing and ahhing at all the right moments.

As Julie crawls into bed after her eventful day, her phone dings on her nightstand.

PayPal: Luke Patterson sent you $500.00  “I had a great time today :) hope to see you again soon!”

Well. If she had calmed down any, this just undid all of her efforts. A wave of guilt floods over her. The concept of a sugar daddy sort of seemed too outlandish to really fathom. But now she feels awful taking his money.

She’s really doing this, isn’t she?

Julie: you really didn’t have to

Luke: but i wanted to

Luke: it’s ok tho right?

Julie: i guess it’s fine, it’s just a lot of money

Luke: i realise how conceited this is going to sound but its no sweat off my back. just think of it as a gift

Gifts. She could live with that.

* * * *

taglist! @ladyblanche :)

[fangirlxwritesx67]

May Be Home, Chapter 1  Word count this chapter: 2100 Also for @saxxxology Vol 1 Writing Challenge Characters: au rockstar!Dean Winchester x OFC Sasha Song: Sounds of Someday, Radio Company Music

Tags: 18+, sex, smut, lots and lots of m/f sex in different ways (fingering, oral, penetrative) in different places (bed, table, car, shower), no condoms ever, enthusiastic consent, Daddy kink, language, lots of alcohol, sexy eating, etc

The business card in Sasha’s hand was black, made of heavy paper, embossed with black lettering that was only visible when she tilted it a certain way in the light.

Dean Winchester, it said on one side.

On the other side was a phone number with the words “serious inquiries only” below it.

Sasha flipped the card in her fingers over and over. She didn’t know what would happen if she called the number, and part of her was afraid to find out.

But if there was one thing that Sasha was serious about, it was the blues singer Dean Winchester.

He had burst onto the music scene barely a year ago. The story was that in his late 30′s he got tired of unfulfilled dreams, quit his job as a bartender, and started making music. His first album barely registered, but he did get a gig opening for Colter Wall. Before the tour was over, fans were buying tickets to see Dean, not Colter. His second album was a huge hit, and he rode the success to his own tour. 

What was it about Dean Winchester that drove the fans wild? His voice, for starters. He had a surprisingly broad vocal range, able to soar and scream and growl all in one song. His sweet spot, though, was those deep notes that drove the blues along. 

Everyone who heard his music, whether they liked him or not, was impressed with his raw talent. But more than talent, Dean Winchester possessed a magnetism that women and men alike found irresistible. 

It could’ve been anything - his handsome, chiseled face, sprinkled with golden stubble; his thick hair, toasted almond shot with gold, artfully mussed as if he had just rolled out of bed; his strong arms and the way they flexed when he played the guitar; his long legs and round ass and the way he rocked his hips that made everyone in sight think of filthy things. Or maybe it was his mouth, his pouty full lips that were almost obscene on a man, and the way he seemed to kiss the audience when he sang. No one knew exactly what his secret was. 

Certainly, Sasha didn’t know. All she knew was that the first time she saw a video of him singing, she fell in love. 

Something about Dean was different from anyone she had ever seen. It wasn’t just his talent or his gorgeous face. There was an openness to his songs, a vulnerability in his performance.

When Dean sang, his music moved Sasha in a way she couldn’t even begin to describe, reaching all the way into her soul. His voice carried such a longing that she ached to hear it.

That desire drew her in, made her feel close to him.  She dreamed, secretly, of being the woman who could satisfy him. She imagined that their hearts could find a home together.

There was nothing, no one she longed for the way she longed for Dean Winchester.

When she found out that Dean would be headlining the Bourbon & Blues Festival in August in her city, Sasha knew she had to be there. It was her dream to see him perform live, to maybe even meet him. 

She picked up extra shifts at the restaurant and saved money by trading Starbucks for coffee she made at home. Her coworkers teased her about the money she was saving to see Dean.

Just days before the event, she had scraped together enough money to buy a backstage pass. She had never spent this much money on a concert ticket before. Then again, she had never loved a singer like she loved Dean Winchester. 

The night of the concert, Sasha dressed carefully. She wore dark wash skinny jeans and a plaid shirt over a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt. She took a long time applying smokey eye make-up that she knew made her dark eyes look gorgeous, and teased her dark curls into thick waves. She finished the look with heeled boots and plenty of jewelry.

Dean Winchester’s concert was the most amazing experience of Sasha’s life. From the moment he strode on stage on long bowlegs, wearing his usual double denim and bandanna around his neck, the air felt electric. 

Then he leaned into the microphone and launched into a song. Sasha felt goosebumps sweep over her body. Watching concert videos was nothing like seeing him perform live. In-person, he radiated an irresistible sex appeal. The longing she felt for him, from him, was almost unbearable.

She was caught up in the moment, in the music, in the animal magnetism that was Dean. By the time he called out the last notes to the last song, she was sweaty from dancing and flushed with desire. She cooled down a little backstage as she waited for her turn for an autograph and photo op. She was surrounded by fans, women and men alike who loved Dean at least as much as she did, if not more. It was a heady atmosphere. 

Finally, Sasha got to the table where Dean was standing. He was swaying a little, drunk on bourbon or adrenaline or both. He was sweaty and had loosened his bandanna around his neck. Up close, she was blown away by how gorgeous he was and how much she wanted him.

Photos were inadequate to capture his raw appeal. He signed her records and then drew her in with one strong arm for their photo op. Instead of looking at the camera, though, Dean looked at her. His eyes raked up and down her curvy body appreciatively. 

“Well,” he drawled after a moment. “Aren’t you a sweetheart? I like a girl who likes Zeppelin.”

Sasha flashed a bright smile as she felt herself blush. Was Dean really looking at her, talking to her this way? She pressed against him just a little bit closer than was appropriate for a photo with a stranger. In return, Dean slid his hand down over the curve of her ass. 

That was the moment the photographer snapped, the two of them gazing at one another with undisguised desire. 

After a few moments, one of Dean’s handlers appeared and pulled Sasha away. After all, there were many people waiting to spend a few seconds with him. 

On the sidelines, Sasha took a moment, trying to get her heart to stop racing. She had actually met Dean! And she thought for just a moment, when his luminous green eyes locked on hers, that she had seen longing reflected back. Her knees were shaking.

Someone approached, a tiny redheaded woman in a business suit who looked entirely out of place on the backstage of a blues concert. 

Without saying a single word, she handed Sasha a card - the card that she now held in her hand.

It had been three days since then. Three days of reliving that night over and over in her mind, remembering what it was like to be in the audience as Dean sang and feeling like he was singing just to her. Three days of recalling his hand on her ass and his hot longing gaze, the picture that captured a moment of him wanting her as much as she wanted him.

If she wasn’t serious about loving Dean Winchester,  what would she ever be serious about? 

Sasha picked up her cell phone one more time, but this time she dialed the number. She didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t really think Dean would answer the phone himself, but she had to admit, she was a bit disappointed when she heard instead a woman’s voice.

“I’m Rowena MacLeod, Dean Winchester’s personal manager,” the woman said in a lilting Scottish accent. “If you’re calling this number, it’s because you got one of Dean’s cards.” Sasha’s voice trembled as she answered, “Yes.”

The woman spoke in a quick and professional tone. "Mr. Winchester is not a rock star,” Rowena explained. “He doesn’t pick up groupies. After all, he has an image to protect. However, once in a while, he likes to have a weekend away. He prefers to enjoy this weekend in the company of beautiful women. Would you like to join him?” Whatever Sasha had thought she was expecting, it wasn’t this. She was speechless.

Rowena continued. “Of course I don’t mean just you and Dean. Usually, his brother joins him, sometimes a friend. You would be one of a number of women there.”

Sasha still couldn’t find the words to respond. 

“This number was for serious inquiries only. Are you in or not?”

Of course she was in! For Dean, anything. The only word she said was, “Yes." 

Rowena then told Sasha to expect a package, priority mail. When it came, it looked much less like a good time and much more like a legal contract. She had to get a physical, including STD testing, provide proof she was on birth control, and agree not to make any drastic changes to her appearance. She also signed a very strict non-disclosure agreement. 

She didn’t care what she had to do. Whatever it took, it would be worth it for a weekend with Dean Winchester. She just wanted to get near him again.

It was September before Sasha got a call from that number. She answered and recognized the unmistakable voice of Dean Winchester’s manager.

"Are you available next weekend?” she asked.

Sasha answered that she was. 

She could hardly believe this was happening, could hardly comprehend that her wildest dreams of seeing Dean again were coming true. 

Rowena gave her the address of a hotel in a city about an hour away.

When Friday came, Sasha drove to the hotel and checked into the room. On the king-sized bed was an envelope with her name on it. She opened it to see a single page with typed instructions to meet Rowena at a certain room at a certain time. 

She unpacked her overnight bag and showered, changing from her work clothes into jeans and a t-shirt. 

When the time came, she joined a number of other girls to meet Rowena and Dean’s brother, Sam. She quickly realized that this was a business meeting. 

Rowena and Sam laid out the rules: that every girl was there entirely for Dean’s enjoyment. They were to expect a call anywhere from 10 am to 2 am, and would be expected to show up looking clean and made up. They could order room service as much as they wanted, but they were not to drink alcohol unless Dean gave them a drink. Every one of the girls agreed to these conditions. It was quickly apparent that a couple of them had done this before. 

As Sasha looked around, she began to wonder what she was doing there. The other girls looked like they had been made from the same mold: trim, athletic blondes with cute faces.

Sasha knew what she looked like. She thought of herself as striking, rather than cute. She had dark hair and eyes, wide cheekbones and full cheeks. She was average size but generously endowed, with full breasts, wide hips, and a soft belly. She knew there were certain men who found her attractive, but looking around, she began to wonder if Dean Winchester was one of them. 

After the meeting broke up, Sasha returned to her room and waited. She put on makeup and turned on the TV in the background, too nervous and excited to really watch anything.

Darkness fell and the phone never rang. Sasha started to wonder if this whole thing had been a mistake. It was silly of her to think that Dean Winchester, the singer, the man of her dreams, had any interest in her. 

She changed from jeans into pajamas and ordered loaded fries from room service. If nothing else, she could enjoy a few free meals while she was here. 

No sooner had she gotten her food than the phone rang. She picked it up and heard, on the other end, that unmistakable voice - Dean’s voice. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” his tone was relaxed and inviting. “Want to come on down?“ 

Her heart was beating so hard that she could barely answer, but she managed to stammer out a yes. 

She quickly dressed again, touched up her makeup and ran a comb through her dark waves before heading down the hall. She passed one of the other girls coming back down the hall. She looked disheveled but satisfied. 

She smirked at Sasha. "I hope you’re ready for Dean,” she said. “He’s ready for you.”

Sasha’s heart raced at the thought. She was as ready as she could possibly be.

Sasha stood outside Dean’s door, knees shaking with nervous anticipation. She longed for him, body and soul, and wanted him to want her just as much. She had no idea if he did, if he even really remembered her.

This was a wild fantasy somehow unfolding in front of her. She would never make her dreams come true if she didn’t take this chance.

Sasha lifted her hand and knocked. ... Keep Reading - Chapter 2 …

@thoughtslikeaminefield​ Thanks for the beta read, the banner,and everything!

SPN First Last and Always: @dawnie1988, @fookinghelljensensthighs, @idreamofplaid , @onethirstyunicorn , @the-chocolate-moose , @there-must-be-a-lock , @tloveswriting

Dean Curious: @adoptdontshoppets, @deangirl7695 , @flamencodiva , @wayward-gypsy

[joshslater]

Grimsby pt. 1

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Butcher Jones was pacing around in my apartment, poking, prodding and lifting every one of my possessions in the mess. I sat quiet on a chair and made every effort to look at Butcher Jones and not at the mountain of muscle standing at the door, preventing me from running out. Butcher Jones wasn't that old, perhaps mid forties, and looked slim, almost frail. It was hard to know if his nick name butcher was a sarcasm that stuck, or if there was something more sinister behind it.

