#the words bit is something that developed in quarantine when i stopped giving a shit about being cringy for telling my friends I love them

[feral-and-or-horny]

I'm pretty sure my love language is just offering my holes to hot girls

#actually my love language is a combination of touch and words of affirmation #the words bit is something that developed in quarantine when i stopped giving a shit about being cringy for telling my friends I love them #also my prefered love language is gift giving #if you give me a present i will lose my shit #i spent half a session with my counselor figuring out my love languages lmao #my post #lesbian nsft #nblw nsft #nsft lesbian #nsft wlw #queer nsft #sapphic nsft #wlw nsft #nblw and wlw only #wlw and nblw only #men dni

[uswntxfootball]

purely by accident (leah williamson x uswnt!reader)

everything was going to plan until you made the mistake of wearing her shorts to practice.

word count: 2044 ish

rated F for fluff, S for stupidity, and M for messy as fuck.

——

it was open training today in tokyo, and you fucked up.

you fucked up.

the olympics were set to begin next week, and you fucked up.

~~

so flashback to last night.

with some thorough bribing, you finally coaxed jordan to crash with beth for the night, promising and swearing not to defile her bed while she was gone.  

you glanced down at the defender in your lap, her attention solely focused on the show playing in front.

the show was leah’s pick and it didn’t particularly interest you, as you were more focused on the sight before you.

both of you were in bed, leah’s head in your lap, your right laid gently over her side, and leah’s hand was playing with your fingers absentmindedly.

the girl in front of you let out a laugh at something that played on the screen, the sound making your heart skip a beat.

upon hearing your silence, she looked up at you.

leah’s cheeks flushed when she saw you already staring down at her, a loving smile stretched across your face.

“what is it?”

you lean down to kiss her.

“nothing. just my girlfriend is really cute is all.”

leah rolled her eyes but met you half way, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

she turned back to the show and slipped her fingers between yours shyly, an action that caused butterflies and wholeass rhinos to have a disco party inside of you.

it was only a few minutes later when leah spoke again.

“you’re acting weird.”

you quirk an eyebrow at that.

“me? how so?”

“you’re staring at me like you really love me or something.”

you let out a snort.

“congrats baby it only took a year and a half for you to figure out.”

leah giggled, and you grinned, leaning down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

you couldn’t help but let out a sigh at how good it felt, having your girlfriend in your arms after not seeing each other for a month.

given the hectic schedule of the olympics, you both wanted to spend as much alone time together as possible.

you both knew that coming out in the midst of big events was a terrible idea, with first the world cup and the olympics following suit.

it wasn’t that you were ashamed of it, it was just that the media could be a lot at times.

and so could your teammates.

the two of you had met during the world cup, leah taking a particular liking to you after seeing you in the semi final match when england played the us.

she then had missed the chance to talk to you, but lucky for her, the next year, following suit with many of your other teammates, you signed internationally, landing a spot as a midfielder for arsenal.

trainings and games brought you closer together, and feelings developed, with both of you realizing quickly that they weren’t platonic.

but it still took an embarrassingly long amount of time.

and jordan couldn’t stand the two of you.

neither could rose, with leah and you both complaining to them, respectively.

even after quarantining with the defender (and jordan) and spending every second of the day with her, it was almost the end of the fixture when you finally mustered up enough courage to ask her out, only for her to beat you to it.

jordan can’t tell if this was better or worse.

on one hand she no longer had to witness the idiocy and obliviousness for days on end, no longer had to hear the desperate pining from both sides, and no longer had to deal with leah having a mental breakdown overanalyzing every text you sent her.

on the other hand, she now had to deal with the sickening cuteness of the two of you, and had unfortunately caught the two of you going at it in the arsenal locker room after practice, before practice, in the shower, and basically everywhere in the house.

rose was in a similar state, though being overseas, she was spared the worst of it.

the two of you had parted ways when national team duty called, leah staying in england and you flying back to the states.

and here, in tokyo, you were together again, and you couldn’t be happier.

~~

it was 11 pm now, the lights were off ,the defender fast asleep and snuggled close into your chest, your arms wrapped around her.

you had the vague thought of getting up to set an alarm for your training tomorrow, but any attempts to get up were squashed by your girlfriend, who at any movement only held onto you tighter.

your heart melted at the sight, but your rational thought knew this was a bad idea.

worst case is that you miss practice.

best case is that you somehow wake up on time naturally.

unfortunately it ended up being worse than that.

~~

you were jolted awake by your phone ringing.

the girl next to you let go of your waist and mumbled sleepily:

“turn it off.”

you stood up and saw rose’s contact name flash and you picked up the phone groggily.

“uh hello? what do you want?”

“HELLO?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT DO I WANT THE BUS FOR TRAINING IS ABOUT TO LEAVE IN SEVEN MINUTES WHERE ARE YOU?!”

you glance at the clock and the panic sets in.

7:23 am.

fuck.

oh. fuck.

you mutter a “shit” into the receiver before hanging up, glancing over at leah who was fast asleep.

brushing your teeth and putting your hair up quickly, you went around the room grabbing your jersey, jacket, shorts and cleats as you prepared to leave.

but before you left, you leaned over quickly and gave your girlfriend a light kiss on the forehead before rushing out the door.

you sprinted across the street to where the building where the us teams were staying, making it onto the bus quickly and collapsing on the seat next to rose, hoping no one saw where you had came from.

luckily for you most of the team was chatting and preoccupied, except christen who noticed and gave you weird look when you stepped onto the bus.

sam gave you a weird look too when she finished talking to mal.

“when did you come in? why are you still in your pjs? do you even have your kit and training things?”

you decided that saying you overslept was the best excuse.

you could tell sam didn’t quite believe that.

“well why didn’t rose wake you then?”

“um-“

rose cut in and saved you when she said with a shrug:

“it was a prank. i turned off her alarms and thought it would be funny.”

that was slightly more believable, as the younger kids played pranks on each other all the time, so sam let up her questioning.

you turned around on the bus, quickly pulling on your jersey, shorts and socks, all the while hearing a wolf whistle from kelley upon seeing you changing.  

you flipped her off when you finished.

“so where were you-oh,” rose’s eyes widening.

you scrunched your eyebrows in confusion.

“oh?”

rose let out a laugh and pointed to your collarbone.

you looked down and cursed.

there they were in all their glory, two hickies, bright as day.

“fuck this is an open training too.”

you were freaking out.

but thank god for rose.

rose thought about it for a minute before suggesting:

“well it’s kind of cold out today, you can keep your jacket on for the whole training and no one will see.”

“what would i do without you?”

“i dunno die probably.”

~~

arriving at the pitch, you hoped that your hyper-vigilant fans wouldn’t notice anything.

you did make sure to take some pictures with fans on your walk there though.

you noticed walking to the locker room that christen kept giving you weird looks, but you just brushed it off and got your mind set for training.

the open part of practice went well and without issue, except for the odd looks occasionally thrown your way by some of the veteran players.

when closed practice began a little bit later, you asked christen about it.

“why do you all keep giving me weird looks? do i have something on my face?”

christen shook her head, and upon seeing that there was no one around she whispered:

“i’m pretty sure it’s because you have a lionesses crest on your shorts.”

you looked down and gasped.

shit.

she was right.

in your haste this morning you had unknowingly grabbed leah’s shorts instead of your own.

in your defense, with the the english and us home kit both being white and both of you being #14, it was an honest mistake.

but still.

fuck.

so much for keeping it a secret.

christen opened her mouth to say something else, but upon seeing your face decided against it.

besides the one hiccup, the rest of practice went smoothly, and you were on your way back to the locker room when you were stopped by sonnett.

“do you play for england now or something?”

“it was an accident.” you said, shushing her.

all the way back into the locker room emily teased you, so much so that your face couldn’t have been any redder in your life.

you changed as quick as you can, trying to get out of the locker room as fast as you can.

walking out, you stopped abruptly upon seeing your girlfriend in the stands.

“leah? what are you doing here?”

your girlfriend, who looked radiant as always, said with a smile:

“well i was originally going to come bring you your shorts baby.”

“oh you found out about that?” you said sheepishly, a blush crawling up your neck.

leah shook her head and laughed.

“i woke up to us trending on twitter so yeah. did the girls tease you about it?”

you pouted a little nodding a yes, and leah just laughed, cupping your cheek with one hand and smoothing back your flyaways with the other.

at this point some of the chaos crew came out of the locker room looking for you, and upon seeing you and leah, they stood back and watched with wide eyes.

they watched you giggle at something leah said, lindsey making sure to keep a hand firmly closed around emily’s mouth to keep her from speaking.

some of the vets came out to see what the holdup was for, and upon seeing you, they stood back as well.

sam whispered quietly:

“are they flirting?”

“i think?” lindsey whispered back.

“it sure looks like it..”

christen shook her head.

the gears clicked into place in christen’s mind quickly, first with the hotel this morning, then with the shorts, and now this.

“i think they’re dating.”

emily’s eyes bugged out of her head and she finally ripped lindsey’s hand off.

“they’re WHAT??!”

this caused you and leah to turn, cheeks flushing when you see the majority of the team there, watching.

then they all started screaming at once.

“come introduce us to your girlfriend y/n!”

“hi leah!”

“WAIT CAN I GIVE HER THE SHOVEL TALK??!”

“I’M YOUR BEST FRIEND Y/N I SHOULD DO IT!”

“NO IF ANYONE DOES IT SHOULD BE ME I’M HER TEAM MOM”

you turned back to leah as the rest of the team quarreled.

“well since they’ve seen us already, let’s formally introduce you to the team.”

you stuck your hand out and said:

“come on. i’ll catch you.”

leah let out a laugh and took your hand, jumping down from the stands.

meeting the team wasn’t as bad as it could have been, partially because vlatko called sonnett away, but at the end you were both glad you had done it.

leah intertwined her fingers with yours as you walked across the field to the bus.

“i do have to admit my shorts look good on you.”

you looked at her and winked.

“maybe i’ll wear them on purpose next time.”

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #woso imagines #woso imagine #uswnt imagine #uswnt x reader #arsenal wfc imagine #arsenal wfc x reader #engwnt x reader #engwnt imagine

[larrythefloridaman]

Y'all like your deities with or without the shell?

Under the readmore is aaaaaaaaall color god observations and musings based on them, because I am studying to become the world's Premiere Chromatheologian and RGB Understander so under the cut is pretty much Oops! All Spoilers! up to the most recent episode of season 3.

Apparently Universal Color God Attributes:

Damage to their domain hurts them, but fixing the issue, or lashing out by using their powers destructively, can help them to repair the damage.

If they sustain enough damage, it can temporarily paralyze them and send them into a strengthened but 'exposed' state (chartreuse's spirit activation in the last fight of 19) and further damage after that will activate a failsafe, which is unique by domain but seemingly designed to give them the chance to balance things, but can get… very out of hand or backfire depending on circumstances. (see: cobalt’s failsafe sending mark's universe into a never-ending apocalyptic war because word of the cure for death became too widespread for the killing urge failsafe to affectively balance anything because every side could simply revive their fallen.)

Chartreuse's failsafe is something of a stopped time bubble quarantine where processes that require the passing of time cannot complete, allowing her the time to wear down the offending party to beat them to death or plan around finishing them.

Cobalt's is inciting war, the casualties serving to balance the scale. I'm not sure we know Crimson's yet- he's never taken enough direct damage without doing damage to compensate in order to trigger it, although i dont remember season one well enough to recall if any of the universe stuff in it tracks with the pattern bc season one is a bit fucky

Connected in a fashion that allows them to simply Sense the overall status of the others to some extent, although they don't know Why theyre in the state theyre in without asking (chartreuse [and by extension, folk, presumably on her information] confronting crimson via crimsonaut for pretending to be dead, Cobalt confronting both his siblings about how they are handling their duties improperly but not knowing about Folk. He knew about the constants deaths because hes a death god, duh, but he didnt use their names like crimson did, possibly implying they're erased upon death so thoroughly that only crimson and the constants can really recall a shattered constants' existence, not even the other guardians.)