"I don't see much of value around here. Do you?", Butcher Jones asked, looking down in a kitchen drawer.

"The loan wasn't for home improvements", I replied, immediately regretting the slightly sarcastic retort. Why could I not keep my mouth shut? This was what got me in trouble to begin with.

"That's a shame... Such a shame... Would be awfully convenient for both of us if there was something here I could bring with me, and we would be even. But there isn't is there?" "No, sir." "And there is no way you can scrape together that amount of money within the week.” "I think I can work someth.." "I wasn't asking." "Yes, sir. No, sir."

I glanced towards the door. The mountain of muscle was standing perfectly still just in front of the apartment door, without expression and just waiting to be told what to do. Lift something. Smash something. Break someone.

"And if you can't give me my money, isn't that stealing?" "Yes, sir." "I can't let people steal from me unpunished, can I?" "N-No, sir."

The muscle appeared unarmed, like that would make a difference. Butcher Jones dragged the other chair around the table, placed it in front of me and sat down. He looked exceptionally ordinary. Probably a good thing in his line of work.

"If you sold everything in here, how much could you get from it?" "£10,000 perhaps" "Not even close. And that still wouldn't make us even, would it?" "No, sir. No, it wouldn’t."

I wanted to look away, to look down, anywhere, but he held a steady stare into my eyes, and I wasn't sure what to do. Was it a dare, a game of chicken, some sort of power move?

"I'll buy it. All this shit, your apartment deposit and you work for me for three months, then we're even. Is that fair?"

It was so unexpected and he blurted it out so fast I barely registered what he said. Basically he takes everything I own and own my ass for a quarter. There was an unspoken "or else" in there somewhere too.

"Yes..."

"You're worried about where to sleep. What to eat." He got up on his feet quickly and patted me on my shoulders. "You're working for me now, so everything will be taken care of. You still work for Ross' Repairs?"

"When they have anything for me."

"I’ll tell them you’ve quit. I have a special assignment for you. An undercover kind of deal. I need you to go somewhere, blend in and just be part of the community for a while. Think you can do that?"

That was how I less than two hours later sat on a train to Grimsby, through Doncaster. The only thing I owned was the clothes on my back. The two most valuable items on me was the £54.30 train ticket and a crappy Huawei phone. The ticket was about to become worthless and the phone was lent to me by Butcher Jones. He took my smartphone after I had recorded a vague “I’m away for a long while” voice message, and gave me the shitty phone to receive assignment updates to.

With a three hour ride I had plenty of time to think through what had just happened. He was right that I didn't really own anything of value, so walking away from my stuff wasn't that big of a deal. I might have been able to pay him back if I worked really hard for three months, but to be debt free after three months of "blending in" was pretty sweet deal. Hopefully I wouldn't have to do anything too illegal.

I only had 10 minutes to switch train in Doncaster, and didn't have time to grab a lunch bite. It didn't even dawn on me until on the second train that I couldn’t even if I had time. I don't have a penny on me. If only I could have had breakfast before I left.

Arriving at Grimsby Town station I didn't have any further directions. I would be picked up by Declan, whoever that was, and he would tell me what to do.

Some guy decked out exclusively in Nike gear shouted obnoxiously close to me. "Oi! Chayse!" It wasn't until the third or fourth time I realized that was the name of my cover identity.

"Sorry, mate. Chayse Brown." "Fucks sake youse head filled with cotton innit. This way."

Before I had time to work out if it was a ribbing or genuine insult, he was walking towards the ticket hall. He looked to be about my age, perhaps even younger. Unkempt hair, tired look and an unlit cigarette in the corer of his mouth. He was dressed in hideous trainers, grey Nike air joggers, a Nike air sweater in a few different shades of grey, and a black back pack.

"Ere we are. Get changed. All of it."

He pulled out a filled plastic Tesco bag from his backpack and handed over to me. I looked at him quizzically, and he impatiently motioned towards the handicap restroom.

While desperately trying to avoid having me or any piece of clothing touch the floor, I replaced my shirt, T-shirt, jeans, socks, underwear and shoes with the items from the bag. It wasn't like a massive downgrade. My underwear were all supermarket packs, my Levis and shirt second hand, and the rest was mainly a difference in style. But once I had the new sneakers, white socks, Lacoste polo, and Nike joggers on, I certainly looked like I had been downgraded. But I couldn't deny that Declan and I looked like mates. I was here to blend in.

"Hey, you got anything to eat." "Take this" He handed over the cigarette from his mouth. "No, thanks. I don't smoke." "You do now. Jones' orders." Begrudgingly I put the damp end in my mouth. "Light?" "In the car"

The car, a beaten up, green Vauxhall Corsa, was parked illegally just outside the station. Once inside he tossed his backpack with my clothes in the back and tossed me a lighter.

"I should light it in here?" "Why not?"

It was probably a good thing to start smoking on an empty stomach, as my coughing turned into nausea while Declan almost couldn't handle the car as he was pissing himself. Once he had recovered from laughter he promised to teach me properly after the appointment.

“What appointment?” “A do-over at the barbs’. Mr. Jones want you to look proper mint ASAP.” Declan took back the cigarette, put it in his mouth, and then fumbled in the pile of trash in his door compartment. He found what he was looking for and tossed me a small pack of something. “Nicotine patches?” “I reckon ya needed help until ya lit fags proper” “Thanks, I guess.” “And put yous trackies in ya socks like a proper lad” “Like this?” “Mint fucker and a” Apparently that was a yes, because he looked approvingly at what I’ve done to my socks. It felt wrong.

We stopped in a residential area, and at first I didn’t even see the hair dresser. It was located in the basement of an apartment building. As we entered a middle eastern man greeted us with a big smile and offered us tea. Declan declined for both of us and proceeded to give short instructions for my haircut. Skin sides and four mills top. I didn’t really know what that meant, but only a few minutes later I could see the result. An oval island with short hair on top of my head, and essentially no hair elsewhere. It was almost a shock what huge difference it made. I looked brutal in an unpleasant way. Seeing the actual shape of the skull, specially in the back, weirded me out. My ears looked bigger too.

“You gonna havta like do yous every 2 weeks hear me? 4 mills.” “I hear you” “Let’s do ears then.”

Declan laghued way to much about his own joke before instructing Muhammad to pierce both earlobes and insert a cheap looking glass healing stud. Mohammad told me to keep them in at all times for the next two months. Definitively not remove them at all for the first few weeks, or it could start to bleed.

“You have time to mint brows?” Declan asked Muhammad. “I have time.” he answered.

I had no idea what they talked about, but Muhammad swapped to a different trimmer attachment and did a few well practiced strokes over my eye brows. He then picked up a spool of black thread, pulled out an arms length and twisted it in some weird way. Finally he put it against my skin and using a process I’d never seen before pulled out hairs, shaping the eyebrow. It hurt like hell. I grabbed my trackies and clenched my fists white.

“You want any slit?” He asked me. “Aye, two on left” Declan answered for me.

Muhammad used a different trimmer and carefully shaved two slits in my left eyebrow. As he stepped aside I didn’t see myself in the mirror. In less than 30 minutes I had been totally transformed. Between the brutish haircut, punk eyebrows and douchy ear studs there was little of me left. I had an uneasy feeling that this was moving way too fast, like I was being erased. But then that was the point with undercover, wasn’t it? I could understand why Butcher Jones wanted this done before I met anyone local.

“Oi, pose here. I’ll send a snap to Butcher”, Declan directed.

“Trackies out of yous socks again.”

[tazzykiki]

I’m tired, angry and bored so here we go! A messy list of fucked up Public School Things that may or may not be a universal experience:

The Lunches were a mix of good and horrible:

I was usually fine with the lunches because they were pretty decent and, like, yay food! But looking back they were just, so wrong????

Like in my middle school lunches AND breakfast were a mess. I got food poisoning like once or twice from the breakfast and the lunch was pitiful. At one point they just stopped cooking the pasta and left a bunch of uncooked, powdery noodles in a plastic box like anyone was gonna grab them and be like “mm yes! my favorite! hard noodles!”. Like what the actual fuck.

The pizza was also in a box, none of the toppings were labeled so it was a gamble on what type you would get, and most of the time they were burnt. In HS the pizza was fine but it tasted fake as hell and I’m pretty sure they just took some rubber and put cheese on it.  

My HS lunches were better but even then it was just, really concerning how limited and odd the food was. Luckily we didn’t have to pay except for like cookies and stuff smaller than your hand that costs like $2 cuz they want to “promote healthiness” despite feeding us what is basically prison food.

The class sizes were horrifying: I’m sorry but what person can teach 30+ rowdy kids and be perfectly fine??? Not to mention this was the norm the whole day! Imagine grading all those papers, keeping track of every student, and making sure they all shut up long enough to teach. And that’s just for the teachers who actually care.

Like a class size should be a max of 20 with a few exceptions. Do you know how stressful it is for everyone involved? Not to mention, 30 kids was considered SMALL!! Some classes had 40, even 50 STUDENTS!!!! WHAT THE FUCK.

We never had enough books, or supplies, or anything. Usually by the half point of the year, half the books would be missing or destroyed and it was a mess. In HS the Drama and Music teachers had to deal with like, one class of 10-20, and then like 5 classes of 40-50(all mixed grades too). And you know what’s even more fucked up? There was only one of each teacher.

There was one drama teacher. Who btw deserves the world and legit cares about her job and students. I honestly hope she quit and went somewhere better. She had to put up with 40+ screaming kids, grade all of those assignments, deal with insult and harassment(she was plus-sized and white. So she couldn’t talk back, would get insulted, and more.The only white people allowed to be sassy in that school were funny white men that were laid back), and had barely enough supplies to get by.

There was one music teacher. Who also deserves the world and legit cares about her job and students. She had to deal with 40-50, almost 60+, kids. The majority of them being sophomores and freshman, with bits of seniors and juniors. She taught music, taught band, and organized events and performances. She is, I believe, the first and only music teacher in that school and that’s just so fucked up. Like imagine being one person and having to manage hundreds of students like that.

There was only one digital arts teacher but I have no idea what they did since you can’t choose what class you attend. I just know it was constantly crowded, never really applauded, and they weren’t involved in a lot of things.

Oh yes how could I forget the art teacher! Yeah no there was no art class that involved drawing and painting. Apparently that class was scrapped years ago and has now turned into a JROTC locker! :D Speaking of JROTC:

JROTC and Sports had too much support and that’s a serious problem:

Hey maybe it’s because I’m an art kid and I hate exercising(because every attempt to do so was met with laughter, humiliation, and the ridicule of my body even though I can’t control how my body grows and changes), but man did JROTC and sports(specifically football) have way too much attention.

We had not one, not two, but FOUR ENTIRE JROTC CLASSES! Classes training you to be in the military, specifically Air Force. Classes you HAD to take unless you wanted to be in gym(never had the class but from what I’ve heard, there were about 50-70 kids, mostly male, filling up that class and they didn’t do anything but play ball or whatever. All of course, taught by one guy).

Somehow this program had enough support for uniforms, 4 different classrooms, supplies, several teachers(all of whom were in the military at one point[they were chill except for the freshman teacher who called you a whiny baby for being in pain]), and more. 

Not to mention, every so often military people would come by with pretty pamphlets and fun little strength tests and have kids to sign up to newsletters and shit and ask them to join the military when they graduate so they can get free college and happy fun times!! :D

Football was given way too much attention, even over the other sports, and I absolutely hate it. Every month was about  football, football, football. So much money went into football, so much support went into football. Yeah yeah yeah follow your dreams or whatever the fuck they tell you on Disney Channel, but there was too much support on this one sport that involved kids breaking their heads open. 