Abilities of the guardians can be replicated by mortals through three apparent methods- through machines (dimensional bus, the time machine, presumably J0hn's part in Sephiroth's resurrection,) simply through advanced enough individual skill (Home MD curing death, potentially Dantoinette's universe portal travel, maybe Genwun's sped up time bubble that evolved them into Genfour? although that could very well have just been an illusion and theyre just like, a fuckin theater kid that was doing pretend character development for the Bit or something given GenFive turned out to be a zoroark) or through stealing some of the power of the relevant god (Dr. Order stealing Chartreuse's power, Dani maybe having stolen some of Crimson's when she beat his ass. Dani's one woman universal travel is like, wicked ambiguous)

Cobalt:

Can seemingly perceive or act through any living material. (The Tree. Cobalt instructed Larry to slap his hand on that tree, that shit glowed and he had a new deal tattoo without Cobalt ever having been physically present)

Can influence the resurrected by giving them a killing urge. Represented by an aberrant brainwave and a ringing in the undead's heads. This doesnt appear to be direct control- as the Grunk could clearly restrain himself from killing people that genuinely didn't deserve it (like nightly and cha cha, who WERE grunk event targets but not fatally so. Nagito was a crimson thing so it really doesn't count here. God poor grunk his life really is just a constant plaything in the hands of the gods huh) and Sephiroth very much had personal motivation to want to kill Folk. failsafe activates this ability on the scale of war.

Deals. The extent of what Cobalt can do with these is unclear but Iggy's god powers were taken from him as his part in the deal so what he can take isn't limited to physical things or things obviously related to his domain.

Weaknesses:

Deals. While this ability is impressive his preference for making deals for those that offend against his domain is potentially very exploitable- Larry's knowledge of the cure for death is, if word of it were to ever get out beyond Larry, wildly dangerous for this dimension, so technically the safest thing for the iron-fisted cobalt to do would be to nip the problem in the bud and get rid of him. But, fascinatingly, that wasn't even put on the table, the first thing Cobalt does is threaten J0hn, prompting Larry to make a deal. While Cobalt enforces death, he also doesn't like unnecessary death, and Larry demonstrably knows how to keep a secret for the good of the world even at great cost to himself and Cobalt is aware of this- easily clarifying to Larry the aberrant thing endangering the universe wasn't his timeloop business. So while he's clearly not letting his resurrection fuckery go unpunished, he's being pretty merciful when he doesn't have to be and from a strictly, brutally pragmatic perspective probably shouldn't be.

His control over the undead manifests as a ringing and an aberrant brainwave trackable by J0hn's equipment, and could probably therefore be accounted for and circumvented? J0hn has, wisely, largely sworn off fucking with people's brains after the sephiroth fiasco went So Wrong, So Very Wrong, Oh God Oh Fuck Someone Cool Almost Died, but if he hadn't, and if J0hn let his dislike for authority and keeping Larry safe outweigh reason like he let safety, spite and comedic value outweigh good ethical sense when reprogramming sephiroth, in theory Mr. 'hacked a time machine for breakfast?' could. y'know. probably do it. what is a god's authority to an anarchist, what better to challenge life and death than the cold and eternal machine, you get the point its a fun scenario

Olive Garden Breadsticks and Small Cute Dogs, apparently

Chartreuse's:

Time Clones: taps into parallel timelines to retrieve alternate versions of herself to utilize.

Time Travel: what it says on the tin. Travel to the past creates painful splits in the prime timeline, but through careful action and traveling back into the past, these can be weaved into a time loop. A split from the timeline is a wound, and a successful timeloop is the surgical scar it can become with attentive care, to use a medical metaphor. Carefully closed and healing. Keeping Folk here is essentially akin to chartreuse pulling out her stitches on the initial incision.

Time Stopping: creates a space wherein things that take time to complete cannot complete, where things can move, but everything within is in a perfect unchanging stasis until the bubble drops. This is the form her failsafe takes.

Timeline Creation: can create timelines from scratch.

Can fuse alternate timeline versions of the same individual to allow them to coexist. (Ryan's confirmed in the discord that Dantoinette experienced both failures in 20, because Chartreuse fused the two instances of her to save the post-raid instance from fading. Could... theoretically do this to Folk and save herself the pain, but while Folk and Therapuppy are the same person, there's seven years and untold amounts of difference deriving from the time and circumstance between them and the inherent cognitive dissonances that would result from attempting that would be wicked fucked up to inflict, and that's assuming there isn't some reason that it wouldn't be possible anyway. while the two Danis had like. A day or so's difference between them, so she could be safely fused with the only dissonant thing being that she remembers both being too slow to prevent order's time escape and beginning to dissipate post-raid, AND losing that fight to her pre-raid. RIP Dani, that perfectionism must be kicking her ass)

Weaknesses:

Unwilling to use her powers destructively in her pursuit of domain repair and thereby much easier to damage to the point of paralyzing her, making her particularly vulnerable to Power Theft

Morally Optimistic. At one point in 19, she briefly justifies Crimson's shitty evil actions to herself after experiencing for herself how Wack the kerfuffleverse is firsthand, ("and all he did was kill a couple people!" Chartreuse. Honey.) and when she fights Crimsonaut she seems to actually believe for a second that he's actually worried about her when Crimson asks if she's okay after he beats her. Additionally, as D+, she concerns herself with trying to understand doctor order's motive, and after Larry defeats Order, he makes a point of confirming she feels no remorse before making his request for what Chartreuse does with her, and appeals to the idea of letting Order fulfill her desire to be a god in a way which isn't a problem for anyone and Chartreuse is more than happy to oblige under these conditions after what Larry's done for everybody. Then immediately threatens to evaporate him for playfully teasing her about having a crush on folk. Fucked up a little bit

Crimson's:

Universe Shifting: Travel between universes.

Universe Correction: appears to replace an aberrant individual with the 'correct' version of themselves for that universe, presumably sending them back to their own. (Mario from super mario was universe corrected, but still seemingly exists in wario form as evidenced by smashup kerfuffle, and was simply temporarily replaced with his corrected universe counterpart. But like. The dimensional bus system is still active crimbo doing the Put That Thing Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me routine aint gonna work if they can come back with a shrug and bus fare. you're fighting the symptoms without treating the problem)

Universal Constants:

Three individuals per universe that serve as the pillars which stabilize said universe, created by absorbing red orbs Crimson creates. Becoming a constant grants power, but also makes the constant fragile, and death wipes them from the face of the multiverse, only crimson, those he's possessed and the other constants seemingly able to recall they ever existed, although some physical evidence is still left behind (Larry's record of Nagito's death, which is just as redacted as everything else relating to him but still is very much something Larry has. Kind of a Voidfish adventurezone type beat ironically enough? Taako really has seen all this shit before no wonder he peaced tf out)

To counterbalance the weaknesses the constants have, they have a sort of spidey-sense to alert them to danger, and an intrinsic bonded connection to their fellow constants, and additionally, Crimson apparently doesn't suffer any pain from the death of constants or the structural instability of a universe.

Possession: what it says on the tin! Seemingly can only be done with permission to living things- none of crimson's direct hosts seem to have entered that agreement unwillingly, Valentine lost a bet, Hamburger and Crimsonaut have been by all evidence intentional allies to Crimson- but electronics are fair game, as seen with The Guy's suit. Kinda curious how that rule applies to bitches that are half and half, like J0hn or the clonebot gang, as its unclear whether The Guy's suit was yoinkable without permission because it was mechanical or because its not sentient. could go either way but if it's the former that's potentially very frightening

Fusion: Two individuals from alternate universes can be fused into one shared body which can take on aspects of either depending on which is currently in control. (possibly allows someone who traveled into a given universe to become a fixed resident there without it being an issue for Crimson, whose job is to prevent interdimensional travel?) Monday Mark and possibly T.O.M. are our main examples.

Corruption:

Unpleasant As Hell and can even kill you instead of changing you if you cant handle it.

turns the corrupted individual into a twisted exaggeration of themself, allows them supernatural control over their shape, and makes them very difficult- if not impossible by traditional means- to kill, based on Garfield.

Subjects them to control by Crimson, but can be exorcised of this influence just like crimson's direct hosts can, although the supernatural changes to their physiology are seemingly permanent, judging from Shantae.

Notable Weaknesses:

Exorcism can be performed to free a possessed or corrupted individual of Crimson's influence. Its unclear how exorcism works/is learned in CPUK, but confirmed exorcists: dantoinette and yung papaya's snake dad, confirmed non-exorcists: folk

The universal constant orbs are physical objects so they are Very Stealable and they grant a power boost so theres literally an Incentive to beat his ass for anybody who wants to be strong and either doesnt know or doesn't care about the whole 'getting erased when you die' part

Crimson has lots of tools to create pawns, but all of them have drawbacks. Corruption could kill a potential pawn, possession generally seems to require permission, and he has no control over the constants' choices and actions

Manipulative bitch's highest stat is charisma and it shows. This motherfucker is selling snake oil. If he was mortal rather than a Whole Entire God he'd make an excellent ineffectual saturday morning cartoon supervillain and i think everyone, including him, would be happier for it, ngl

Something interesting ive realized that likely wasnt fully intentional, is that a lot of Dr. Order's creations, considering her motive, can kind of be sorted by a color god it appears to be a crude attempt at mimicking the abilities of. My Grunk is a poorly executed resurrection, the clonebot gang vs chartreuse's timeclones (this one deserves special mention because Chartreuse used this shitty attempted mimicry to her advantage with D+, very smart and ironic play, excellent job Treusy,) spirits are somewhat similar to universal constant orbs (orbs which can be absorbed to grant power, but which have physical repercussions- key differences being that spirits require activation and grow stronger while attuning to a user without being used, and having far less severe drawbacks, taking a heavy toll on the body, but only once they've worn off and without the risk of wiping yourself from the face of existence,) and she also augmented Perfect Spriteman and Larry, which kind of track as crude imitations of Crimson's corruption!

Garfield was an acerbic cat who loved food and hated mondays, now its an actively malicious ever-hungry amorphous entity whose only weakness is monday and whose only consistency in form is 'cat-like.'

Shantae was (to my extremely limited understanding of shantae,) a friendly heroic type who had to introduce herself often, and she became something akin to a biblically accurate angel that can *only* introduce herself.

The Grunks a tough but sweet and supportive single dad with stage presence and a tendency to fly off the handle when he or his family are slighted, and now he gets so hype in the audience when his son does well that he bursts into flames and ascends and we get random grunk events along with the associated murder charges when he gets mad and the target sucks enough that he doesn't hold himself back from killing them.

Perfect Spriteman and Larry fit the trend of exaggeration of already present traits- Spriteman fucking loves sprite and became something that only thinks about sprite, and Larry the Florida Man, characterized from minute one by unpredictability and who spent his first matches in the series pre-shapeshifter transformation staying alive keeping stocks for Shockingly Long even despite getting seventh, became literally physically random as well as developing the ability to regenerate, albeit with the ability to feel pain normally very much intact, unlike Garfield just... Soaking up damage like its nothing in his pursuit of Jon. The fact that Arbuckle legit defeated Garfield, even temporarily, is terrifyingly impressive honestly that dude is fucking built different for being so chronically bland

i dont think they're actually corrupted in any meaningful way we have to worry about, to be fully clear, Spriteman was cured with fucking antacids, i simply think they could be a fucked up attempt at making something that kind of seems like it from a functional standpoint, from the wannabe god doctor that brought us green clones whose only fundamental association with time was accelerated aging and who thought an actively rotting corpse thats just reanimated enough that it can throw hands was as good as curing death

#cpu kerfuffle #cpuk cobalt #cpuk chartreuse #cpuk crimson #im like. 80% all this info is correct but im not feeling up to rewatching matches to doublecheck rn ngl asdsfgfghgfhfgsdf #will probably edit with fixes if im misremembering smthn later

[metalbvcky]

*Shows up late to the Stucky/Marvel fandom Post-EG with Starbucks and dozens of fics that I’ve read in hand* So you guys like fanfiction?

Yeah so, because of quarantine I’ve been consuming a ton of fic. I’ve probably read over 1.5 million words in just a couple months. So why not share what I’ve been reading! Note that some of these are older (popular) fics so veteran Stucky peeps will probably know of them since I not too recently delved into the realm that is Stucky fanfic. :)  

Down below are over a dozen fics with different tropes, Canon/AU’s, and what not. Please do heed the tags on some of these. For the curious: My AO3 bookmarks. 

Also shoutout to @stuckylibrary, the mods over there are doing the lords work. 

Key:  ♥ = My fave, S = Smut, DS = Dom/Sub 

Heroes are Easy, People are Hard ♥ by Halbereth, Lorien - Words: 152,284 | CW Fix It, Slight Canon Divergence, Recovery, Slow Burn

Shuri and Wanda cleared Bucky's triggers shortly after Killmonger's attempted coup, and he and Steve went on the run. But it turns out there's more to "fixing Bucky's head" than "getting Hydra out of it." When a group of rogue scientists manage to neutralize the serum and make Steve very sick--pre-serum "this is bad" kind of sick--and they're cut off from contact with Wakanda, Bucky knows only one person with resources to help. He calls Tony and surrenders on the condition that Tony tries to help Steve.

From there, it's basically three variously messed-up guys’ trajectories from "This Is Fine", "Reasonably Speaking I Know It’s Fine", "I Will Be Fine With It" to actually being fine, guest-starring a far-better-adjusted teenage boy who climbs walls, a 1957 Ford Thunderbird, two women with a keen sense of the absurd, and Bruce, the Zen master of “it’s fine that it’s not fine.” Add in the fact that Bucky's been secretly in love with Steve since the thirties and things only get harder. Learning to be a person is the hardest thing Bucky Barnes will ever have to do--but he's got company along the way.

Reap The Whirlwind by Cristinuke - Words: 18,221 | Canon Universe, Post CW, Domestic 

Bucky finds a cat. Or rather, a cat finds him.

Your Favorite Ghost by augustbird - Words: 21,013 |  Canon Divergence, Post TWS

It's harder than Steve ever expected to bring Bucky home.

Despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) ♥ by praximeter (Zimario) - Words: 71,532 | Canon Divergence TWS, Body Modifications 

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

This city bleeds its aching heart ♥ by Renne - Words: 34,537 | Canon Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship 

The one where Steve and Bucky pose as a happily married couple while on a mission for SHIELD, to catch an international arms dealer hiding in a suburban neighbourhood.

The Best Way to Wake ♥ by LeeHan - Words: 42,293 | Post TFA, Canon Divergence TWS, Recovery 

James Buchanan Barnes lay in a glass pod in the middle of the table, frozen since he fell. Steve’s hands were on the glass before he realized he’d moved. “Wait, Captain!” “Get him out,” Steve whispered, his hands searching for a clasp, a keypad, something. “Captain, we need to keep him in stasis—“ “I said get him out!”

Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail ♥ series by owlet - Words: 264,438 | Canon Divergence (sort of) 

The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect

Undersell, overcommit by silentwalrus - Words: 10,222 | Canon Universe 

Steve goes so hard for Bucky that he becomes a licensed, practicing massage therapist.

Sparked Up Like a Book of Matches by Sena - Words: 26,734 | Post-TWS, Canon Universe 

Steve lives in Stark Tower and doesn't have much to do when he's not going after Hydra strongholds. He attends charity events to make Pepper happy. He goes hiking with Sam. He hangs out with Clint in Bed-Stuy and watches Dog Cops. Sometimes Tony gives him super alcohol in a sippy cup. Sometimes he sees Bucky out of the corner of his eye and wonders if it's real or if he's starting to lose his mind.

Alternately, the one with terrible jokes, a foot chase through the Lower East Side, and a tiny little robot named Shitcan.

Sugar Sweet ♥ from the Red Velvet series by ColorCoated - Words: 173,400 | Modern/Sugar Daddy AU, Age Difference, Slow Burn

"What's your name?" It wasn't even a line. He was just pretty and Bucky wanted a name to go with that face. With that strong jawline. With those deep blue eyes. A little smirk, "Steve."

Awww, Steve. He looked like a Steve. Bucky pursed his lips in a way he hoped was attractive, "You should buy me a drink."

College Student Bucky finds himself immediately attracted to Steve. He knows that Steve's a bit older than him, and that Steve himself is put off by the age difference. . . But that doesn't stop Bucky from wanting to climb him like a tree.

Steve and Bucky Go Away for the Weekend (and cook a lot) ♥ by E_Greer -  Words: 30,126 | Canon Universe, Domestic 

In which Steve coaxes Bucky out of the Tower for a birthday weekend away and sweet, fluffy domesticity ensues. Phlintasha helps keep Bucky calm, Steve has Opinions about how you set the table, stories are told, greenhouses are toured, baths are had, books are read, tears are shed, stars are gazed upon, and everyone makes Bucky feel loved. Includes Friday night dinner, Saturday morning breakfast, Saturday lunch, Saturday dinner, and Sunday brunch.

Dona Nobis Pacem by thegraytigress - Words: 65,214 | Canon Universe, Recovery 

"This job... We try to save as many people as we can. Sometimes it doesn't mean everybody, but if we can't find a way to live with that... Next time maybe nobody gets saved."

An incident on the battlefield exposes how much Steve's falling apart under the crushing weight of leading the Avengers after Sokovia. Now Bucky's adopting a new mission: save Steve before he destroys himself completely, even if it means the end of Captain America.

Give 'Em Hope ♥ by L1av - Words: 130,022 | Modern/Hospital AU, UA/Age Difference 

Dr. Steve Rogers likes to think that if his patients have hope- their chances of survival will increase. Bucky Barnes has a 20% chance of survival and a desperate yearning to experience life. Against Steve's better judgment, he develops a relationship with his patient. It's illegal. It's wrong. But it's giving Bucky the hope to keep going, so Steve's going to keep giving it, because he wants Bucky to survive. He needs him to.

You belong (to me) by hermionesmydawg - Words: 29,759 | S, DS, Canon Compliant, Post CW

"Hold on." Bucky lifted a finger and backed out of the doorway, returning a moment later with his cell phone. He snapped a photo of Steve, typed a few words, and then returned to his apple. "What the hell were you doing at a sex club last night?"

"Not having sex, if that's what you're wondering." An alert sounded from Steve's nightstand - a new Snapchat message. He rolled his eyes and unlocked his phone. Sam was always sending stupid Snapchats and frankly, Steve couldn't figure that goddamn app out and cursed whoever created that piece of shit.

The chat wasn't from Sam this time, however. It was a picture of himself, not looking guilty at all, with the caption "when your buddy catches you looking at p*rn."

Circling Back from the It’s Not Linear series by chaya - Words: 59,642 (Series Total: 136,782) | Canon Divergence

Steve looks for Bucky, Bucky finds Steve, Steve tries desperately to put Bucky back together. Bucky tries desperately to let him.

Continuing Education by 743ish, romanticalgirl - Words: 14,443 | S, Canon Universe/College, Shrunkyclunks 

Steve is invited to be a guest lecturer on the WWII unit for Bucky's college course. Bucky's more than happy to glean any extra knowledge (in more than just history) from Steve, and Steve's happy to eductate him. But then Bucky has to decide if he can handle the fact that Steve throws himself into danger, and if the sex is worth it. Or if it's not just sex anymore.

Salt & Sugar by GoldBlooded, stfustucky - Words: 19,598 | Modern/Restaurant AU

Steve Rogers is a bigshot celebrity chef in New York City, and Bucky Barnes is a classically trained pastry chef in Moscow.

When billionaire and mutual friend Natasha Romanoff calls on them to collaborate for her Memorial Day Benefit Gala, they both brace themselves to spend the week working with some jerk they're bound to hate. Except... Steve makes a burger that could bring Bucky to tears, and Bucky makes tartlets so beautiful Steve's sure they qualify as art. Maybe, just maybe, together they could make this a night to remember.

@/sgtbarnes1917 and @/cptrogers1918 by BayleyWinchester - Words: 114,203 | Canon Universe, Social Media Fic 

Bucky Barnes broke Twitter with one photo

Proprietary Information ♥ from the Additional Information series by notlucy - Words: 85,141 (Series Total: 165,871) | Modern AU, Age difference, Slow Burn

Okay, so Bucky Barnes has a crush on Steve Rogers. The guy's gorgeous, talented and, oh yeah, the Chief Design Officer of the biggest tech company in the world. In other words: he's so far out of Bucky's league that he might as well be in a different stratosphere.

Deep in the Woods (Where My Heart Has Been Waiting) by SilverMyfanwy - Words: 15,353 | Pioneer-AU, Shrinkyclinks 

Steve Rogers gets lost in the woods in a snowstorm. Bucky Barnes takes him in. Pioneer-era AU ish with Shrinkyclinks, evil chickens and a cabin in the woods.

A Bucky Odyssey by inediblesushi, thorstbench - Words: 9,952 | Shrinkyclinks,  Cap!Bucky, Nurse!Steve  

Bucky Barnes, Captain America, has a plan to make Steve Rogers, SHIELD nurse, fall in love with him. Confiding in the Internet might not be the best idea, though. So when the bad pick up lines do not work and Steve looks determined to staying single, he decides to be more himself and less what he thinks he should be.

At first I wanted to wait to post this until I finished a few more fics from my ever growing read-later list but what the heck, now or never! I’ll probably end up making a part 2 reclist by the amount of fic I’m reading these days. 

Happy reading and stay safe out there fellow Stucky trash members!!

#stucky #stucky fanfic #stucky fic rec #stucky fanfic rec #stucky fic #stucky fanfiction #stucky au #marvel fanfic #steve x bucky #my reclist #long post for ts #wow this is over a million words worth of fic + that doesnt include everything else ive read omg #the amount of talent in the destiel and stucky fandoms are insanely incredible #a total of 21 fics and at least 5 are apart of a series ... thats a lot of words

[pebblysand]

of breakable clay [extended author's notes on chapter viii of castles]

oh my god. it’s out. jesus christ.

okay first off, before i dive into anything, i know i’ve already done this in the actual a/n but i would like to wholeheartedly thank @whiffingbooks over on discord for helping me with figuring out the structure of things fic. although i have to admit i did not, at all, do what i told you i would do, talking it out was massively helpful in figuring this one out, so thanks a million. secondly, i would like send all of my most sincere and affectionate thanks to @whizzfizz on here, who mother-of-god basically designed this entire chapter and listened to me rant, and rant, and rant about it for days on end without complaining. i’ll go into a bit more depth later on, but THANK YOU.

now, a few facts on this chapter before i dive further in:

wordcount: 19168. i legit would apologise for this but i promised i wouldn’t so i’m not going to. that’s growing up people. don’t apologise for yourselves haha.

soundtrack: so i’ve never mentioned this but each chapter kind of has a soundtrack? like a song that i listened to on loop while writing this. here, i would basically point you to the entire spotify of a band called barns courtney (there’s one album and a few eps), i basically listened to all of their songs on loop this past month. i feel like they have such a strong gryffindor energy, in the good, the bad and the ugly. this chapter is definitely sort of an ode to gryffindors so their music was a very big inspo. if i had to point you to one song, it would probably be dopamine.

favourite line: ‘I dig my fingernails into the inside of my palms and it feels like the blood that comes out is already boiling.’

what is this chapter about? now, that’s an easy one. survival.

okay, now, spoilers under the cut.

ugh. holy fucking shit. i’m actually at a stage right now where i strongly believe that no one on earth will want to read this because everyone probably hates me right now for the choices that i made, especially after i made you wait almost three months for this shit. i always feel like whatever i’ve put out was the hardest chapter to write so far but this one was really out there in terms of struggles - i’m really sorry it took so long, but here we are.

there are reasons, though. first, as i said in my may round up, i didn’t really start writing this until about a month ago, because a lot of things were happening in my life that i needed to take care of. i took exams (which i passed!!!!), my mum had a health emergency, ireland added france to their mandatory quarantine list (it has been removed as of yesterday thank. fucking. christ) and i started a new job. it was a lot.

anyway, this being said, when i did get to writing this chapter, as mentioned above in the thank-you section, i kind of first struggled with the structure of it. now, you will see this is a recurring theme this time around but for this, my instincts were telling me one thing, and my brain was saying something else.