Please please give me ONE valid reason why this irritating-ass sport had so much attention while art students, craft students, theater students, music students, students who want to work in literally any other field that doesn’t involve science or sports had to fucking scrape every tiny little chance they could from the crumbs that were left behind. PLEASE tell me why I had to join a completely different program that was hella exclusive and restricted to Juniors and Seniors that had a certain skill-level just to have a proper arts class while football players got a cool fancy bus, a shit ton of gear, and praise every single day(seriously their pictures and trophies were everywhere). 

Why is it that they get scholarships and full rides for throwing a ball around and bashing their brains open while I had to fucking destroy my hand and scramble around for some shit like $200 which I wouldn’t even get because I don’t have the skill to paint the mona lisa or whatever. Anywayyyy~

Hey what the fuck was up with the rules? Sorry kids but if you’re reading this, everything they tell you on tv about high school is a lie. Unless you watched the Dora the Explorer movie, then that was actually pretty accurate.

Hey is it weird we had metal detectors and legit police officers(who were armed) in our school? Is it weird that we had to wear plastic, see-through book-bags, that weren’t even given to us for free and were so weak that they had to get rid of that rule because they would break after like 2 months? Is it weird we were all stuffed into a nasty, sticky, pest-ridden, staircase right in front of the main doors in the morning because we weren’t allowed all the way inside for whatever reason unless it was for a club(i.e. sports)? Is it weird that we were all trapped in the lunch room by security guards because they didn’t want kids roaming the halls even though they already did? Is it weird we weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom and were always told “you should’ve went your last class” when your last class didn’t let you? Is it weird we weren’t allowed to use the bathroom and were always told that “you should’ve went during the transition time” even though the transition time was only 4 minutes and the hallways were so crowded that it’d be time for class by the time you’d get there?

Is it weird that when we were allowed to use the bathroom, all of the bathrooms were locked and only one on the other side of the school was open, and the majority of the stalls were broken? And they kept the bathrooms locked, even after school, because they didn’t want kids skipping class even though they still did?

Is it weird that if you didn’t have a belt(if you were male), or a part of your uniform, you would be prevented from going to class if there were no more temporary uniforms?

Is it weird that if one kid did something bad, the entire class would be punished and class time would be wasted and the point of punishment would be lost because the teacher wanted a taste of power or whatever?(hey one time in 8th grade, both classes had to stand in one long ass line for about half an hour because someone was talking and it was treated like it was a joke. this took up our breakfast time too)

Other Shit: One time my HS got like $20,000 and instead of using it to fix at least one thing, they wasted it on useless flatscreen tv’s and SAT “tutors” that taught us 3rd grade english & math, how to annotate(I swear to fucking god one more person try and teach me how to underline a motherfucking sentence---) and did absolutely nothing to help us. Meanwhile the football players were living like kings.

We had a strange assortment of teachers, ya’ll know about my junior and senior english teacher. But did I ever tell you about the freshman JROTC instructor? She was so much fun~ I remember one time!!! ooh this is a good one :DDDD!!!! that I was in so muuuuuch pain that I was crying and couldn’t move! and guess what!!!!???? ooh! ooh! guess! She called me a whiny baby and said I was overreacting!!!! omg? She was so right tho, I was totally overreacting to being in immense, insufferable, pain that no one even attempted to be concerned about~~ 

Oh here’s another good one: I used to cry a lot! It was horribly embarrassing and not fun~ I was either sick, on my period(which according to the multiple doctors I had to be rushed to, was normal and the intense pain was hereditary), or having an emotional breakdown~ This lasted from 5th grade to Senior Year of HS! :D

One time I was in a lot of pain, 7th grade I believe, and cried for a whole hour straight. What did my teacher do? Have me sit in class while everyone went to like social studies or whatever, talked with some teachers, and then complained about how I “cried and cried and cried for an hour straight” with no concern whatsoever. BTW the nurse was never there and even then she was kinda useless.

Don’t even get me started on the several times I was on my period and was actually screaming in pain and was still looked down on because a student screaming and hollering in pain is no cause for concern obviously~ Really surprising how a lot of the male teachers and staff were more concerned then the female ones, especially the science teacher who has a uterus, has multiple daughters, and the audacity to say I’m ~overreacting~. I’m so happy our teachers and schools have our priorities in order.

Note: If you’re horrified by this. Good. You should be.

More misc things: My HS had a shit ton of roaches, water bugs, and whatever those long disgusting things that walk around on the walls and fall off once you see them. Art meant nothing to them. Teacher sanity meant nothing, student sanity meant nothing. The principal was great and I blame whoever’s “funding” schools and working behind the scenes.  I know this was more about personal stuff, but like a lot of things like large classes, lack of supplies, lack of empathy from teachers, constant pests, horrible food, stupid rules that hurt us more than helped, really weird exposure to cops and military, and too much focus on one subject is super common in public schools and I really really want it to stop.

[echotovalley]

so because I’m taking a writing break but still super needy

I figured I would post this outline for a pokemon au that I’m never going to write. it’s basically notes from a conversation I had back in early 2018? Imagine my surprise going back now and realizing this might read much like Detective Pikachu - cubone is just my favorite pokemon

***before we get into anything please know that while I play pgo and I’ve learned LOTS of new pokemon, I’m still the most familiar and attached to the og 150 + 1. I also probably get a lot of canon pokemon rules and history wrong but my heart is in the right place

reblogs appreciated! | come talk at me about your thoughts or literally anything

premise: keith might not be a pokemon person

but pokemon are definitely a keith person

- for unknown reasons keith docks in cuba, he's kind of just been getting work and moving moving always moving because one place never works out for long. pokemon are everywhere but it's not his thing.

it never happened for him besides why would he make an animal be saddled with him? there's no stability there. and again, he's always moving. through so many different regions.

he doesn't have the heart to yank a sandshrew onto a barge across the atlantic or a charmander up the northeast coast of the US. he can barely take care of himself. and it's weird by now. to not have a pokemon by now. they were everywhere and so normalized.

they were part of everyday school curriculum and even in hospitals and rescue stations. which is another reason why he never stayed in one place very long because not having a pokemon didn't incite people to trust you.

bc even team rocket (team rocket still sounds so much better than team galra but team rocket is the galra) had pokemon that bonded and trusted them.

he gets a room and some horrible job on the coast and basically just gets by. tries not to cause trouble or get caught or encourage rattatas or a caterpie to follow him home because they could still smell half the lunch he didn't eat tucked in his bag

- i'm plotting by the seat of my pants but what really kick-started all of this was the thought of Keith finding a wounded cubone in the middle of the night.

it's too dark and raining to tell what animal or pokemon attacked it or if it was a person that fractured the skull he wore enough for a piece to break off along the jaw

the cubone sustained a mean looking scrape to its face and this is not what keith needs right now but he can tell the cubone's crying and kind of just accepted what's happened and it keeps pawing at the missing piece in the skull and keith may not actively interact with pokemon but he doesn't hate them and he still has a heart.

he's docked in cuba and his spanish just gets him by to get food and money and not anger anyone

he didn't think the barge's docking region through all of the way so he's got a cubone to help with rudimentary spanish that sucks on the best day but he's going to try and get the cubone help

he starts rushing through streets and people's yards because he could have swore the town had a gym he passed but in the dark and rain it takes him a full hour to find the gym.

- duh it's closed but he's at least going to bang on the doors and hopefully it's going to set off an alarm or something

the police will show up or someone will be able to take the cubone where it needs to go. his hand is numb from knocking as hard as he could before the door is whooshed open and someone is spitting rapid fire spanish like venom and he thinks he manages to get out that he can really only speak english and shoves the cunbone into their hands.

before he knows it, he's being yanked by his collar into the gym and down hallways and finally into the blinding lights of the pokemon center on sight.

there's more spanish and faces that look so similar that its clear it's a family that runs the gym.

- beep beep guess who's family owns and runs the gym

the pokecenter is actually a rehabilitation center founded and run by the McClain family for several generations

he gets questioned after the cubone is taken back behind the doors and it takes someone repeatedly snapping their fingers in front of his face to get him to come back to the conversation.

his name's keith, he's from the US, he just found the cubone - no he doesn't know if it has an owner, doesn't even know if it’s wild or if it has a nearby pack or how it got hurt or how long it’s been hurt.

but keith,

keith is his name and he can at least answer that.

he stays there over night and finds out that Marco is the one that answered the door. Veronica is the one to actually examine him because he looks like he's about to pass out.

their mother is the one to assure him the cubone would be fine - her daughter Rachel attends to injured pokemon and gets another son Luis to show Keith to a room in their house and keith passes out the second he stumbles to a bed.

- in the morning, when he goes to the bathroom and is in the middle of washing his hands, another son is banging on the door for Marco to get out of the bathroom and that's the first time he meets lance

when Keith yanks the door open he tells him to freaking stop because he's clearly not marco.

an older man, probably come to break up a fight, stops and blinks at keith before shouting over his shoulder about not remembering having or getting another kid (arthur "and who are you???" weasley style)

(our boy Lance has a minor panic about the cute random guy is his bathroom at 8 a.m.)

Keith gets shoved down at a table covered in food for breakfast and can't keep up he definitely has a headache and is ready to throw himself through a window when he's asked about his pokemon and if they need help too

he doesn't have pokeman and never has had one and isn't really interested and this family has centered their entire lives around it

- he sees the cubone again, in recovery and it paws a little at his hands in thanks

over the next few days, he stays with them and somehow gets roped into doing chores around the facility and given an assigned seat at their table for meals and he's just T H R O W N

they literally have an arbok taking a nap in a hammock in their backyard and a pod of seadras in an olympic pool in the gym just hanging out (doing little races between each other or chasing each other)

a vulpix he learns belongs to one of the McClain siblings (Rachel) sunbathes and sniffs at his feet while he’s working in the yard

and there's a persian destroying blinds in the living room window and a charizard in the kitchen

and some random small children he learns are marco's are throwing or shooting across the floor fridge magnets as a game with a magnemite

- begrudgingly on McClain’s part, keith’s assigned to Lance for being shown around the rehab center

lance takes him to the beach and out into the middle of the ocean on a boat

Keith: "this is where you feed me to a gryados"

Lance: "close"

and a freaking L A P RA S pops up out of the water and clicks at lance and makes little waves in his direction and they do a damn forehead touch he's crazy this is crazy

Keith: "YOU HAVE A LAPRAS???!!!!" - because even keith who doesn’t do pokemon knows what the heck a lapras is

Lance "I don't have a lapras. Nobody owns her. We just give her her room and protect or heal her when she needs it"

- the next few weeks see lance having to admit keith isn’t so bad and that just because he doesn’t have a pokemon, it doesn’t mean he actively dislikes them

the cubone is attached to keith - despite his bad attitude, lance says

this is the initial thought that kicked this off: keith asks if they have a 3D printer and once the cubone's injury is fully healed, he makes a mold for the missing piece and fits it in place

lance denies crying

"you've done one (1) good thing, kogane"

- then the real plot kicks in when the lapras is captured and taken from the beach by team rocket

lance blames keith because of the timing, because of keith's vague answers on where he's from, why he has no friends or family, no pokemon

insert painful, raw, yelled, "I TRUSTED YOU"

keith convinces him he's not part of team rocket and the main story starts where lance and keith leave to go after the lapras and return her to cuba.

- before they leave, rachel throws a pokeball at keith "i think your cubone might like this one"

and lance's eyes get huge because he knows what it is and then a pokemon is coming out of the pokeball

and it's a marowak

the cubone very carefully and slowly approaches her and the marowak just watches and waits. the cubone brushes its bone across the marowak's foot and then approaches and okay keith's eyes definitely water as he watches this marowak kind of take in the cubone.