basically, what came first here wasn’t the actual content of ginny’s letters (more on that, obviously, in a minute) but the ‘mood’ i wanted for the chapter. i wanted to recreate, both for harry and for the reader, this sort of idea of being completely immersed in a book or a story. like, you know the kind of mood where reality just kind of blends out, where you start reading something and just. cannot. stop. i don’t think he’s much a reader (at least not canonically) and so i wanted this to take him by surprise, for her to take over his life with her words. i explained in the previous a/n [link] i chose to have ginny’s war be told through letters (basically, i thought it would be the best way to narratively tell her story), and i really wanted harry to experience what she’d lived through almost first hand.

now, interestingly, my idea for how to do this originally was to have the letters sort of be interwoven into the events of 1999, throughout the next couple of chapters (meaning this one and chapter nine). i had this idea in my head of him living through ‘real life’ things but not being able to take his mind off her letters, with the letters also sort of echoing the events that were happening in 99, etc. having the two plot lines develop at once and meet in the middle, kind of.

and i tried to write that. for a long time. spoiler alert, it didn’t work. i think the reason is that every time i sat down with it, i felt like i was doing a disservice to both stories. i mean: 97/98 is important, but 99 also is, you know? and by taking the narrative in and out all the time, it was like you couldn’t concentrate on one thing. it was just very messy and didn’t have the intensity i was originally aiming for because it kept being dragged out of whatever was the main action at the time. i wanted harry to get sucked into the narrative, for her letters to take over his life, but in the end, the impression i just got was that the whole thing was confusing af. instead of deeply caring about both, i couldn’t bring myself to care either for ginny’s story, or for his.

also, i just kept hitting a wall: a wall called harry. basically, i knew that the next two chapters (i.e. eight and nine) would stretch from january 99 to june 99. and for the love of god, no matter how many times i turned it around in my head, there was - to me - no way that harry as we know him would just pace himself to read her letters throughout all those months. like, harry fucking potter isn’t the kind of guy who ‘paces’ himself. he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t sleep for a week to get through it all, you know? this is everything that he’s wanted to know since last may, he’s been desperately looking for answers up to this point, there is absolutely not way in hell that he’d wait it out nicely until june. it felt ooc to have him read the letters over a few months. and i just kept hitting that wall over and over. i considered, at one point, building him reading the letters into flashbacks but flashbacks of flashbacks were, again, quite messy, and i don’t think her letters would ever be something he’d volunteer to re-read, so. clearly, it wasn’t working.

then, i think on a random sunday a few weeks ago, i just went back to the drawing board and was like: okay, say we just write all of the letters and go from there, what would happen? by the end of the day, i’d written 12,000 words and that was that, really.

now, the second difficulty, once i’d decided that was…. what you all probably want me to talk about.

i know this is probably not what you want to hear but: i didn’t really plan this? like, i understand that a lot of people have sort of a headcanon about what happened to ginny in that year in hogwarts but i … don’t. like, as planned as this fic is (which it is, i know where i’m going, i promise) that was always a bit of a blank-space-tbd in my head. i think that this story, as hinny as it is, is mostly about harry. and while i knew what i wanted for harry from her telling her story (for him to get sucked in, for him to realise that his war wasn’t the only war in the world ‘cause he’s been bloody self-centered so far, for him to realise that his plan to protect her didn’t exactly work because it didn’t cater for who she is, etc.), i wasn’t really sure what that story was. i mean, i knew it was going to be bad and traumatic, obviously, but i didn’t know what would happen. and still, to me, what i wrote is a version of that year. it’s not really my headcanon (i still don’t really have one), and i definitely accept other versions, if that makes sense.

this being said, i obviously had thought about it a little. i remember writing chapter one with that line: ‘They have sex for the first time, that day – his first time and it feels like hers, too, but he wouldn’t dare ask, not anymore, anyways’ and thinking i wanted to leave the door open. to me, it was a door completely open: it could have indeed been her first time, or she could have seen someone else (consensually) during that year, or she could have been assaulted. i honestly didn’t know but yeah, that was always a possibility in the back of my head.

then, to tell you the truth, when i wrote the first version of this chapter (the 12,000 words i mentioned earlier), it wasn’t there. i sat down and decided that i wasn’t going to go there. firstly, because, while you probably don’t know this, i’ve written about sexual assault before. my previous long fic, children, in another fandom, dealt (in part) with that. and i didn’t want to be the-fic-writer-who-writes-about-sexual-assault. especially because trust me, there are people who are a lot more legitimate to talk about this than i am. i also didn’t feel like it was necessary to the story, i could do without it and still explain ginny’s early behaviour in the fic, explain her trauma, and have harry realise the things i talked about before. secondly, i’ll be honest: i know this isn’t what people in this fandom want to read. the hinny pairing is mostly about love and fluff (which i love, btw, don’t get me wrong) and i was like, ugh, i don’t want to face the angry comments. i’m writing this a/n the morning before posting so i admittedly don’t know what the reaction will be but i do anticipate a lot of annoyance with me. i knew that a lot of people wouldn’t like it if i went there, and it was just easier not to.

but then, as i started editing, there was a comment (and this, ladies and gentlemen, is a testament to how much your comments fucking matter, okay?). a comment that i remembered reading on the previous chapter and could not get out of my head, no matter how much i tried. well, hello, @whizzfizz. i’ll happily give credit where credit is due. it read:

This made me think of something you mentioned earlier in the fic (possibly Ch1) about Harry not being sure if he was Ginny’s first but that it felt like it. I wonder if this is something that is going to come up in her letters to him.

and, so, it turned. around and around in my head, and i couldn’t get it out. and i kept saying to myself: no, you’re not going there. no, you’re not going there. and then, one night, i caved. i was like, fuck, i need to know if this person really meant what i think they meant by this. and so we talked. a lot. and, i did a lot of thinking. about women. about wars. about violence against women as a an inevitable weapon of war. about ginny being harry’s girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend (more on that later), and what that would have meant in their world. and @whizzfizz, you said something that in the end really sold me. you said: ‘at this point, i don’t think it would be realistic for it not to have happened.’ and, that was that, really.

because i was right, initially. amycus/ginny (ugh, the idea of a pairing makes me throw up in my mouth a little but yeah, there it is) isn’t necessary to the story. but i believe it to be necessary to what this story is trying to show. the plot held well without it, no questions asked. 12,000 words of the da and their battles, of ginny’s rebellions. it was fine. but i think i wanted more than fine. to me (and i appreciate how fucking pretentious that is, please slap me in the face *eyeroll*), castles is more than its plot. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again: this is about what is behind ‘all was well.’ it’s about trying to paint a realistic picture of their lives. and that includes the war. and realistically, as far as i’m concerned, knowing how humans fight their wars, knowing our history and the history of violence against women construed as a weapon in literally every conflict there ever was, there is no way that this didn’t happen. ginny says it herself: for us girls, it’s just the way wars are fought.

so, i did go there. and the whole fandom probably hates me for going there, but i sort of stand by it, i have to say. to be honest, on a sort of subconscious level, i kind of wonder: didn’t i always know i was going to go there? like, this fits perfectly into the plot to the point that i think it was probably in my head for much longer than i care to admit. now, i’m so, fucking excited to write next chapter because i finally get to write happy things, and hinny getting back together on rock solid foundations of openness and sharing, and trust, and i’m so, so glad. there are a couple of scenes in the next chapter that i’ve been working towards for months and i’m so, bloody excited to write them. everyone might hate me and i might just be writing this fic for myself now (lol), but again, i stand by the decisions i took. to me, it fits.

phew. okay, now that huge thing is out of the way and explained, here are a few more jumbled thoughts:

the more i think about it, the more i think that my reason for not wanting to be the-fic-writer-who-writes-about-sexual-assault is a bit ridic. children and castles, in that way, are so, so different. like, i appreciate the overlap between the silk fandom and the hp fandom is probably ridiculously small but if you’ve read both stories, they’re obviously very different. one thing that both stories centre on, though, is consent. and to me, that’s probably the most interesting element of ginny/amycus, and the most interesting element of writing characters within a restrictive pov, rather than an omniscient one. like, do i think ginny/amycus is rape? yes. 100%. do i think that ginny thinks it’s rape? that is a much more interesting question. she says it a number of times but i think to her, this is all about control. i think that because of what happened to her with tom, she’s someone who is terrified of losing control of her mind and of her own agency. so as not to lose that, she’s willing to do whatever it takes. it is a ‘you can control my body, but not my thoughts,’ sort of narrative. and, she never says it outright because i think psychologically she’s just not there yet, but tom is everywhere in these letters. and as her world just spirals out, she hangs onto the very few things that she can control: her relationship to harry, and her willingness to do what it takes for them to survive. she initiates the ‘relationship’ with amycus in an attempt to control her fate. later, as she explains to harry she feels a lot of guilt over what she did, and like a lot of sexual assault survivors, she thinks it was her responsibility. because i’m in harry’s head most of the time for this fic, i’m not sure i’ll ever really get to discuss that at length, but it’s definitely something that i wanted to show. another interesting question is: does harry think it’s rape? i think at that point in the fic, he doesn’t have the education, nor the vocabulary for that. i think instinctively (because he is someone who is very instinctive), he doesn’t blame her. if he blames anyone, it’s probably himself. he understands the necessity to do what you have to do to survive and thinks that no, no matter what she claims, that was not consented. that’s kind of what comes out in his annoyingly inarticulate letter to her at the end. beyond that, though, i think he’s a bit lost, just like she is.

on a mildly related note, there is something that i've been seeing a lot in the comments and that i feel like i should maybe address? namely: harry's reaction to ginny dating other people. i assume similar comments will be made about his reaction to ginny/alecto (meaning that he still decides to write to her, at the end of the chapter). i've seen a lot of people observe that he's much more 'chill' about it in castles than in canon. fair point but is he, though? like, he isn't happy about it in castles. and he's jealous as well. but he was never entitled in canon. he was jealous, yes, the chest monster and all that, but he never really did anything about it, and never really impeded on her right to see other people. now, this being said, i agree that in sixth year he might have thrown a tantrum, had she done what she did in castles, but that was sixth year. it was before the war. before he lost half a dozen people. before he had to adult bloody fucking quickly. this being said, i do think castles-Harry is more 'subdued,' i suppose, than canon harry. this is a choice i made early on, which to me is related to the fact that he kind of lost his 'voice' during the war. i mean, it took him six months of people talking shit behind his back to do a press interview to defend himself. i think with ginny, it's a lot of the same. he's a boy who blames himself a lot, and generally doesn't particularly think he deserves the people in his life. to me it's an evolution of his character within the the world of castles. i'm happy to agree to disagree on it, but to me it makes sense within the character evolution and the way the fic's gone, so to speak. now, obviously, he'll grow out of that in due course, but we're not quite there yet.

regarding their relationship, now, i have to say: one headcanon that i did have for this was her not outright telling everyone they’d broken up. i’m sorry, that plan was shit. i just don’t buy for a second that she would willingly have gone ahead with it, and i don’t buy for a second that tom wouldn’t have used her had he known they’d been together, ex girlfriend or not. plus, i think she needed something to hand onto, and that was her relationship with him. her letters. the belief that they would be together again. without it, i don’t think she’d have survived. and i think that summer after the war, they were totally on the same page, for different reasons. both of them kind of saw their relationship as the one thing that kept them afloat, the one good thing they had, partly also because they’d idealised it for so long. she says it as some point, it wasn’t a relationship, it was a lifeline (another sentence i came up with as a response to a comment, lol) and while that is toxic and was meant to crumble at some point, it was necessary for them, both during the war, and in the early days after it. i think her last letter to him is painstakingly correct on that one.

regarding canon, i know i’m bending a couple of things here, which i just wanted to quickly acknowledge: 1) i know jkr has said it’s teddy remus lupin. i just can’t believe, for a moment, that someone who hated himself as much as lupin did, canonically, would name his son after himself. naming his son after his best mate who died to young to become problematic though? i totally see it. so yeah, creative licence, it’s teddy james lupin in this house, lol. 2) when they meet neville in dh, he kind of hints that they’ve only just started to use the room of requirement a couple weeks ago. the text however, only says they’ve only been staying in it full time a couple of weeks ago. i needed them to have somewhere where to meet with the da and stuff, so i bent that a bit. it’s not strictly canon, but it’s also not not canon, if that makes sense.

on seamus blowing things up and talking about eight hundred years of oppression? full disclaimer, while i am french, i have been living in ireland for long enough to become eligible for citizenship in less than six months (yay!). i know some people have said that seamus is a bit of a cliche in the books/films and all (the only irish character keen on blowing things up, haha *eyeroll*), but i actually kind of love it? like, the whole thing about the cranberries and zombie at the start of the fic has been in my head for much longer than i care to admit. i love the idea that there’s this whole muggle war going on at the exact same time that no one ever talks about and actually, i find the idea of wizarding ireland v. muggle ireland and the whole political structure fascinating. like, is wizarding ireland an independent state? what’s the story there? i have a whole seamus fic in my head, partially on this topic, that i might or might not write one day.

lastly, i know this may sound a bit weird but i need to say it: once i’d figured out what and how i was writing it, i bloody loved writing this chapter. first stylistically, i really wanted to mimic the style of how i’d written the magazine article in chapter 5 (i.e. not writing out the whole thing but writing out in text the excerpts that harry focused on) and i love how that turned out. i think it was a good way to balance her words and his, kind of merging them into one, big narrative. second, as a writer, it was so fucking interesting to write someone who knows how to write, which believe it or not i’d never done before. additionally, i loved the challenge of editing this because it was like: i’ve got to edit this, but not too much? i was very careful about modifying and polishing too much of ginny’s speech in the letters because i obviously wanted it to sound like someone who was just writing as the words came to her, without polishing the words, the punctuation, etc. like i usually would. i wanted her to have quirks (she says ‘you know?’ a lot) and i played with her capitalisation and punctuation a bit too. i know these aren’t necessarily noticeable details but it was definitely something that i thought about and that was very fun and interesting to write, as a format.

wow, okay. this was LONG but i think i have everything i wanted to say. if you’ve read all of this (whyyyyy?), thanks so much for sticking around. if you’ve got any questions, anything i didn’t address, do let me know, anon or not, my ask box is open. now, i would love to say i’m going to chill or something, but the truth is that i have to a) actually do a last read through of the fic, lol and b) put it out. this is what i get for writing the a/n before finishing the damn thing, i guess. i’ll rest tomorrow, lol.

lastly, in terms of next chapter, realistically, i’d say eight to ten weeks. i have a full time job now and also, writing this was fucking exhausting and i need to take time out for a bit before coming back to it with a fresh mind. i will be writing other stuff though, i promise. i have a couple of prompts to get to (thanks!!!) and a couple of other ideas so i will probably be posting in the meantime, just not castles.

lots of love,

p.

#castles #extended an #writing #fic #its out #holy shit #byyyyyye #I have not proofread this so we die like men eh

[debbiechanclub]

You’re Welcome

Pairing: Wardlow/OC

Category: Fluffy fluff

Word count: 1,824

Fluffy little Wardlow fic request for @lancearcherinrippedjeans starring her OC, Camryn Morgan. I hope you like it! It’s the least I could do after you wrote me THREE fics. Also tagging @what-does-mine-say :D

Find more of my fics here.

********************

Nothing irked Camryn more than when someone interrupted her while she was in the zone at the gym. And, for whatever reason, no one managed to irk her more than one Nick Jackson.

“Ah!” She let out a startled yelp when she looked up and saw him staring at her with his crazy eyes through the mirrored wall. She ripped out one of her ear buds and whirled around. “What the fuck, Nick?”

He smiled. “We just got here and I saw you so I thought I’d come say ‘hi.’” He paused. “Hi.”

She arched a curious brow. Of all her teammates in The Elite, no one was quite as peculiar as Nick. “‘We?’ I don’t see anyone else, bud. Are you feeling alright?”

Just as she asked, Matt and Kenny rounded the corner—and Wardlow was with them. Camryn’s pulse quickened and she stood up straighter. What was Wardlow doing with them? And oh my god they’re coming over.

“Camryn!” Kenny proclaimed with a smile. “We thought you might be here.”

She tried to smile as casually as possible. “You know me, just trying to get it in before the show tonight.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Trying to get a workout in!” she quickly corrected.

“Phrasing,” Matt smirked.

Her entire face went red. “You meant what I knew.”

“Anyway,” Kenny segued. “Have you two met?”

He motioned back and forth between Camryn and Wardlow. She stole a quick glance at him before shaking her head. “Not officially.”

“Well, then,” he started. “Camryn, this is Michael Wardlow. Michael, meet Camryn Morgan.”

They shook hands, and Camryn practically had to tilt her head all the way back to look him in the eye; he was more than a foot taller than her tiny five-foot-one frame. “Nice to meet you,” she smiled.

“Likewise,” he returned; but then his brow furrowed. “Wasn’t your hair red last week?”

Her cheeks flushed again, both surprised and flattered that he’d noticed. Then again, it would’ve been hard to miss someone changing their hair from fire engine red to lilac purple. “Oh, yeah. I change it a lot.”

“Like every other week,” Nick commented.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not that often; more like every month. I just get bored easily.”

“Well, you should keep that color,” Michael said. “It looks good.”

Camryn’s whole body flushed that time. “Thanks.”

“Well, we’ll let you get back to getting it in,” Kenny smirked; she rolled her eyes. “And hey, make sure to get to the arena a little early tonight, alright? We’re filming some stuff for BTE.”

“Will do,” she said.

“It was nice meeting you,” Michael said as he walked off with Kenny and Matt. Camryn smiled as she put her ear bud back in.

“You too.” She turned back around to grab some weights; and when she stepped back she jumped in surprise again. Nick was still staring at her through the mirror. “What?”

“Bye,” he grinned, and he took off after the others.

“Weirdo,” Camryn breathed as she resumed her workout.

*A few months later*

It was a beautiful day, and Camryn needed to get outside—even if it was only on her patio. She fixed herself a glass of iced tea and grabbed a book; but as soon as she sat down in the patio chair her cell phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Michael. She couldn’t help her smile as she answered.

“Hey, good looking.”

Michael didn’t even say hello before he proclaimed, “Your hair’s blue! It was pink like three days ago!”

She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. “We’re in quarantine, Michael. Do you know how bored I am?”

“Okay, but don’t be surprised when all your hair falls out,” he smirked.

“Worry about your own hair,” she playfully returned. “It’s looking a little rough.”

“Shut up, no it isn’t.”

Camryn bit her lip. It really wasn’t; he was looking just as delicious as ever. But she had to tease him a little bit. “Okay, what do you want? Did you just call me to harass me about my hair?”

 “No,” he said. “Obviously, I called you to wish you happy birthday.”

Camryn’s stomach fluttered. A small part of her had worried everyone had forgotten about her birthday, especially with the pandemic going on. It meant a lot to her that Michael thought to call.

“How old are you now?” he asked. “Twenty-one?”

She let out a loud laugh; he knew damn well she wasn’t 21. “Yes; twenty-one plus seventeen.” Unlike some women, Camryn had no qualms about sharing her true age—she was turning 38 today, and damn proud of it. Besides, not to sound vain, but she thought she looked better than a lot of women 10 years her junior.

“I can’t believe that. Honestly,” Michael said. “You look late twenties, early thirties, tops.”

“Well, thank you,” she grinned. “It’s my top-secret skin care routine.”

“Nah, I think it’s good genes.”

He gave her that look, and Camryn suddenly wished she could jump his bones, quarantine be damned. She and Michael had become fast friends ever since that day Kenny had introduced them in the gym, and they’d developed quite the flirtatious relationship. She loved the attention, of course—who wouldn’t?—but she often had to remind herself that it could never go beyond flirting. No matter how good she looked, Michael was still six years younger than her; a relationship between them simply wouldn’t work.

“You flatter me,” she said; and then she abruptly changed the subject. “So, have you heard anything about getting to wrestle again yet?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said. “I have a lumberjack match against Luchasaurus on Dynamite in a couple weeks.”

She smiled when she heard that. “Cool. I’ll be there, too.”

“Yeah? Nice,” he smiled. And then he added, “You better not be bald.”

“Alright, goodbye, Michael!” And she hung up on him before he could say anything smart in return.

********************

It was the night of Michael’s lumberjack match against Luchasaurus, and Camryn couldn’t be more excited. She hadn’t seen Michael in person since Double or Nothing—in other words, it had been far too long.

But, as excited as she was, she needed something to eat first. She stopped by catering and made a beeline for the snack station; but before she could grab a bag of chips, someone came up from behind and picked her up in a bear hug.

She let out a yelp and kicked her legs. “Michael! Let me go!”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Because you’re the only one dumb enough to ambush me!”

She felt a laugh rumble in his chest. “Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do about it, small fry?”

Camryn groaned; she hated when he called her that, and he knew it. She struggled in his grip, but it was no use. He was far too strong. “Please put me down,” she pouted.

“Fine,” he gave in. “But only because you asked so nicely.” He set her feet back on the ground; but before he could completely let her go, she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back in a hammerlock.

“Shit!” he proclaimed.

“What’re you gonna do about it, Wardlow?” she taunted.

He shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t really hurt.”

Her mouth dropped and she shoved him away as he laughed. “Rude!”

“Oh, did you want to hurt me?” he returned. “I didn’t know you were into that, Cam.”

Camryn’s face went beet red at his roguish smirk. “And on that note, I’m gonna go,” she said, and she snatched a bag of chips off the snack station and hurried down the hall.

“Hey, I’m glad you’re not bald!” she heard Michael call, and she extended her arm to flip him off without turning around. If she had, he would have seen her smiling.

********************

Later that night, taping had wrapped and everyone was heading out. The Elite were headed to grab a late dinner, but Camryn had told them she would catch up—she needed to do something first.

She walked down the hall headed toward Michael’s locker room, her heart thumping in her chest. Honestly, she wasn’t sure what the hell she was doing. All she knew was that she had feelings for Michael, and after seeing him for the first time in weeks, she just couldn’t ignore them anymore.

She was nearly there when she suddenly stopped short. She could hear two familiar voices just around the corner: Michael and MJF.

“So are you headed back to the hotel orrr?” Maxwell asked.

“Actually, I’m gonna see if Camryn is still here and ask if she wants to grab dinner,” Michael answered. “Sort of a late birthday thing; I know she was bummed she didn’t really get to celebrate because of the quarantine and everything.”

Camryn’s heart fluttered. He wanted to do that for her? That might be the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

“Well it’s about damn time,” Maxwell returned.

She heard Michael give an awkward laugh. “What do you mean?”            

Maxwell scoffed. “What do I mean? Dude, come on. You two have been dancing around your feelings for months.”

There was a pause. And then Michael returned, “Nah, it’s not like that. She always clams up and changes the subject whenever I flirt with her.”

“That’s because she’s awkward as fuck,” Maxwell dismissed. “It doesn’t mean she’s not interested.”

Camryn turned on her heel and took off as quietly as she could. She didn’t want to hear the rest of the conversation. Maxwell wasn’t wrong; she was awkward as fuck, and this had been a terrible idea—

“Cam?”

She abruptly stopped and closed her eyes against Michael’s voice. They’d been closer than she’d realized. She put on a brave face and turned around. “Hey!”

Michael’s face fell; it was obvious he knew she’d overheard them. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I was actually just leaving. See you later!”

She tried to make her escape—but Maxwell stopped her. “Wait!” he said. “Michael wants to take you out for a late birthday dinner. He also likes you, but he’s too chickenshit to admit it.”

Michael shot him a look. “Really?”

He smirked. “You’re welcome, bud,” he said as he smacked him on the back.

Camryn froze. She wasn’t sure what to do or say. So she said the only thing she could think of. “Is that true?”

For the first time since she’d known him, Michael looked nervous. “Well, yeah.”

She bit back a smirk. “All of it?”

He mirrored her grin. “Yeah.”

Before she knew it, Camryn’s legs were carrying her forward; and before she could think better of it, she reached up and pulled Michael’s lips down onto hers. She pulled back and smiled up at him. “I like you, too.”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Maxwell proclaimed, and Michael flipped him off as he kissed her again.