(THE CRITICAL HIT COMES WHEN THE CUBONE EVENTUALLY EVOLVES. I like to think maybe through poke-magic the skull fixes itself when he evolves and the cubone hands the 3d mold back to keith and gets keith to put it on a chain safe for his skin to wear the 3d mold piece still)

- obv they get the lapras back,

they find out keith's mom was a double agent ofc for the team rocket faction that took the lapras

they meet hunk and pidge and allura and coran and romelle and others along the way to take down team rocket because what’s a pokemon au without the power of friendship

- keith and lance wait at the airport in cuba

it's for shiro, he had let keith travel because he saw that keith needed to find room to grow and find who he was

obviously keith is not 10. he and lance are 17.

anyways he rushes keith and pulls him into a big hug and tells keith how proud of him he is

the first thing lance tells shiro is about the time keith almost stepped on an exeggcute and how they chased him

or the time he almost sustained a skull fracture from a taurus and the time a seel thought keith was its mom

there was also that time with a magby-

keith: “OKAY LANCE WE GET IT THANK YOU”

BONUS:

keith being mildly terrified of the pokemon hanging around the McClain properties

Lance: "if you want to lay in the hammock just move him"

Keith: "just move him?! it's an arbok not a lap dog"

a nest of torchicks gets laid in the backyard and follows keith for two days after they hatch and lance laughs so hard he cries because keith can't shake them and he winds up tripping and they all jump on top of him

keith might not have been a pokemon person

but pokemon are definitely a keith person

[evak-fic-rec-turtleanon]

Evak Fics - Twitter Social Media

I love following these social media aus on Twitter so I thought I'd share them with you. They are a lot of fun!

I've put them in alphabetical order based on the writers' twitter handles. Under a read more: 

@ 98mcu : 

AU 1 - Insufferable Everyone has secrets, but what if you share them with the one person you absolutely despise.

(WIP) AU 2 - Boy in love when a very shy boy starts a twitter account to ramble about his admiration for the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.

@ etannetsted : 

AU 1 - Enemies to lovers au Isak is pretty sure his whole life is a huge joke. Seriously, what were the odds that Magnus' new crush is the same guy he fell in love with a year ago and who left him with nothing but a broken heart and a green sketchbook?

@ evakslove :

(WIP) AU 1 - Last update Aug 2019  Even is a member of Hei Briskeby and a famous Youtuber who is struggling to separate the internet from reality. Isak is visiting Vidcon with Sana as a favor as she is being dragged along by her brother and Yousef. Isak is the realest thing Even has seen.

@ evamvhns : 

(WIP) AU 1 - Last update Sept 2019 the weekend getaway to chris’ cabin is something everyone looks forward to. but it soon turns into a nightmare when a familiar body lies dead the next day. and things keep getting worse when the group realizes that the murderer is within them.

@ quarterleigh : 

Thread of all their aus

AU 1 Isak is a broke university student who needs money fast. Thankfully his science buddy Sana has an in with a modeling agency

AU 2 Even is retaking his final year at a new school and is determined to graduate this time. Too bad the guy his mom hired to help him finish is the biggest distraction yet.

AU 3 Even is the crown prince of Norway, endlessly privileged and unbelievably unhappy. After a messy breakup, the media turns on him. Isak is a journalist tasked with what he thinks will be the least interesting story of his career- a profile on the prince.

AU 4 Every year, the university grants funding for 1 student project. Even is thrilled when he hears he’s going to be receiving funding for his short film, only for the board to withdraw their offer in favor of a last minute proposal from a biology student.

@ Sandras_SkamAUs : 

Thread of all of their aus

AU 1 AU where they meet in Uni. Isak doesn't think too highly of Even and it shows. And when they have to work on a group project together, Isak would very much like to kill someone... but maybe Even isn't so bad after all?!

AU 2 After weeks of copying, brewing coffee & getting lunch for his colleagues, Isak's time to shine comes in the last week of his internship at a local newspaper. He is allowed to do his 1st interview & write an article on Even Bech Næsheim, a theater director and gay rights activist. Little does Isak know that this man will change his life 4ever.

AU 3 Both Isak & Even decide to spend a semester abroad @ the University of Heidelberg, Germany. While this seems like a life-changing opportunity, both feel kind of lost, lonely and homesick in their new environment. That is, until they meet each other.

AU 4 Even is Norway's most sought-after model; Isak one of the most promising, aspiring models. They meet at a shooting & start an affair that only each of their respective bbfs know about. No one can know - not Even's girlfriend, not the media.

AU 5 Isak is a rich, rebellious guy who would do just about anything to piss his dad off. Even & his family on the other hand are barely scraping by; but he's a literal sunshine. Their paths collide when Isak tries to piss his dad off on his wedding.

AU 6 Isak moves to Trondheim to start his BA in Biology at NTNU. There he immediately is mesmerized by his local barista Even. However, Even holds back due to his disability. Inspired by the wonderful art of Elli (elli_skam on Instagram).

AU 7 Evak have been going strong for almost 3 years now. They are the picture-perfect dream couple that everybody envies just a little. However, Isak has a secret, he doesn't feel comfortable to share with anyone. Not even Even. Especially  not Even.

(WIP) AU 8 - Includes Skam France They've been best friends forever, four guys growing inseparable over the years. When two of them start dating, universes collide. Will they really make the right choices? And what will that mean for their friendships?

@ skamruinedme : 

Thread of all their aus

AU 1 Attending Sana's brother wedding turns into a nightmare when Isak gets stuck in the elevator for hours. But he is not alone, and he can't decide whether that is a good or a bad thing. And then the guy keeps popping up in his life for some reason.

AU 2 They are neighbours who hate each other with a burning passion. Despite this, neither of them can deny that the other is hot af. So they make an arrangement, and then other arrangements. The problem? none of them seem to work.

AU 3 Isak and Even are childhood best friends. Even is straight and in a committed and loving relationship with Sonja. Isak is hopefully in love with him and silently pinning. But what happens when Isak gets a boyfriend?

AU 4 When Isak said he'd have to move to Trondheim for uni, both he and Even decided that it's for the best if they part ways. Flashworward 5 years later Isak gets a job offer in Oslo and has to go back and face old friends and old love.

AU 5 Texting your number neighbour is a growing twitter trend that the boys from the famous YouTube channel Hei Briskeby need to try out too. Even is not very fond of the idea at first, but he gives in eventuality because what could possibly go wrong?

(WIP) AU 6 - a Nooreva au Nissen days are over, and they should celebrate, but they can't. Eva and Noora are both heartbroken, tired, and in a desperate need for change. The natural solution? Take a gap year to travel through Europe.

AU 7 Isak and Even are engaged and everything is perfect until it isn't. Isak goes missing without a trace. Can he be found before it's too late? And most importantly, who is guilty for his disappearance?

AU 8 Isak and Even are friends and it's all good, except for one small problem. Even has a crush, but Isak won't look at him that way. The solution? Make a finsta too woo him, in true desperate Even fashion.

AU 9 Isak? Busy student drowning in work. Hates Christmas. Known as cold and heartless. Even? Artist and charming barista every customer is in love with. Obsessed with Christmas. When they meet, Even swears he'll make Isak change his mind about the holiday. Will he though?

(WIP) AU 10 Isak is a troublemaker who can't wait to be done with high school and live the free-spirited life he's always aimed for. The problem? He might have to repeat his third year because he is failing English, so his only hope is getting a tutor. or badboy!isak and nerd!even

@ skamtext : 

(WIP) AU 1 - New au posted on Jan 7, 2020   Even is new to school and is popular figure online in Oslo and is indie basically all the girls (especially Eva) want to know him. He makes friends with Chris and Sana as well being mutual with Jonas. Isak is a class clown and gets in trouble all the time meaning he’s a known name around school. This interests Even and he wants to know more about isak

@ socialmdiaAU : 

AU 1 - Has background Elu Even sees Isak pining hard during rehearsal for the school play. He sends a text: “Cute guy staring at another guy like he’s in love....I hope this plays out like a Luhrmann film.” Nothing, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, goes the way it’s supposed to.

[notthatiwilleverwriteit]

hiii! do u have any headcanons about he cheng meeting qiu?? how much do u think qiu know about he tian an dog? do u think qiu know mr he?

Hi, anon-san! (^_^)/

Not gonna lie, this was my initial reaction when I saw your ask:

“Wait, you’re asking me?” 😂 Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited about your ask but I don’t usually get these kinds of things.

…There, a day’s quota of self-doubt has yet again been successfully met, so on to those questions of yours!

“do u have any headcanons about he cheng meeting qiu??”

I’m going to start this with my headcanons about HC’s history with Mr. Jian:

He Cheng has worked for Mr. Jian since he was an adolescent. But he wasn’t working directly under him (as he seems to be these days) for a long time. In fact, HC didn’t even see the man for the first year or so. He’d heard stories, though.

He started in one of the local groups that had a couple of bars in downtown. Some of them were just regular bars, some were clubs with paid girls (kind of like hostess clubs). All the business, however, were fronts for money laundering.

Like everyone in those kinds of organized groups, he too started from the bottom and worked his way up over the years. At first, he was just an errand boy. Nothing major was entrusted with him, but he also wasn’t involved in anything serious for a good while.

The leader of the group - HC’s boss - was a status-hungry bastard who hated HC’s guts from the very beginning. HC had gotten a place in the organization because of his father and Mr. Jian’s connection, and the group leader despised how his status had been unceremoniously bypassed just like that. Luckily, HC didn’t have to see too much of him. Only a couple times a month when he made his rounds.

It didn’t take HC long, though, to rise in the ranks. He was smart, quick on his feet, and reliable. Despite his young age, he never let the status and glamour of the criminal world get to his head. The people who managed the bars with him liked him because he always preferred to do things without bloodshed. Soon, before he had even turned 20, he was given a couple of low-level underlings and bigger responsibilities.

One of those new underlings was young Qiu.

Qiu was a quiet, angry guy about the same age as HC. He had a fierce glare and he hated the world. He absolutely despised the idea of working for the triad but had no choice. His alcoholic of a father had gambled all of their money, then taken a loan from HC’s group but couldn’t pay them back. He had fled town, and Qiu was left with the distasteful obligation to make the group whole again one way or another. Since he didn’t have any money, his only choice was to work. 

Qiu hated HC from head to toe when they met for the first time. To him, HC was just like any other thug without a shred of respectability.HC didn’t let the broody glares and Qiu’s obvious dislike bother him, though. He treated Qiu with the same business-like neutrality as everyone else. As far as he was concerned, they had a job to do and that was all they needed to know about each other.

HC had just been promoted to a debt collector, and Qiu was assigned as his assistant for extra muscle. Qiu wasn’t as built as he is these days but even at that young age, he had girth due to always doing physical odd jobs to scrape together whatever money he could. Mainly, his job was to just stand there and look intimidating.

Collecting, however, was a rather tedious job, contrary to popular belief. It involved a lot of driving around, waiting for the marks in late hours, and listening to the same songs playing on the radio over and over again.

Sitting in the car together for a better part of the day forced HC and Qiu to learn odd little things about each other, though. For example: Qiu preferred the volume level of the radio or the cruise control to be divable by two. He always loaded food with all of the continents available when they stopped to eat somewhere (more food for the same price, he said). Qiu noticed HC always took his jacket off before getting in the car. He wanted to get everywhere 5-10 minutes early and got antsy if they couldn’t. The loaded sighs got on Qiu’s nerves because what the hell was he supposed to do when there was traffic but at the same time, he was intrigued and kind of gleeful to see HC’s usual cool composure crack a little.

After the first week of working together, Qiu reluctantly admitted to himself that maybe HC wasn’t such a bastard after all. Maybe.