#aew imagine #aew fanfic #aew fanfiction #aew one shot #wardlow #wardlow fanfic

[fashion-fitness-fantasy]

6 Weeks Into My Fitness Journey vs. 6 Weeks Into My Quarantine

I started to use quarantine as an excuse to work on my fitness because despite having so much on my plate to challenge myself mentally, I have nothing physically engaging to do as of now. If I can’t leave my house, then I figure it’s the best time to start trying to lose the weight I gained while being a stressed out student (maybe even go back to my high school dancer self...fingers crossed). There is literally no temptation to eat outside and make unhealthy choices at this point for me, so here goes nothing (it also helps that I live in a home with a family full of vegetarian health nuts, so my options are only healthy at the moment). So, here I am 6 weeks into my fitness journey & my quarantine, and I am 14 pounds lighter, doing yoga everyday relentlessly, and having revelations I didn’t know I needed.

I have gone through nearly 7 straight years of higher education, and still have 3 more to go. First with 3 years of a biology undergrad, then 3 years of PT school, and now 4 more years of medical school. I had so many bumps along the way to getting into medical school and graduating from my other programs, that stress eating became my way of coping with how hard everything had gotten. It had gotten to a point where food was the only solace I had in a world full of monotonous studying, daunting exams, countless failures big & small, and endless critique from professors & admissions administrators, who held the keys to my future in medicine.

Basically, a ruthless education system with a “we’ll gladly break you down, but you’ll have to build yourself back up” philosophy. A system that makes you grovel and beg endlessly, despite all of your merit and hardwork, just to gain access to it...let alone succeed in it. By the end, you’re left in Seligman & Maier’s classic “learned helplessness” state with your self-esteem riddled in the dust. But hey, at least you got the keys to prestige and can feign your stolen dignity by putting Dr. in front of your name. Funny how after knowing the psychological concept, you can still fall prey to it. The only difference is now you know what you’re suffering from, but you have no idea how to bring yourself out of it...which some would argue is worse. But here’s the best part....I brought it all on myself. I could have walked away, but why didn’t I? Oh right! I said it was my dream. Silly me...

So, naturally, the only thing I felt I had in control to make myself happy was food, and I started to gain weight along with my stress. It’s simple math: unhappy/stressed me + fast-food + studying - activity = sedentary unhealthy lifestyle mentally and physically. And one of the first things I learned in PT school, an anthem really: “A sedentary lifestyle will kill you. Movement is medicine.” You can subtract the fast food, and add in activity easily, and you can see results. The problem is to maintain those results and those habits. You have to figure out not only how to subtract the “unhappy/stressed me”, but change it into “happy/balanced me”. I’ve found that this is where most people get lost. Changing a variable in this equation is not as easy as math would make it seem. And, it’s by no means a novel idea. My generation is all about championing mental health. We are all highly aware of the self-care mantra everyone has been touting recently. And yet, having the knowledge to understand it, and being able to use it still proves to be so difficult that most people don’t bother. Or, if they’re anything like me, they start and stop so many times it would make your head spin.

Being a physical therapist and medical student, I feel like an absolute hypocrite. Hell, while going through PT school alone, I felt like an absolute hypocrite. Here I was learning about how to help others maintain not just their fitness, but their health as a whole, and I was directly defying that simple science (and I would dryly laugh with my friends as most of us were guilty of it). But let’s be honest, there is nothing simple about that science. They fool you into thinking its merely just calories in vs. calories out. But, what about the mindset? What about tackling what got someone to that point in the first place? There’s nothing simple about that. They teach us these theories on motivational interviewing and helping someone come to terms with their triggers and setting realistic “SMART” goals. All these theories are fantastic...as theories. Getting yourself to apply them is a whole other battle. And as a PT, getting your patients to apply them, while you yourself find the theories inconceivable, is a layered problem that I don’t even know how to begin to explain. 

When I started quarantine, my body was literally grasping at straws, craving for unhealthy carb-loaded, fried food. I longed for paninis & soups from Panera, large sodas & fries from McDonald’s, burrito bowls from Chipotle, and...well you get the idea. It was a routine for me. Go to school, come back home exhausted, stressed, or defeated from having swallowed the “constructive” (inner me would say crushing) critiques of my professors, and reward myself for my hard day’s work with a fast food meal. In that hour of eating, my misery was sated enough to work for the rest of the day without complaint. It was a system that got me through 7 years of stress. A system I felt guilty about, but don’t worry, because the food quelled that emotion too. At least, it did. Right up until the next morning, when I saw myself in the mirror and promised myself I wouldn’t do it again, only to break that promise that very day. Some days I could keep my promise for a week...even two...and then shit inevitably hits the fan. And suddenly (yet not unexpectedly), I find myself needing to eat out just to stop myself from breaking down entirely. Essentially, I always broke my promise. And just like that I tormented myself in this cycle, each year getting just a little bit worse. So subtle that I couldn’t even see what I was doing to myself.

Those broken promises added up not only to my weight gain but a deep mistrust in myself, which of course, showed up in other areas of my life too. I second guessed myself on the people I surrounded myself with, on clinical decisions for my patients, on exams, on whether I was capable of improving on the critiques I was receiving, on who the hell even allowed me into this field in the first place...??? And with each kind person, each correct clinical decision, each passed exam, each improved critique, and each authority figure telling me I belonged, I gained a deeper fear that the fall I was about to take was now going to be from a higher pedestal. In other words, I developed a severe case of imposter syndrome (a silly term my friends and I joke about having but deep down know it’s not really funny at all).

My triggers, my stress, my pain, and my award-winning cynicism aside, I see this quarantine as a universal intervention to give me time to breathe. I see it differently than what I saw it as 6 weeks ago, when I started. No longer a prison, and more a safe haven. A beautiful pause on a once dangerously high speed car chase of a lifestyle.

I still have a long way to go to get my health back to what it was before my years of higher education weighed down on me (figuratively & literally), but writing this is the farthest I have gotten in a very long time. It literally took a pandemic to uproot me from my unhealthy lifestyle, that I had dug myself into over the past 7 years, but I am happy that something good came out of something so horrific. And hopefully, as the pandemic dissipates, and the world resumes some semblance of normalcy, I can take what I’ve learned in this social distancing era with me.

#fitness #physicaltherapy #medical studyblr #medical school #health #wellness #weight loss #positive mental attitude #mental health #motivation #workout #fitspiration #exercise #yoga #yogainspiration #mindset #covid #social distancing #self quarantine #student #studyblr #study blog #college struggles #healthy living #healthy life changes #healthy lifestyle #health and yoga #health and fitness #health and medical #health and wellbeing

[srinithyananda]