The first time Qiu saw HC in a new light was after their first month together. They had had a rough night at work. A mark had managed to sneak up on them and slashed Qiu with a pocket knife. It wasn’t a deep cut but his white T-shirt was a gruesome sight. HC had told him to drive to his house instead of the group’s headquarters because it was closer. He had helped Qiu patch himself up, given him a clean shirt, and offered a cold beer even though it was barely 5 AM.

As they had been quietly talking in the kitchen (that was bigger than Qiu’s bedroom), a little boy had padded into the room in his PJs and rubbing his eyes tiredly. When he had muttered “brother” in a sleep-thick voice, HC had transformed into someone else entirely in front of Qiu’s very eyes. He had scooped the kid in his arms, brushed his messy bed hair, and talked him into going back to bed. Qiu had left soon after that, but that morning had him thinking for a long time. Ever since then, he had a new kind of respect for HC.

“how much do u think qiu know about he tian an dog”

A lot. Not necessarily all, but definitely more than others. And he could sort of fill in the blanks.

The thing about Qiu and HC’s relationship (be it platonic or romantic) is that it’s kind of like a silent partnership. They’re there for each other but don’t get involved if not asked to. Qiu especially doesn’t ask about a lot of things but he listens silently if HC needs company.

Usually, HC just shows up at his place at a random time, gruffs something about a beer (or if Qiu happens to have any harder stuff around), and throws his jacket over the back of his seat so it’s nice and crisp when he pulls it on again in the morning. In most cases, they talked about nothing in particular, watched a game, and HC folded himself on the couch for the night if he was too drunk to drive home.

But it did take him by surprise when HC had suddenly shown up with a dog and a bag of puppy chow of all things. He knew immediately what HC was going to ask and planned to put his foot down. There was a limit to their friendship or whatever they had. One look at HC’s face, though, made him swallow his objections (didn’t stop him from complaining, though).

With a sigh, he had let HC and the little blanket bundle he was carrying in and went looking for something to put the thing in. There was no way in hell it would sleep in his bed. He emptied an old cardboard box for a makeshift basket and padded it with a used towel. In the first five minutes, the puppy had already peed in the box, and when Qiu turned to glare at HC, he had had the decency to look at least slightly apologetic.

That night HC had drunk more than usual. It was the drunkest Qiu had ever seen him.

One thing was made clear for Qiu: under no circumstances was he to tell He Tian about the dog. When he asked why (slightly miffed because he didn’t want to get involved in anyone’s secrets), HC had told him an obvious lie he didn’t even remember anymore. Qiu hadn’t asked again, and they had started talking about something else.

As the alcohol had loosened HC’s tongue, the more he had returned to topics that weren’t just everyday stuff. He jumbled from one thing to another, some of which Qiu didn’t even have the needed context. The drunker he got, the more he talked about his brother.

That night HC had slept in Qiu’s bed and Qiu had taken the couch.

Afterward, Qiu never repeated anything HC had talked about that night.

I actually touched the “origin” story of Qiu getting the puppy in a Qiucheng fic of mine that was inspired by HT talking about going to the aquarium as a kid.

“do u think qiu know mr he?”

I’m sure he knows about him. He’s most probably heard things about him - both good and bad - by other people in his line of work. Other things, different in nature, he’s heard from HC. I don’t know if Qiu has ever met Mr. He in person, though. Maybe a couple of times.

What does Qiu think about Mr. He, however, is another question. Personally, I’d say he thinks it doesn’t matter what he thinks or how he feels. It’s not his place. I’d also imagine that even if Qiu has his softer side, he knows he’s not in the business of compassion. He would probably see Mr. He’s actions as something that’s just a part of the world they live in. It is what it is.

Qiu’s probably gotten more cynical the older he’s gotten and started accepting bad things more easily than what he would have when he was younger.

I hope I answered the questions to your satisfaction. This was fun, nevertheless! Thank you for asking me

[angel-e-v-a]

POSITIVE 20 QUESTIONS TAG GAME

I was tagged by @fierydeans, thanks so much darling, this is fun!!! ❤️❤️❤️

1. Name 4 fictional characters who showcase your personality the best, with explanations if you want.

Ouch, that’s hard, I have a very weird personality. 

Temperance Brennan from Bones: For one part. I love to read, watch documentaries, have a scientific approach to life and little to no knowledge of popular culture and can appear unintentionally cold and offensive, but in fact am anything except cold.

Lucifer from Supernatural: I’m a very bitter bean who’s in more than an instance almost ruined her life and everything else around me because I’ve little to no idea what’s forgiveness. I variate between being very emotional and wanting to burn down everything. I love annoying people who annoy me. Also, family blows. Plus, I literally don’t know how to shut up and pay attention to me, I’m bored sums up 50 percent of my personality. 

Yennefer of Vengerberg from The Witcher: I’ve never been shy a day in my life. I want everything. My biggest dream was to be important to someone, and I also had big self esteem issues on the account of my physical look. I’m super nice and sweet, but only with chosen group of people. Otherwise, I’m that snarky bitch™ .

Dean Winchester from Supernatural: Now, we may not share life views, and I’m definitively not the person that loves flirting, but gosh, do we share a temper. Besides, we have same taste in movies and music, we both don’t hold ourselves back and do what we want to at the moment, whether it’s too eat junk or drink until stupor. Also overly protective, and very much not above crude jokes and random childish innuendos.

2. Aesthetic

Too wild and messy for one. Blog consist of whatever I love/drool on. 

3. Favorite musical/play?

Hamlet or Richard III. How am I supposed to decide?

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

People telling me I’m the smartest/one of the smartest people they met. It doesn’t do good to my ego or social life, but certainly the only type of compliment that makes me truly content. 

5. How many times have you been in love?

Umm, five times? Though, three of those were more obsession than love. Only two of those experiences were positive, both in term of relationships and emotions, with my ex-boyfriend who I lived with for almost a year, and we parted just because we had nothing more in common, and with my husband, on the account of him being as sane as I’m. 

6. Embarrassing story or fact about yourself that makes you laugh now?

Oh hahahahah, my, I have a lot of those. I once got so drunk on moonshine I just fell asleep at the table and woke 24 hours later. Friends were unsuccessfully trying to wake me up with loudest music all day. The other time my husband (boyfriend at the time, we knew each other for few weeks), made pirozhki and I, who weighted only 35 kg at the time, ate 40 of them!!! Imagine that! 40!!! I vomited all over the apartment, vomited all night and thought I was legit gonna die. And the first time I went to a Chinese restaurant (the worst thing it was with my boss) I loved the food so much, I was just ordering random things from the menu, up to the point the waiter could barely contain laughter when bringing plates. I got so bloated that when I left the place, I had to take of my skirt in the middle of the street because I couldn’t breathe. The luck is I had the tunic, which I sometimes wore as a dress with thighs, and sometimes as blouse with wide belt and skirt, so I wasn’t naked or flashing undies, but man, were people looking at me thinking I’m legit gonna strip bare in the middle of the street.

7. Favorite Disney/Pixar movie?

Hmm, I don’t really like many of them. Toy Story I think.

8. Favorite flower or plant?

Not much of a plant person. But I love roses, and poisonous flowers, and adore venus fly traps. 

9. What’s your favorite holiday?

Birthdays. The only holidays I accept. 

10. Name three things that made you laugh or smile this past week.

I just laughed like mad when recalling the embarrassing stories.

My dog doing dances to get more food, because it’s never enough.

I’m teaching my husband to play chess, because it’s not fair, I have nobody left to play chess with me and I miss it so much. And it’s quite hilarious, especially since he can’t stop thinking he gets a bonus move if he eats my figure.

11. What song would you play to introduce yourself to someone?

Look What You Made Me Do!!! It’s so me.

12. Name something that truly makes you feel peaceful even at your most stressed moments.

It’s usually books and shows and movies I like, and making gifs, but for the last couple of months, whenever I get to the point of blowing up I just watch over and over again that one blasted season of The Tomorrow People. Oh and since coronavirus, I got myself Yu-Gi-Oh! Legacy of the Duelist Link Evolution and can’t stop drinking with more than couple of days pause. It’s the year 2020 and all I’m doing is playing Duel Monsters and getting drunk, it feels like I’m back in my teenage-hood, somebody kill me pls.  

13. What do you, did you, or would you study at college?

I'm a vet technician by profession (the one I learned for, never worked as one a day, I somehow wound up being a translator), but what I wanted to study the most is forensic medicine. However it was a no no (nobody wants to specialize those, they are needless around here). Now I just wanna scrape enough money to enroll either molecular biology or biochemistry and not let myself get intimidated by the fact I’m bad at math. I was bad at math before, but I still had top grade in chemistry. Surely college can’t be much worse.  

14. This is kind of a weird one, but which outfit of yours makes you feel most like yourself?

My leather jacket, tights, black shirt and black boots. The blacker, the better. 

15. What is a quote you live by?

You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist. ―  Nietzsche

16. Name the funniest playlist name you have.

I don’t name them. Pah. Too lazy

17. Make a reference to an inside joke you have with someone you love with zero context.

It’s not dead enough.

18. What is a message you would give your younger self if given the chance?

Please, stop trying to off yourself and drinking all your money. Also stop being a total douche with everyone, not everybody hates you.

19. Who is your favorite family member? (If you have no good blood family members, feel free to mention someone in your found family)

My husband. He’s technically the only family member I have now, unless you count the dog, and a bunch of uncles who don’t really care and it’s mutual.

20. What’s a secret dream of yours?

World domination. Admit it’d be cool.

Thanks again, @fierydeans, I had loads of fun doing this!!!

Tagging: @blakechaos08 @stormborndean @brieflymaximumprincess @mrsimoshen @smolrowena @cherrypierowena @honeyeddeans and everybody who wants to do it. 

[qqueenofhades]

Hi there. I've been scrolling through your "school stuff" tag but thought I'd ask directly - how did you find the transition to actually moving outside of the U.S. for your PhD? I'm looking at something similar and I'm wondering about your experience with the logistics (finding somewhere to live, visa, etc!). Thanks in advance, and congrats on being a doctor!

Oh lord. Why would you do that to yourself? I feel like that tag is mostly just intense kvetching, bogglingly obscure nitpicking complaints, and existential despair, and/or yelling at various institutions and/or people who could not do their god damn jobs. If you have read that and still actually want my advice, I salute you. I’m presuming you’re asking in regard to the UK, since it’s the only experience I can speak on, so hopefully that’s applicable?

In my case, I studied in the UK for a year as an undergraduate, at Oxford, so I was already familiar with the process (at least somewhat) when it came time to do it again for the PhD. Upfront, we must acknowledge the ugly deformed rabid elephant in the room that is Brexit, and the idiotic reform of UK immigration policy currently ongoing. Long story short, they seem to think they can function without low-skilled migration, that the domestic UK workforce will just happily lark off to do the jobs that working-class EU migrants have been doing, that this won’t totally bomb-crater the NHS, that they can run a country by basically only allowing in PhDs in STEM making over £30,000 a year, etc… so yes, this is a complete joke of an immigration policy and it’s what happens when you elect floppy haired xenophobic douchewads and their nightmare party as prime minister! ANYWAY, they’re introducing a points-based system from 2021, which may not affect you for an application under Tier 4, but UK immigration policy is going to have a lot of very stupid reforms and you’ll want to keep on top of those. If you have an offer in hand from a UK university, it is made somewhat easier, but you’ll still need to budget for processing costs, an NHS subsidy paid in for every year you will be there (something like $300/year), and a trip to a UK visa office to have your fingerprints and biometric information taken. If you don’t live near one, that will be travel expenses and so forth. You then have a temporary visa issued for first entry into the country, and a Biometric Residence Permit which you pick up at your university.

That, at least, was the process the last time I applied for a student visa, and it may all have changed by the time you do it. As noted, there are a lot of upfront visa costs, so you’ll want to be aware of those. You need a number of supporting documents, including offer of study, proof of income or ability to financially support yourself (since most Tier 4 visas either don’t let you work or only work a limited number of hours), proof of English proficiency (as a native English speaker/person from an English-speaking country, you won’t need this), and so on. You can’t start the process before you have the offer, but you’ll want to start it as soon as possible afterward, because it can take several months, and obviously needs to be done before you can travel. You will also want to open a UK bank account as soon as you arrive, which can be done once you have your residential address and a certificate from the student services office at your university verifying that you are in fact a student there. It’s pretty difficult to pay out of non-UK accounts, at least for monthly/recurring transactions, and there are international fees. You will also want a UK phone. I still have my UK phone/phone number despite my current hiatus in America, since most carriers offer free or low-cost roaming in Europe (though subject to change with EU trade negotiations), which is nice. I pay only a little extra to have Global Roaming in North America, so I can still use my phone as if I’m in the UK. If you’re planning to be traveling, this is a nice perk to have.

As far as finding programs goes, I’m sure I don’t need to give you advice on what you’re interested in and where you’re looking. Obviously, universities in the UK are grouped as “Oxford and Cambridge” and “everyone else,” though there are also rankings within those. I have been at both of these; Oxford as an undergrad, and then I did my PhD at a large public university in the North that ranks within the top 10 in the UK. The North will be much lower, living-cost wise (actually, if you can swing it, just… don’t do it in London, the cost of living in London is out of control. Of course, if the program you really have your heart set on is in London, then go for it, but just be aware of what you’re getting into). It’s also a rule of thumb that you don’t go anywhere for a PhD unless they’re paying you. Don’t self-fund a PhD, it’s just too expensive, and any decent university will give you some kind of financial stipend. I had a scholarship that covered three years of full tuition at international rate, which was good, though I had to take out some living-cost loans. So if you’re trying to decide between two programs that have both accepted you, a situation I was also lucky enough to be in, it sounds crass, but: take the money. One university had already offered me the tuition/scholarship, while the other had accepted me but wasn’t sure about funding. So I took the one that paid the scholarship. You need every penny you can get. You will be comically, absurdly, unbelievably broke as a graduate student. I was looking back on it like “wow I really lived for four years on BUTTFUCK NOTHING.” It is not for the faint of heart; you will have financial stress along with academic pressure, and while I was lucky enough to have generous friends and family contributing to my living costs, I still barely scraped through. It is something you should be aware of.

I don’t know if you’ve studied in the UK system before (I’m assuming not), but the structure for a PhD is much less determined than in the American system. It will also vary from university to university, so it’s worth establishing contact with a potential faculty supervisor to ask questions and refine your project proposal. I made contact with my eventual supervisor at my PhD university before I actually applied there; I gave him my (much too broad and pretty unrefined) project proposal and what I was interested in, and he helped me tailor it into something that could be done in a feasible time frame and which would make use of his expertise and contribute to the field. Whatever you’re thinking about pitching as a thesis topic, you probably need to make it more specific. I don’t know what field you’re in; I’m a humanities/history person, obviously, so the rule always seems to be WRITE MORE, INFIDEL. But the point is, the UK system has much less structured time, and basically relies on you to have the self-motivation to go out and conduct the research and write it up, and if you’re someone more used to rigid requirements and classes and so forth, you might find it a little hands-off. If you’re like me and can just be set loose in your field of interest and do your own thing, you’ll like it. I feel like anyone who is serious enough about their subject to want to do a PhD has to be primarily self-motivating, but some people function better with clear guidelines, and those are not always forthcoming. I can’t count the number of times I wished my supervisors would just TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK TO DO, but they usually highlighted something and had me work to figure out how exactly to fix it. They weren’t negligent or uncaring or unsupportive, and the project became much better as a result, but yes, it’s on you to do, and it can again be frustrating.

As far as living, I didn’t try to rent a flat from afar, sight unseen, in my first year. I just registered for postgraduate campus housing, and lived with four predictably horribly messy roommates (why???!) before I managed to escape and rent a private flat for the next three years. You will need a guarantor with a UK address (i.e. not your parents in America) to sign on the lease agreement, especially if you fall below a certain income threshold, and go through the usual background checking and approval. If you want to have the place to yourself, it will be, as noted, much cheaper to find something you can afford in the North and not-London in general, though southern England and the London commuter belt will all be expensive. If you’re okay living with roommates, or you make friends during your program, it might work to room together and share costs, but I am a pathological introvert and don’t like people, so I lived by myself. 

Anyway. Right now, I am in the second round of applications for a Big Deal UK postdoctoral award, which would be for three years starting this fall if I got it, at another high-ranking large public university in the south of England. (So yes, everything that I just said about how much it costs to live in London/London suburbs is me playing myself). I would be applying for a Tier 2 visa (i.e. the permanent/settlement track/full-time work visa) if I got this, which would be another barrel of laughs and different requirements from a Tier 4. That is definitely unhatched chickens which we can’t count yet, as this is a highly competitive/prestigious award and there is absolutely no guarantee that I would get it, but it would mean that I would go through the international moving/visa application process for a third time, so I would once again become too unfortunately familiar with whatever bullshittery is happening now. Le sigh.

I don’t know if any of that is helpful; hopefully so. Let me know if you have more questions, and good luck.

[og-danny-dorito]

SpiderMan Noir Headcanons

S F W:

- he gets very flustered very easily, but he's good at hiding it. for instance, of you say something to compliment him he'll just blush up and cross his arms, quietly thanking you for the compliment and seeming like he doesn't care much. but under that mask his face is bright red and his mind is racing

- since he has such bad eyesight (he's near sighted) he can really barely see without his glasses, so he ends up getting very nervous when he can't find them in the morning. like his eyesight is so bad that if he tries to look at something without the mask it's just a blur of mixed colors and light and he can't make out anything

- this causes him to actually have lenses specifically for his eye type in his mask, rather than having a pear of bulky glasses underneath. it's more tactical that way (can't punch nazis if you can't see em)

- he doesn't actually take a lot of time to do his hair in the morning, surprisingly. while his hair isn't extremely neat and he takes pride in how cleanly cut it is, he ends up not having the time to actually do it. he's either rushing out or the door to work or rushing to stop some crime that's been happening that requires urgent assistance. this also means that he barely ever eats breakfast, and when he does he ends up just stuffing it in his face before running out of the door

- with an s/o I'd imagine he'd try to regulate this so he can eat breakfast with them in the morning, but that almost never happens and he ends up coming home nearly exhausted and ends up just eating dinner with them instead

- on the rare occasion he does get to spend some quality time with them though, he makes the most of it by giving them ALOT of affection. quite honestly he appreciates them, even though he thinks he doesn't do a good job of showing it sometimes. he's young but he's always busy 

- normally peter’s a pretty clean guy, and so if he's on a patrol he doesn't exactly get hurt a lot, but he's not invincible. most of the time he ends up coming home at 3:00 am with his side bleeding or some of his clothes ripped, resulting in you having to haul out of bed to stitch him up. honestly you should have a medical degree by now from how many times he's come home needing stitches

- since his timeline takes place during WWII, it's safe to assume that he's nearly an expert on being conservative. no, I don't mean conservative as in run-of-the-mill dude in the southern hills, I mean conservative as in repairing nearly everything. seriously, he doesn't want to have to spend money on new clothes and so he just resorts to repairing everything

- this means that socks, shirts, even things that have just grown old with time are usually mended up and fixed in no time, earning him nearly expert stitching skills. he's even sewed a few things! (even though he ended up forgetting about them entirely and denying he ever made them once you'd find them)

- idk where I found the pic, but I saw this art of noir smoking and I was like 👀 interesting do you mind if I take that concept dear sir/ma’am/unspecified-gender-person (actually wait i found it  https://mobile.twitter.com/kookirani/status/1082319828247994369)

-  yeah, he smokes, I know that's craaaaazy

- it's mostly a coping mechanism, in all honesty. on the contrary he wouldn't know that its kinda dangerous though, since smoking was deemed as dangerous in the late 1950s and WWII took place during the late 1930s-1940s. so yeah, to him it's totally normal (a lil bit of facts there for y'all)

- a lot of the time you'll be able to find him standing on the balcony with a cigarette between his lips, his shirt off for the bandages and other things to get some air as he tries to ease into his own comfortability and think over what he could've done better over the past patrol. it's almost like an assessment of sorts

- speaking of not having shirts on, he's about 5″10 and has a sorta muscular build. obviously his shoulders a broad, and so he really look so like a grown ass man with his deep voice to accompany his aesthetic. he's got a lot of scars as well from previous accidents, such as one on his lower torso from being stabbed while breaking up a street fight and one on his knee where he accidentally flew into a wall. but while he may seem rough and hardened on the exterior, he's got a few weaknesses that prove that he's really just a kid wearing a suit (he's 19 btw)

- on an angst level, he's too compassionate for his own good. for instance, he doesn't kill, but finds it right in his mind to offer redemption to his opponents while still defending the weak and helpless, just as he once was. while he's not a complete pushover obviously he does help people a lot out of the mask. people are struggling during these times, and the women and families that need his help are still out there and around him (it's WWII, shits not great)

- this means that he frequently fixes things for neighbors when they can't afford a repairman, comforts kids who lost their mothers in the crowded streets of Queens, defends minorities both with and without the mask, and so on and so forth. overall he's just a nice guy with a strong sense of justice, and doesn't mind to occasional scrape or so on his knees if it means protecting the people he cares about without even meeting

- peter ends up getting a little...reckless because of this though

- when that's said, that's means that he will literally jump in front of a bullet for anyone. even if it gets him hurt. he's selfless, and a lot of the time he's hurt because of it. but telling him that he can't possibly save everyone is pointless

- “"So what? I should stop trying just because I can't help everyone? That means helping no one gets the same results. I'm not gonna watch people drop like flies cause I can't save the world.”

- yeah angsty as fuck, but he means it. his words come out harsh, but he tries to apologize for being so rough

- “"I'm sorry, I just...” He'd pause. “"I can't watch it anymore. I'm not a bystander. I won't be a bystander.”

- and with that he'll pull you into a hug and just hold onto you tightly, almost as if you'll fade away and leave him if he doesn't

- you're part of him, and you might be on earth of the only things keeping him safe. you're the representation of the good he protects, and god help him I feel he ever fails at something to simple

- anyway that's enough angst let's talk about LIVING with him :3

- it's the little moments that mean the most to him, in all honesty. he doesn't even need you to be the domestic one really, since he views you both as a team rather than husband and housewife

- he usually does most of the cleaning and cooking though I'd imagine since Aunt May taught him to clean up after himself and respect his and everyone else’s space. you going out and getting groceries or just cleaning the clothes for him is enough, so if you're one to typically work around the house more often and take the time to make sure everything's is perfect, he'll partially thank heaven they sent you to him and feel a lot like he's slacking on his part

- he likes to pamper you, give you gifts. expect a bouquet of flowers almost every Friday when he comes home, his smile wide on his face as he professes his love to you through a bunch of cheesy one-liners

- but he also likes to be taken care of and pampered himself, although he never admits it. once again anything small makes him happy, so if you go all out he literally can't stop thanking you. washing his hair, cooking for him, making him things, he loves everything, and appreciates the thought behind it

- to be honest I'm sure he's not really attracted to a certain body type in particular, it's your kindness that infatuated him. generally polite, kindof shy people just make him that much more enamoured, but he likes someone with a good head on their shoulders and a strong sense of justice and morality just as much (if not more)

- if you were a crime fighter, peter would be absolutely enamoured with you. he knows you can hold up your own better this way, and that you don't really need that much protection. he prefers to work alone, but if he has to work as a partner with anyone it'd be you and ONLY you. no third wheels

- but this comes with a downside; peter gets extremely worried when you get injured. he knows better than anyone that it's really just part of the job, but his heart can't help but stammer a little when he sees a bloody lip and bruises all over. you bet your ass he’ll take care of whoever hurt you asap if you haven't yourself

- you hurt his s/o your ass is grass m8

- he also doesn't get really jealous, but if someone is hitting on you he feels not worthy enough or just angry in general

- he usually needs a lot of reassurance, maybe a hug or a kiss after he gets particularly emotionally exhausted. he likes to sit in silence a lot, either thinking or just watching you as you do chores around the house or watch tv. he loves you a lot, and he could watch you just absentmindedly talk about your day or your friends for hours

- really random btw, but this dude can sing. he doesn't think it really necessary so he doesn't outwardly flaunt it, but when he's listening to a song he likes it's easy to catch him humming along to the tune or singing the chorus. it's deep, breathy, right on the verge of raspy almost, and his eyes seem calm when he does

- usually he really only listens to jazz and swing, so you can listen to him using his voice perfectly when the singer over the radio hits a particularly complicated note. if you catch him in the act though he'll immediately blush up, his whole face turning red as he stutters out something to say

- you'd take his hand, grinning, asking him he'd want to dance with you as you smile up at him widely. he agrees, letting his body press to yours as you slow dance around the kitchen, living room, etc. his head will drop to your shoulder, inhaling your scent as he sings softly to you and sways gently from side to side, sharing a moment of wordless emotion that you both understand, share, and relish in. he’ll kiss you, letting his hands fall to your waist loosely to grip you as yours to his shoulders in a sort of grounding gesture. and so you dance, sharing a quiet waltz as lovers in the comfort of your modest home

- all in all, he loves you, too much to where you'd ever imagine. he's not exactly the most sensual, yeah, but that doesn't mean he won't try. you mean the world to him, and he'll go through hell and back just to keep that smile on your face and those eyes bright

 ( for https://zovatm.tumblr.com/, love you bro <3

- Ya Boi 🖤💜💛)

[arabellaflynn]

Hello, all. It has been a rough pandemic.

As you may have figured, since I am in the performing arts, I have been completely out of work since this shitshow began. The earliest venues will open up here in MA is September, which is not helpful for me, because I need to be out of my current place by 8/31. No one will rent to me on my Patreon income, so I've been trying to figure out how to supplement that with other online work.

My first thought, frankly, was camming. I'm attractive and I know that, and I don't care about being naked in "public". I have a lot of opinions on the legitimacy and legalization of sex work, but making a statement would be a convenient bonus; I'd be in it for the tips. As the appliance menagerie on the Flintstones used to say, "Eh. It's a living."

The best camera I currently have is attached to the slightly-less ancient laptop. You know, the one with the broken hinge that won't hold the screen up on the right. Only the wifi on that computer has quit working. The onboard chip was always kind of flaky, but for some reason it has chosen now to deteriorate to the point where it no longer acknowledges a router on the other side of the goddamn wall. Shooting in the living room with an ethernet cable is not an option, because another housemate is already doing that.

I bought a dual-band USB wifi adapter with antenna. It's a Realtek chip -- not gold-plated, but also not total junk. I specifically checked to make sure it worked with Ubuntu Bionic before I ordered. I have now installed three separate sets of drivers in three completely different ways, read everything ever written about this on AskUbuntu, and still the computer refuses to acknowledge its existence. Not even if I blacklist the onboard chip to keep it from falling back into previous bad habits.

The other elderly laptop (with the working wifi) has a cam that tops out at 640 x 480, which I suppose might squeak by as a tiny facecam on Twitch, or for tutoring where no one cares about pixelization. The microphone, however, is crap. It's a tinny omni on the screen bezel that likes room noise more than my voice. I don't have an external microphone, and there's no onboard Bluetooth for my wireless headset. So I bought a USB Bluetooth adapter, which this computer is ignoring as hard as the other one is the wifi dongle. I have a wired headset with a mic, but because this computer is probably mere months too old to know what to do with an inline mic on the same jack as the output signal, it doesn't register at all.

The camera on my phone is potato quality, because that is honestly about how much the phone cost. Ditto the refurb Kindle. Neither is smart enough to keep up with streaming video, which I found out when I tried to do a video rehearsal for something months ago. 

I have no place to do any kind of professional non-entertainment streaming work (e.g., tutoring) with my terrible equipment in any event. I don't own a desk. If a free desk appeared on my doorstep tomorrow, I would have nowhere to put it. My bedroom is small enough to contravene the Geneva Convention requirements for POW cells and I'm basically stuck in here, for reasons of both air conditioning and not having to interact with a house full of people who very much want me gone.

What I do have is a set of working emulators and some free video editing software, so I decided to take a stab at a subtitled Let's Play. I can certainly ramble on for 30 or so hours of Final Fantasy II. At the very least it'll give me something scheduled to do. So I pulled everything out and set it up, only to find that my controller was "pining for the fjords" -- no lights, no acknowledgement from RetroArch, no response to any button presses.

...

...okay, well, at least we're down to a level of equipment I can afford to replace. So I am waiting for the mail carrier to bring me another $10 gamepad, whilst stuck in bureaucratic hell. I'm down to emergency public assistance, which keeps asking me to send them random documents, inconveniently one at a time. Even when I can submit them online I'm required to wait a minimum of 2-3 business days before a human can look at them. I'm trying to not be mad -- they are clearly horribly overworked -- but it also leaves me with a lot of time to do nothing but busy-wait. They've finally decided I'm destitute enough for food stamps, so now I have to sit on my hands until the card arrives in the mail.

The chronic, crushing lack of resources is not helped by (or helping) the fact that I'm just not functioning very well. I was already on the edge of disintegration when the lockdown orders hit anyway; I was taking every piece of work I could find in an effort to scrape together enough for first/last/deposit on a new apartment, and honestly that's more than I can handle. I can consistently get to about 20 hours of "stuff that can't be done while in bed, wearing pajamas" per week, with occasional spikes up to about 30, before I start losing the ability to take care of myself. I skip showers, let my living space become a complete disaster area, and go to bed without dinner because the whole process of choosing something to eat, preparing it, eating it, and cleaning up after myself is so overwhelming that I just burst into tears and don't do it. I fed the rats twice a day and cleaned their cage once or twice a week, but couldn't manage to do the same for myself.

It's difficult to explain to people the state of being physically and mentally exhausted without also being sweaty and shaky from muscle fatigue. Perhaps the single most salient example I can give is lying in bed at night and realizing I kind of vaguely needed to pee. Not like urgently -- just enough that I knew if I didn't, I'd wake up the next day with an uncomfortably full bladder. Then just lying there anyway, not because I thought suffering was noble or I deserved it or anything idiotic like that, but just because taking care of it would involve standing up, walking into another room, and initiating a new task, and I did not have the capacity to do any of those things.

If you suggest I start making a to-do list, I will sit down right now and invent a brand new Blunt Object Transfer Protocol (botp://) expressly for the purpose of punching you, personally, in the face over the goddamn internet. I will even credit you in the patent application. I will not share the licensing profits, which judging from social media right now, would be approximately all of the money on the face of the Earth. I do not need "life hacks". 

What I really need is a case worker, or possibly a babysitter, or just to have shown up at the ER about two months ago, because that is the only way I have ever found to get people to pay attention when I ask for help. Otherwise I get triaged out of sight and out of mind -- they ask if I'm suicidal, I tell them no, they tell me 'okay, here's a prescription for six Xanax and a packet of resources, go home and fix it yourself'. I'm just like, you sons of bitches, do you think I don't know how to Google things? If I could fix this on my own, I wouldn't be talking to you. Except I can't right now, because plague.

Everyone wants to fob me off on someone else. I was referred to an SSDI attorney by a friend, because frankly that's where I'm at right now. I wrote to them, specifically mentioning his name and the associate who helped him, and explained that I was basically a vegetable and I needed help applying for disability. I'm a college-educated suburban white girl, who grew up hearing her parents make rude jokes about welfare queens -- I have no idea how any of this works and I'm so broken I kept losing my place in a blanket whose pattern was literally "knit-purl-knit-purl to end of row; turn work over; repeat". Their response was "Sounds like you need some help applying for SSDI/SSI disability. Here's the website for the Boston Bar Association, good luck!" Crisis lines of both the psychiatric and financial varieties keep directing me to one of two national clearinghouse sites for social support services, both of which direct me to each other, because neither has any programs in my area.

I am trying really, really hard not to resent the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who has any sort of support system right now. One housemate has almost the exact same list of medical problems that I do, and is also completely out of work right now. She is married to the one who has a grown-up salaried WFH IT job, and will never have to worry about having a roof over her head or food in the cabinets. The single housemate has supportive family literally a five minute walk down the street; if she ever gets her feet kicked out from under her, she can stay with them temporarily while she scrambles back up. Another friend yote out to California right before lockdown to stay with his family. A local offered to help me with paperwork, then ghosted me intermittently before explaining that he was having a hard time himself right now and barely had the capacity for his own life. I have an elderly rat, no more savings, and no options.

I don't even know how I'm going to move the little I own. How do you even ask people to do that in the middle of a pandemic? If I don't have the money to move, I definitely don't have the money for a moving company, and I'm envisioning all of my community-minded friends pursing their lips in judgement and declining because like all the good people they are diligently social distancing.

I have also discovered, while hauling an empty suitcase out to Watertown and a full one back home again, that I do not cope well with face masks. It's fine if I'm not doing much, especially if I'm in a climate-controlled space like a store or the T, but as soon as I exert myself at all, I see spots. And no, it is not a matter of "just get used to it"; I have tested this by trying to wear a mask during my home workouts. It is just stuffy enough under there, and there is just enough reduction in air flow, that the world keeps going all film-grainy and dark on the sides, which I know from experience is the first step on a very short path to the Magical Land of Syncope. I had to stop during the outdoor trek and sit on the suitcase about twice a block through the commercial district, where it stayed on because there were people. This was when it was 72 whole degrees out (and the AC is generally on 74°F inside) which doesn't bode well for moving my heavy shit around in late August. 

I'm normally good at catching things at the weird-vision stage, although enough random strangers and T employees have asked me if I'm okay that I have to assume I look as ill as I feel at that point. And I have an absolutely tragic talent for talking people out of calling emergency services when I do actually keel over, but everyone is so health-panicked that I don't think it would work right now. I know what's happened and why, but I can't exactly communicate that to bystanders when I'm unconscious. As nice as EMS is, I don't feel like waking up to a round of Twenty Questions ("How many fingers am I holding up? Who's the President? Do you have a seizure disorder?"). So I just don't go out.

Alison over at Ask A Manager got a question about this the other day that suggests this is considered legitimate can't-(always-)wear-a-mask territory, and I am able to wear a mask where required in MA, which is indoors/during interactions with other people when it's actually useful, so I don't have any qualms on the scientific or legal front. I have just never been a good judge of how much potential peril/damage it's "reasonable" to put up with, and I don't have the capacity to explain myself over and over again a million times a day. 

I'm fucking tired. I'm tired of covid, I'm tired of living in a big glitzy continent-spanning banana republic, I'm tired of anxiety, I'm tired of other people carping at me to do things I can't in order to fix their anxiety for them, I'm tired of not having the space to dance, I'm tired of asking for help before things fall apart and being told 'well, come back when it is an emergency', and most of all I'm tired of this cycle where I tell myself "I'm going to stop being lazy! I'm going to put on my big-girl pants and wake up early and work 40 hours a week and support myself like an adult!" and then fail at it again because I just do not have the capacity to do that. I do not know how to make the system understand that I need some kind of support right now. 

Sorry for yet another depressing update, but that's where I am right now.

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[sirfleurs]

i was sixteen years old when my hand was blue.

The grayscale pitch

Preface      

Life is not easy when you are high and alone watching television or pulling an all-nighter listening to Jimi Hendrix. The brain becomes dull. Overstimulated by genius. You stop thinking and overthink at the same time. I guess that’s what some people call daydreaming. All your bad thoughts get loose and all your inhibitions disappear. I figure this is right before the moment you are most likely to kill yourself. I’ll give it an hour before my Manic-Depression shows its ugly face. As I haven’t killed myself yet in an age of 23 I think I’ve done pretty well. I was sitting in my room in some Woodstock apartment writing on my first ever soon to be book. I had decided to call it ‘The Pitch’. It would be about some witty guy who had a great idea and he would be trying to sell his ‘pitch’ to everyone who’d listen. I had thought the rest of the story through. To be honest I didn’t know more than that. As I was about to sit down I had a beer, smoked a cig and 5 minutes beforehand I had masturbated to a busty forest nymph. Believe me was I tired.

A week ago I was checked-in at Fitzroy Hostel in New York City. It had been insane. My supposedly friends and I were drinking cheap wine in our room during this pandemic across the country. Geez after two bottles of wine I somehow managed to pay for- and eat two caps of MDMA and it blew my mind. I sat on the floor to cool my ass but everything began to spin and it hit me hard like a jolt. Andrew said “hey dude, maybe you should go to the bathroom and stick two fingers in your throat you don’t look too good”. But he was just too late. I burst like a water balloon, vomiting on the floor of Duncans room. Duncan was this nice guy that played XBOX and drank occasionally. Geez was I sorry. I locked myself in the bathroom to get the caps out. I was trying to vomit and I began to feel heated. The MDMA had already kicked in and it was too late to reverse it. I would have to wait this one out. Everything started to feel nice all around the body. My eyes became big as small plates and my teeth began to clench. I got an strange urge to stick my hand in the toilet to cool my body. Something I am not very proud of. On the small shelf I found a shampoo that I emptied in the toilet too just for the hell of it. Minutes later people would lock the door up with a coin and find me covered in shampoo. The helped me in the shower and I went to bed shortly after. Hours later I woke up. Two guys invited me for a joint. Something I couldn’t decline. It was only the second time I had ever tried drugs. While we smoked this cat, Alex told me “you know this only happened because you drank too much. You can never be too careful with mixing alcohol and MD. It doesn’t help that you hadn’t eaten anything either.” “Geez, I was not in control at all. I’d better stick to weed and drinking. That’s something I know”. Always do drugs with very good pals of yours.

So I went to the street and couldn’t make any money. I was to make something one way or the other. Which isn’t always easy when you don’t know what profession you want to be in. All I knew was that I didn’t need any tiresome busy work in my life. I like to feel needed but not so much that I can’t laugh and have breaks during the day. Life is life you know. But I would dance down the street like drums banging through the air. Long time ago I would have taken every job offered to me now I’m not so sure. I went to a fruit parlor in the New Habor Market in near Manhatten in princess St. I asked the first guy :” how much are these avocados.” “two fifty for three piece”. Fruit in the markets are much cheaper than everywhere else and the life is strong on the street which I thought couldn’t be bad. Everyone just running back and forth doing their bussinnes as usual. The markets was one of the places that hadn’t closed due to the pandemic. Nice, I thought to myself. I handed the guy three dollars and told him to keep the rest. “ hey man, how you get a job here standing here selling fruit, I’d really like to know”. “ah young man, I could take a look at your resume if you’d like”. Problem was I didn’t have much to offer him, so I stalled him trying to promote myself in person. I can be a very persuasive guy sometimes. When I’m in the right mood and I felt it crippling in my fingers my mood was good for this situation. “Hey man, I don’t exactly have a written resume. But I’ll tell you everything you’ll need to know. Im good at shouting and a quick learner give me a shot and ill prove to you, you didn’t waste your time”. I sounded like a sucker. But I couldn’t eat my words. The guy didn’t seem interested. I said “I promise give me a shot and I will not blow it.” He looked me in the eye and we stood for a few seconds staring at each other. “come down tomorrow at 6 sharp I’ll see what you can do. You won’t be paid for your three first shifts and from thereon you’ll be paid commission on how much you sell”. Sounded good to me so I nodded “you betcha” I said with a coy smile I sounded like a dork geez. Anyhow that’s how I got my first job. It went fairly well. I continued down the street. I still had something else to do before my first shift. Let me stand next to your fire I thought to myself. I was excited as hell. Down the road I saw a green balloon it was helium filled balloons. A clown was giving them out to kids. Everything was nice the weather was good and you could hear the wind sweep from central park. I needed to buy some weed for the next time coming. So I got up my phone and rang my friend Alex who had a connection. “O boyy I got a job fix me up with some of that green”. I met him outside the hostel and bought a quarter ounce for 50 dollars which is a fine price for nugs like these. Then I went home and lit a blunt. Just a small one while I sat at my outside porch. We had a giant tree and a lot of ungroomed weeds in our garden. We also had a cat I personally named Pysser in the name of my favourite old person who recently died. He was a sergent Knud Romer was his name. He once wrote an article about me when I was fifteen going to summer camp for young boys with no other places to go for their vacation. God was I sad to see him go. When I was done with the blunt I went up to my room and opened my book. It was called Pimp and the author went by the moniker Iceberg Slim. What kind of badass shit was that. It was kind of interesting the way he proclaimed the pimp life. And he was a real gangster. His bottom whore at the end of her mileage. Meaning the whore who kept every other whore in his house in line. When she goes everything always goes to hell for a pimp. He conend her. He made a whole setup with actors to con her into thinking she killed a rich motherfucker. She would be in the hotel room and this guy would collapse on her. Slim would come up to the room and call a doctor and get the guy collected. Slim conned her into thinking he bribed the police. That way his bottom whore was good to go for more tricks. That’s some cold shit. My thought whirled reading about the cocaine snorting and his nose hurting feelings of something scraping at the roof of his brain made me dizzy. I closed the book and stared at the ceiling. Dreaming. Aw man what do I do now. My head bounced like a bass line I felt slick. Breathing heavily but still relaxed. I went down for a cig to clear my thoughts. Sitting there I couldn’t stop looking at all the animals we had in this household. Cat and two dogs just lying freely whenever wherever.

The next morning I came back 6 sharp. A long 10 hours shift. My legs were aching and my head spiining. I wasn’t used to long as shifts. I was only used to lying around doing nothing chilling with friends. But it would come to me In time oso I ekpt coming there shouting like the others. Loud and confident keeping my back steady trying to pull in costumers in. At the end of each shift you would get paid a percentage of what you’ve sold. The first day I sold I couple of vegetables to this old lady who though I was cute and some couples wanting watermelon smoothies. It didn’t go so well. And I sure as hell didn’t want those pity purchases from old ladies. I made two fifty. It really wasn’t much. But at least I was paid the first day. Something I wasn’t expecting. I went to home sat on the couch with the other living there. We sat there chilling drinking beer and playing chess. And some girl that was visiting was playing skyrim.

Dreamers day

I remember when I was a small kid. I would look at the ocean and dream of being a bird. I would be on the moon. I was a gay kid, really. So much that my mother and sister thought I was actually gay. I remember the beach of Turkey. The warm ocean on my limbs under the moonlight. The salt burning in your eyes. Those were the days of happiness and good rest. Father would show us to surf the water on our stomachs whenever a wave came. Also the days of Levanto were nice. Father and I would hike the mountains at daybreak. We would struggle to find a parking spot and Father would cuss. Sister and I would get mojitos and look at the natives. The parties were everywhere. We would bathe in the clear water by the cliff. I remember many young adults would jump in. Everyone wearing speedos except one skinny langy kid. A couple kissing. The guy would get a boner and the girl would cover his little man with her belly. They kissed passionately. People would jump in from 5 meters and even more. Chances were one day they wouldn’t jump far enough into the water and they would hit the sharp rocks at the cliffs bottom. I picked small black clams from the rock and lurked it open. Levanto was a trip through forests cussing. We were in Italy. Driving a big bad car. I would lie across the extra three seats in the behind. I would push my bare feet against the cold glass of the window. I would see the damp print of my feet and the water drops on the other side of the window. I was glad I was inside the warmth of the car. My sisters friend was along. I liked her. She must have been sisters best friend. Not anymore.. I would lie in the bed reading. I was afraid of small gold fish. We would see the colosseum. I would ask “is it real”. Father would laugh for 10 years. I am now here in bed. On the other side of the world. Mother was different. We would be inside. I would care about her. She would be weaker. Depressed. I would be worried sick. I am still worried. But I am also smarter. She can care for herself. She stopped smoking now for the seventeenth time. She says one day she will make it. I hope it for her sake. I am not sure. The price of cigarettes went up. I would watch television. I would come out and talk to her she would listen and I would cry. This pretty much sums up our relationship. I still love her though. I was a dreamer. My English teacher told my sister I lived on the moon. That was fine with me. Not anymore. I want to be in this world now. I want to do good.

The days when we were friends we would go around your backyard make silly films. Scream like small girls. But we were small boys. Guess there is not that big of a difference. We would draw silly faces in class. We would play on the smartboard. We didn’t care about anything but fun. We would be older and try to learn music. Try to do good in school. People break apart and new people find each other. Right now I don’t find anyone. I am alone with the people I live with. The are polite and we drink together. But we are not friends. Not yet but we could be., I think things can happen. “Don’t think twice it’s alright”. You can get everything down the first time you try. You see poetry and stories are written in the haze in the bottom of your mind. You have to write it now not think too much. Know what you want to write and hurry up. Times against you. You have to run or it will be dull or you will be drowsy. Don’t let anything walk up behind your back. Keep your ears and eyes open for everything. This is not the time for storytelling. Open your eyes open your ears. You didn’t see the best minds of your generation starving hysterical naked.

Three small kittens

The day came after the weekend to go back to work at the fruit parlor., The guy seemed to be very contend with my abilities. I would make at least ten dollars for my self each shift. And I would have just enough for food for the day. Not that it was enough. I still had rent to cover. So I seeked my boss for help asking “how do you make a living out of this. Whats the catch.” He responded “the catch is catch 22 anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t really crazy”. “would you have to be crazy to want to be in combat?” he nodded “and it works the other way around too”. I pondered it over “you would have to be rationel to want to come out of combat?” “exactly”. It didn’t make any sense to me. What did that have to do with anything. After the shift my chef handed my a fairly small red book with the title Catch-22. I had only made eight dollars this day. It felt lousy. At least I was able to take as much leftover I wanted. That would cover my hunger, but the money wouldn’t cover my rent. Soon I would run out of money and I had no idea as to what to do. I came home and fell down the stinking madras on the floor of my room. I opened the first page of the book he had handed to me. Whatever it was about I was kind of excited to dick in. Every two hours I would go down for a cig and occasionally a glass of water. Didn’t eat anything except avocados. They sustain you for a long time and are delicious with salt. Just be careful some of the avocados are bad inside and will give you diarrhea. It isn’t very comfortable to go to the bathroom every ten minutes during a shift with your boss around. Next I had collected 330 dollars earning eleven dollars for myself. Which is a personal record of mine. I knew I could do better. Catch 22 was a real witty book I didn’t know what I had to learn from it. Each day I would come back to work my boss wouldn’t mention the book. He would just keep yelling for ten 12 hours straight like a muezzin standing on the top of the tower calling to prayer. He was insane. During the day his temple would pulsate like an angry cat who had catched syphilis. Sometimes his lips would be blue and he would have to sit down. Whenever that occurred shortly after he would pull up a small orange container from his pocket and down some pills. He must have had a heart disease or something. I wouldn’t get involved though. He never brought it up himself. So I figured he must have had a good reason to keep low profile. It wasn’t my fight to fight. Four times a day I would go further away with some of the other youngsters trying to make it as a fruit parlor. I was doing the worst but who really cares. It was no competition. I was just trying to make a living.