28 AUGUST 2020, 08:14 PM, FRIDAY - NITHYANANDA SATSANG - ENGLISH GIST *PARAMASHIVA’S MESSAGE DIRECTLY FROM KAILASA: *36 PRINCIPLES OF MY OWN MANIFESTATION, LEARNING BY WHICH YOU WILL INTENSELY MANIFEST MULTIPLE POWERS FOR WHICH YOU ARE HARDWIRED AND GLORIFYING YOUR EXISTENCE AS PARAMASHIVA, MANIFEST YOUR PARAMASHIVATVA. *THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING ABOUT HINDUISM IS: EVERYTHING IS EXPLAINED ONLY TO MAKE YOU ENLIGHTENED. *DO NOT LEARN ANYTHING WHICH IS NOT DIRECTLY MAKING YOU MANIFEST POWERS AND MOKSHA. *PARAMASHIVA MANIFESTING THROUGH YOUR BODY IS PARAMASHIVATVA. YOU MERGING INTO HIM IS PARAMASHIVA GADHI. EITHER YOU SHOULD BE MANIFESTING PARAMASHIVATVA OR MERGING IN PARAMASHIVA GADHI. *TO ALL MY KIDS, I WANT TO TELL THIS: DO NOT LEARN ANYTHING WHICH IS NOT MOKSHA CENTRIC, PARAMASHIVATVA OR PARAMASHIVA GADHI CENTRIC. *ONE SMALL INCIDENT: MY GURU, YOGANANDA PURI USED TO TELL ME, ‘DON'T EAT IN THE NIGHT TIME. ONCE SUN SETS, DON'T EAT. AFTER SUNSET IF YOU FEEL HUNGER, IT IS FALSE HUNGER.’ *IN TAMIL HE WILL TELL CUTELY, ‘AFTER SUNSET IF YOUR STOMACH FEELS HUNGER, IT IS FALSE HUNGER. DON'T GIVE IT FOOD. TAKE A COLD WET CLOTH. DIP IT IN COLD WATER AND PUT IT ON YOUR STOMACH. IT SHOULD TOUCH YOUR LIVER. THE WHOLE AREA YOU SHOULD COVER AND SLEEP OFF.’ *IN INDIA, THIS IS USED AS DEFINITION OF POVERTY WHERE PEOPLE WOULD SAY, ‘WE DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY FOR FOOD, SO WE JUST PUT WET CLOTH OVER THE STOMACH AND SLEEP.’ IT IS NO MORE A SYMBOL OF POVERTY. IT IS A SYMBOL OF RICHNESS NOW! THIRD RATE, POOR, LOWER MIDDLE CLASS, EAT LIKE A PIG 3 TIMES A DAY. RICH ROYAL KINGS ONCE IN A MONTH! *STOP EATING AFTER SUNSET. DON'T ASSOCIATE FOOD AND RICHNESS. *AFTER SUNSET IF YOU ARE FEELING HUNGRY, YOUR STOMACH IS LYING TO YOU. IT IS FALSE HUNGER. JUST PUT A WET CLOTH ON YOUR STOMACH COVERING UP TO THE LIVER AREA AND SLEEP. ONLY FIRST FEW DAYS YOU MAY STRUGGLE A LITTLE BIT, BUT DO THIS FOR HEALTH. *ONE PERSON ASKED MY GURU, ‘WILL I NOT GET GASTRIC PROBLEM IF I DON’T EAT WHEN I AM FEELING HUNGRY?’ *HE SAID, ‘GASTRIC PROBLEM WON'T KILL YOU. BUT IF YOU EAT AFTER SUNSET, YOU WILL GET LIVER PROBLEM AND DIE!’ *AFTER SUNSET, YOUR BODY HAS ENOUGH FIRE/FUEL, JATARAGNI, ONLY TO BURN WHAT IS ALREADY CONSUMED. *IN DIGESTIVE FIRES, THERE ARE 3 LEVELS. JATARAGNI HAS 3 FORMS OF EXISTENCE. *AFTER SUNSET THE JATARAGNI DOES NOT HAVE THE ENERGY NEEDED TO RECEIVE MORE LOAD. *AMONG THE BRAHMANAS, THE AGNI GOTRIS AND BHARADWAJA GOTRIS - FLYING BRAHMANAS DON’T EAT AFTER SUNSET. IT WAS BHARADWAJA RISHI WHO WROTE THE WHOLE SCIENCE OF FLYING. THOSE BRAHMANAS USED TO FLY AND MOVE FROM PLACE TO PLACE. *HINDUISM HAD BOTH THE MECHANISMS - AS AN INDIVIDUAL WE COULD FLY HAVING A SMALL ATTACHMENT TO THE BODY - AKASHA MARGA - AND WE HAD THE TECHNOLOGY TO FLY AS A GROUP! WE HAD BOTH TECHNOLOGIES, MECHANISMS. *THE ADISHAIVA VELLALAR COMMUNITY AND THE JAIN COMMUNITY DON’T EAT AFTER SUNSET. *NOT EATING AFTER SUNSET IS ONE OF THE MOST INTELLIGENCE KINDLING TECHNIQUES. *EVERY NIGHT, IT IS NOT THAT YOU FALL INTO THE SAME DREAM STATE OR DEEP SLEEP STATE. DEPENDING ON THE CHEMISTRY OF THE BODY ON THAT DAY, THE STATE IN WHICH YOU ARE GOING TO SETTLE DOWN WILL BE DECIDED. *IF THERE IS SO MUCH OF FOOD, TOXINS IN YOUR BODY, NATURALLY YOU WILL FALL INTO THE SHIT STATE. *IF YOU HAVE DONE NIRAHARA SAMYAMA, YOU WILL UNDERSTAND, EVEN YOUR SLEEP WILL BE ROMANTIC, LIGHT, BEAUTIFUL! *WHY YOU LIKE ROMANCE SO MUCH YOU KNOW? IT MAKES YOU LIGHT. IT GIVES YOU JAGRAT-SUSHUPTI EXPERIENCE: THE LIGHTNESS OF SUSHUPTI AND ALIVE FEELING OF JAGRAT! *IF YOU STOP EATING AFTER SUNSET, THE BODY GOES THROUGH SELF CLEANING. I GUARANTEE YOU THAT IN 11 DAYS, THE WHOLE NIGHT, THAT STATE WILL BECOME A ROMANCE KIND OF A SPACE. *STOP EATING AFTER SUNSET. *FROM MORNING TILL NIGHT, WHATEVER YOU DO, DO WITH YOUR ATMA LINGA. YOU WILL SIMPLY SEE THAT IN THE NIGHT, YOU WILL BE CUDDLING PARAMASHIVA, YOU WILL BE SLEEPING IN THE LAP OF PARAMASHIVA! *LESS FOOD OR NO FOOD IN THE STOMACH IN THE NIGHT, KEEPS YOUR WHOLE STATE OF CONSCIOUSNESS PURE. *HALF AN HOUR OF TURIYA STATE OR THE SWEET ROMANCE SPACE, REJUVENATES YOUR BODY AND MIND MORE THAN 10 HOURS OF SLEEP AND DREAM STATE. THE QUANTITY OF YOUR SLEEP WILL DRASTICALLY REDUCE. THE TIME YOU ARE ROLLING ON THE BED WILL DRASTICALLY REDUCE. THE QUALITY OF YOUR REJUVENATED FEELING WILL DRASTICALLY INCREASE. *MY WHOLE LIFE IS FOCUSED ON RAISING THE QUALITY OF YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS. *LAST 26 YEARS, AFTER MY GURUS ORDAINED ME AND GAVE ME THE PEETHA, THE INHERITANCE, THE ONLY WORK I AM DOING, I AM FOCUSSED ON, IS RAISING THE QUALITY OF YOUR EXISTENCE. *KEEP THE STOMACH EMPTY IN THE NIGHT TIME. YOU CAN HAVE COLD WET CLOTH OVER YOUR STOMACH UP TO THE LIVER AREA. IT WILL RAISE THE QUALITY OF YOUR WHOLE CONSCIOUSNESS. YOUR WHOLE SLEEP WILL BE CONVERTED TO MEDITATION TIME AND TURIYA STATE. *IF YOUR STOMACH HAS SO MUCH UNDIGESTED FOOD, SHIT, IF IT IS RUNNING LIKE AN INDUSTRY, IT WILL RUIN YOUR REST, REJUVENATION. IF YOUR JATARAGNI IS CLEAN AND PURE FIRE, AND NOT LOADED, IF IT IS LIKE THE PURE LAMP OF A GARBHA MANDIR OF A TEMPLE, THE WHOLE FIRE WILL REACH THE CROWN CENTER. YOU WILL REACH TURIYA AND TURIYATITA - HIGHEST CONSCIOUS EXISTENCE. *I GUARANTEE: ANYONE WHO DOES NOT EAT AFTER SUNSET LIVES HEALTHY, RICH, LONG LIFE. *HEALTH IS NOTHING BUT A SMART STRATEGY TO BE USEFUL TO OTHERS AND MAKE THE WORLD USEFUL TO YOU. THAT DEVELOPS IN YOUR SYSTEM EVEN IF YOU ENJOY TURIYA AND TURIYATITA STATE FOR A FEW MINUTES A DAY. *WITH NO FOOD IN THE STOMACH AFTER SUNSET, AUTOMATICALLY YOU WILL FALL INTO TURIYA AND TURIYATITA. *I HAVE A SHASTRA PRAMANA FOR YOU FROM SUSHRUTA SAMHITA, 64TH CHAPTER, 85TH SLOKA - सायं प्रातः मनुष्याणाम् अशनं श्रुतिचोदितम्। नान्तरा भोजनं कुर्यात् अग्निहोत्रसमो विधिः।। SĀYAṂ PRĀTAḤ MANUṢYĀṆĀM AŚANAṂ ŚRUTICODITAM। NĀNTARĀ BHOJANAṂ KURYĀT AGNIHOTRASAMO VIDHIḤ।। TRANSLATION HUMAN BEINGS SHOULD EAT (ONLY) IN THE MORNING AND IN THE EVENING, AS PER THE VEDIC INJUNCTION. FOOD SHOULD NOT BE EATEN IN BETWEEN THESE TWO MEAL TIMES. THIS RULE IS EQUAL TO THE RULE OF AGNI HOTRA VIDHI. *I WANT ALL MY DISCIPLES TO FOLLOW THIS. *IF YOU HAVE BECOME MY DEVOTEE/DISCIPLE RECENTLY AND HAVE POT BELLY, IT IS TOLERABLE. BUT IF YOU HAVE BEEN MY DEVOTEE/DISCIPLE FOR MORE THAN A YEAR AND HAVE A POT BELLY, THEN SOMETHING IS SERIOUSLY WRONG. YOU ARE SOMEWHERE CHEATING… *THOU SHALT NOT HAVE POT BELLY. THOU SHALL ENTER THE KINGDOM OF KAILASA ONLY WITHOUT A POT BELLY. I HAVE MADE THE ENTRANCE OF KAILASA IN SUCH A WAY THAT POT BELLY PEOPLE WILL BE STUCK! *DON’T SAY, ‘GANAPATI ALSO HAS A POT BELLY.’ HE HAS THE WHOLE BRAHMANDA IN HIS POT BELLY. BUT YOU HAVE SO MUCH SHIT IN YOUR POT BELLY! *BEING SLIM, TRIM, HEALTHY IS THE BASIC QUALIFICATION OF NITHYANANDA’S DISCIPLES. IF YOU ARE NEW, IT IS TOLERABLE, BUT NOT IF YOU ARE MORE THAN A 1-YEAR-OLD DISCIPLE/ DEVOTEE. *IN HINDU TRADITION, ANY TATTVA WE EXPLAIN IS ONLY FOR LIBERATION, FOR MOKSHA CENTRIC LIFESTYLE, MOKSHA CENTRIC KNOWLEDGE. *ALL THE BEST HEALTHY, RICH, LONG LIVING COMMUNITIES - BHARADWAJA GOTRA BRAHMANAS, PRACTISING IYENGARS, ADI SHAIVA VELLALARS, CREAM OF THE JAIN COMMUNITY WHO PRACTICE SALLEKHANA DON’T EAT AFTER SUNSET. *MY GRANDMOTHER USED TO SAY, ‘ONLY GHOSTS WILL EAT AFTER SUNSET. IF YOU EAT AFTER SUNSET, YOU WILL BECOME GHOST!’ *YOU CAN BECOME INTENSELY ACTIVE, ALIVE, RICH, HEALTHY, LIVING LONG LIFE, IF YOU JUST TAKE UP THIS SIMPLE PRINCIPLES. *AND IT IS NOT THAT YOU NEED TO STRUGGLE WITH THESE PRINCIPLES FOREVER. NO! JUST FIRST FEW DAYS IS ONLY PRACTICE. ONCE YOUR BODY STARTS TASTING THIS LIFESTYLE, EVEN YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO DESTROY YOURSELF. THAT IS THE BEAUTY OF THIS GREAT SCIENCE! *ESPECIALLY NOW WITH THIS PANDEMIC FATIGUE, I CAN SEE THE WHOLE WORLD GOING THROUGH THE DELUSIONAL ARROGANCE. EVERYBODY IS READY TO DIE BUT DON'T WANT TO HAVE ANY MORE RESTRICTIONS OR QUARANTINE PRINCIPLES. *PEOPLE ARE SICK AND TIRED OF THE QUARANTINE PRINCIPLES OR TRAVEL RESTRICTIONS. THEY ARE NOW READY TO DIE! *IT IS NOT THAT THE NUMBERS OF DEATH DUE TO CORONA HAS COME DOWN, BUT THE RESTRICTIONS ARE RELAXED. PEOPLE ARE READY TO DIE BUT DON'T WANT TO RESTRICT THEMSELVES. THIS IS WHAT I CALL PANDEMIC FATIGUE, DELUSIONAL ARROGANCE. *UNFORTUNATELY POLITICS GOT MIXED INTO CORONA. LET US KEEP THE PURE SPIRITUAL TRUTHS AS IS. *TO ALL MY FOLLOWERS, LISTEN: STAY HOME, STAY SAFE AT LEAST TILL DECEMBER 14TH. LET THIS PRALAYA BE OVER. *36 TATTVAS CAN BE EXPLAINED FROM VARIOUS ANGLES, FROM THE ANGLE OF PHYSICS, CHEMISTRY, BIOLOGY, ALCHEMY. *I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN FROM THE ANGLE OF ENLIGHTENMENT - PARAMASHIVATVA AND PARAMASHIVA GADHI. *PARAMASHIVATVA MEANS PARAMASHIVA MANIFESTING IN YOU. PARAMASHIVA GADHI MEANS, YOU RESTING IN PARAMASHIVA, YOU BECOMING ONE WITH PARAMASHIVA. *THIS WORD ‘SHIVA GADHI’ IS THE EARLIEST RECORDED BY TIRUMOOLAR. சிவசிவ என்கிலர் தீவினையாளர் சிவசிவ என்றிடத் தீவினை மாளும் சிவசிவ என்றிடத் தேவரும் ஆவர் சிவசிவ என்னச் சிவகதிதானே. SHIVA SHIVA YENGILAR TEEVINAIYAALAR SHIVA SHIVA YENDRIDA TEEVINAI MAALUM SHIVA SHIVA YENDRIDA DEVARUM AAVAR SHIVA SHIVA YENNA SHIVA GADHIDAANE IT MEANS: PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW THE VIBRATION ‘SHIVA SHIVA’ FALL INTO THE LIFE NEGATIVE. THOSE WHO KNOW THE VIBRATION ‘SHIVA SHIVA’, WILL REACH THE SPACE OF DEVAS. ALL THEIR LIFE NEGATIVITY WILL BE DESTROYED AND ULTIMATELY THEY WILL HAVE THE SHIVA GADHI. *DETOXING YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS SUPPORTING YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS FOR IT TO MANIFEST IN YOUR BODY IS THE PURPOSE OF MY LIFE. *I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS 36 PRINCIPES FROM THE ANGLE OF ENLIGHTENMENT, HELPING YOU TO MANIFEST SHIVA GADHI. *BEFORE STARTING THE DEEPER LEVELS OF EXPLANATION, I WANT ALL OF YOU TO SIT STRAIGHT. KEEP YOUR ATMALINGA AND JNANANJANA NEXT TO YOU, SO THAT EVERY PRINCIPLE I EXPLAIN WILL DIRECTLY GET INTO YOU AND JUST START OPERATING. *SHIVA, SHIVA, SHIVA, SHIVA….. *AKSHUBDHA BINDU - IS THE PURE PARAMASHIVA SPACE. *I BOW DOWN TO PARAMASHIVA GANAPATI. I BOW DOWN TO PARAMASHIVA. LET PARAMASHIVA’S AKSHUBDHA BINDU STATE MANIFEST IN ALL OF US AND MAKE US ALL REALISE THESE 36 TATTVAS FROM THE SHIVA GADHI. *I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN THESE 36 TATTVAS FOR ENLIGHTENMENT TO MANIFEST PARAMASHIVATVA AND PARAMASHIVA GADHI AND WITH THE REALIZATION OF ESTABLISHING PARATVA. *THE SUPREMACY AND ULTIMATE STATE OF PARAMASHIVA, பரமசிவ பரதத்வத்தை உணர்ந்து (PARAMASHIVA PARATATVATTAI UNARNDHU) - REALIZING THE SUPREMACY OF PARAMASHIVA OVER THIS WHOLE EXISTENCE, I AM EXPLAINING PARAMASHIVA’S VIEW OF THIS 36 PRINCIPES FOR ALL OF US TO MANIFEST PARAMASHIVATVA, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMASHIVA PADHAM. *THE FIRST AND FOREMOST REQUIREMENT FOR THIS AKSHUBDHA BINDU STATE IS ‘DHEERAHA’. DO NOT STOP ANYWHERE IN BETWEEN WHEN YOU ARE GIVEN WEALTH, OR ANYTHING ELSE, TILL YOU REACH THE PARAMASHIVA STATE. *ONE OF THE BIGGEST PROBLEMS YOU WILL HAVE WHEN YOU START MANIFESTING POWERS IS NOT ‘NOT HAVING’ WHAT YOU WANT, BUT YOU WILL BE HAVING ‘TOO MUCH’ OF WHAT YOU WANT, AND YOU MAY START GETTING STUCK WITH THIS PSYCHODRAMA OF WANTING AND HAVING, WANTING AND HAVING AND FORGETTING PARAMASHIVA. *POVERTY WILL NOT BE YOUR PROBLEM. TOO MUCH OF WEALTH, LUXURY WILL BE YOUR PROBLEM. DECIDE YOU WILL BE DHEERA. YOU WILL NOT STOP ANYWHERE BY BECOMING DEVA OR DEVENDRA OR ANY OF THE OTHER HIGHER STATES. *YOU WILL HAVE THE GUTS AND COURAGE NOT TO STOP TILL YOU MANIFEST PARAMASHIVATVA. *TAKE THE SANKALPA AND REQUEST PARAMASHIVA TO SUPPORT YOU IN THIS SANKALPA. YOU SHOULD MANIFEST PARAMASHIVATVA. TILL THEN YOU SHOULD NOT STOP. *I AM NOT SAYING, ‘DO NOT ENJOY THE LUXURIES OF DEVALOKA OR BHULOKA.’ I AM ONLY SAYING, ‘DON'T BE STUCK THERE. DON'T STOP THERE!’ I AM ONLY SAYING, ‘STOP GETTING STUCK.’ *HAVE A BIG COUCH. YOU CAN REST THERE, BUT YOU CANNOT PUT THE SEAT BELT ON THE COUCH AND BECOME A COUCH POTATO UST BECAUSE YOU BOUGHT IT FOR 2000 DOLLAR! *WHENEVER YOU ARE STUCK WITH YOUR LUXURIES, YOUR LUXURIES BECOME MORE VALUABLE THAN YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS. *I WANT TO SELECT AND ELECT KAILASA ADMINISTRATION AND PEOPLE FOR HINDU PARLIAMENT. *BEFORE THAT I WANTED TO DEFINE THIS 36 PRINCIPLES AND ONLY PEOPLE WHO UNDERSTAND THESE 36 PRINCIPLES, I WANT THEM TO BE PART OF KAILASA ADMINISTRATION AND HINDU PARLIAMENT. THAT IS WHY I AM EXPANDING ON THESE PRINCIPLES AND CONCEPTS. *DO NOT BE STUCK IN ANY LUXURY. LET YOUR LUXURIES NOT MAKE YOU FORGET YOUR AKSHUBDHA BINDU STATE - PARAMASHIVATVA, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMASHIVA PARATVA NIRUPANAM. *I WANT TO ESTABLISH THE SUPREMACY OF PARAMASHIVA, ULTIMATENESS OF PARAMASHIVA, SO YOU WILL NOT GET STUCK IN ANY OTHER LUXURY, COMFORT, OR FULFILLMENT OR ANYTHING ELSE. *FEW DAYS AGO I WAS TELLING IN THE SATSANG, ‘WHEREVER I OBEYED MY GURUS 100%, I GOT MANY NOT ONLY KNOWN BUT UNKNOWN BENEFITS.’ WHEREVER I DID NOT LISTEN TO MY GURUS’ WORDS DIRECTLY, NOT ONLY I GOT OTHER REPERCUSSIONS, I GOT MANY UNTOLD PROBLEMS. *TAKE THIS SANKALPA OF BEING A DHEERA. DHEERA MEANS, ‘BEING BOLD, COURAGEOUS, POWERFUL, FEROCIOUS AND WILL NOT STOP ANYWHERE IN BETWEEN TILL I MANIFEST PARAMASHIVATVA, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMA PADHAM.’ TAKE THIS SANKALPA! *EVEN IF INDRA LOKA IS OFFERED TO YOU, EVEN IF YOU ARE MADE AS KING OF HEAVEN, DON'T BE STUCK THERE. TELL THEM, ‘THANKS FOR YOUR OFFER, BUT I WANT TO BE WITH PARAMASHIVA. THAT IS PARAMASHIVA PARATVA NIRUPANAMA.’ *THERE IS A BEAUTIFUL VERSE IN VAISHNAVA TRADITION பச்சைமா மலைபோல் மேனி பவளவாய் கமலச் செங்கண் அச்சுதா. அமர ரேறே. ஆயர்தம் கொழுந்தே. என்னும், இச்சுவை தவிர யான்போய் இந்திர லோக மாளும், அச்சுவை பெறினும் வேண்டேன் அரங்கமா நகரு ளானே Pachai Mamalai Pol Meni Pavalavaai Kamala Chenkan Achyutaa Amararere Aayar Tham Kozhundhe Yennum Ichchuvai Thavira Yaan Poai Indira logam Aalum Achchuvai Perinum Vaenden Arangama Nagarulane *DEVOTEE OF VISHNU CRIES TO VISHNU, ‘THE TASTE OF ME CELEBRATING YOU, SINGING THE GLORY, THE TASTE OF ONENESS, FEELING CONNECTION WITH YOU IS BEST. EVEN AS RULER OF INDRALOKA, I DON'T WANT THAT. I WANT ONLY THE FEELING CONNECTION WITH YOU.’ THAT IS THE DHEERA OF A BHAKTA, DEVOTEE’S DHEERA! *ALL OF YOU SHOULD HAVE THE DHEERA THAT PARAMASHIVATVA, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMA PADHA IS THE ONLY GOAL. *TILL THEN, YOU CAN ENJOY WHAT COMES IN THE WAY, NOTHING WRONG. YOU CAN ENJOY, BUT DON'T BE STUCK. YOU CAN SIT IN THE COUCH, BUT DON'T PUT SEAT BELT! *HAVE YOUR BEAUTIFUL PURITY. IN VILLAGES, WHEN THEY CUT the JACKFRUIT, THEY WILL APPLY CASTOR OIL ON THE HAND, SO THAT THE GUM IN THE JACKFRUIT WILL NOT GET STUCK IN THE HAND AND MAKE IT MESSY. *POUR CASTOR OIL EVERYDAY IN YOUR SYSTEM. THE NEGATIVE PATTERNS IN YOUR BIO MEMORY WILL NOT GET STUCK IN YOUR INTERNAL ORGANS. IT MAY LOOK VERY FUNNY BUT DO IT, YOU WILL UNDERSTAND. IN THE BHAGAVAD GITA, CHAPTER 18 SHLOKA 55, IT SAYS: भक्त्या मामभिजानाति यावान्यश्चास्मि तत्त्वतः। ततो मां तत्त्वतो ज्ञात्वा विशते तदनन्तरम्।। BHAKTYĀ MĀMABHIJĀNĀTI YĀVĀNYAŚCĀSMI TATTVATAḤ. TATO MĀṂ TATTVATO JÑĀTVĀ VIŚATE TADANANTARAM.. TRANSLATION: BY DEVOTION HE KNOWS ME IN REALITY, WHAT AND WHO I AM; THEN HAVING KNOWN ME IN REALITY, HE FORTHWITH ENTERS INTO THE SUPREME. *YOU SHOULD KNOW, PARAMASHIVATVA, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMA PADHAM, IS YOUR ONLY GOAL! *EVERYTHING ELSE IS OK ON THE WAY TO ENJOY BUT NOT TO GET STUCK. *I WANT ALL OF YOU TO UNDERSTAND: ANYONE WHO DECIDES TO BE DHEERA, THE PURE PARAMASHIVA STATE STARTS BLESSING YOU, SUPPORTING YOU, GUIDING YOU, AND STARTS MANIFESTING ITSELF INSIDE YOU. *DECIDE WITH DHEERA, ‘OH MAHADEVA! PARAMASHIVA! I BELONG TO YOU. I WANT ONLY YOU TO MANIFEST IN ME. LET ME NOT GET STUCK WITH ANYTHING ELSE.’ *WITH THIS, THE MOMENT YOU APPLY FOR VISA TO PARAMASHIVA FOR KAILASA, HE STARTS LOOKING AT YOU, NOT JUST FOR ISSUING VISA, BUT HOW TO GET YOU TO KAILASA AS A CITIZEN AND TRAIN YOU TO BECOME HIM, AND MERGING YOU INTO HIM. *YOU PLAN FOR KAILASA VISA, HE PLANS FOR MAKING YOU PARAMASHIVA! *YOU LOOK AT HIM FOR VISA, HE LOOKS AT YOU AS SHIVA! *THESE INITIATIONS I AM GOING TO SHOWER ON ALL OF YOU WILL BE SO INTENSE, SO ENERGETIC, SO ALIVE, MANIFESTING POWERS, JOY, ECSTASY, THAT POVERTY WILL NOT BE YOUR PROBLEM, RATHER, LUXURY WILL BE YOUR PROBLEM! DISEASE WILL NOT BE YOUR PROBLEM, RATHER, HYPERACTIVE ENERGY WILL BE YOUR PROBLEM! *DON’T STOP TILL YOU REACH PARAMASHIVATVA. *LET ME EXPLAIN DHEERA! ONLY IF I MAKE YOU DHEERA, ALL MY 36 PRINCIPLES DEFINITION WILL BE USEFUL FOR YOU. OTHERWISE, IT WILL BE USELESS FOR YOU. IN TIRUMANDIRAM, 1536th VERSE: சிவகதி யேகதி மற்றுள்ள எல்லாம் பவகதி பாசப் பிறவியொன் றுண்டு தவகதி தன்னொடு நேரொன்று தோன்றில் அவகதி மூவரும் அவ்வகை யாமே. 1536 SHIVA GADHIYE GADHI MATRULLA YELLAAM BAVA GADHI PAASA PIRAVI ONDRUNDU TAVA GADHI TANNODU NERONDRU THONDRIL AVA GADHI MOOVARUM AVVAGAI YAAME TRANSLATION: SHIVAGATHI ALONE LEADS TO TO ETERNAL LIBERATION SHIVAGATHI ALONE IS THE ULTIMATE PATH; ALL OTHER STATES, GATHIS - PATHS WILL =LEAD ONLY TO THE CYCLE OF BIRTH AND DEATH; BONDAGE COMES BACK TO YOU; ANYTHING OTHER THAN SHIVA GADHI SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED. WITH YOUR PENANCE, TAPASYA, PUNYA, CHOOSE ONLY SHIVA GADHI, NOT ANYTHING ELSE. ANYTHING ELSE WILL LEAD ONLY TO THREE MALAS - IMPURITIES AND BONDAGE, BIRTH AND DEATH CYCLE, DELUSION. *FUNDAMENTAL QUALIFICATION FOR ANYONE TO BE PART OF KAILASA IS DEFINITE DHEERATVA - BEING FEROCIOUS WITH YOURSELF, ‘I WILL ACHIEVE ONLY SHIVA GADHI. ANYTHING WHICH COMES ON THE WAY IS OK, BUT I WILL NOT BE STUCK OR STOP WITH IT. I WILL NOT BE CONSCIOUSLY DECIDING TO CHERISH, ENTERTAIN, ENGAGE OR BE WITH THOSE INTERMEDIARY STATES, SPACES, POSTS, LUXURITES, COMFORTS. *SHIVA GADHI IS THE GADHI! SHIVA PADHAM SHIVATVAM PARAMASHIVATVA PARAMASHIVA GADHI PARAMASHIVA PADHAM *WITH THIS PARAMASHIVA PADHAM, PARAMASHIVA GADHI, PARAMASHIVATVA - KEEPING THIS AS GOAL WITH DHEERATVA, WITH FEROCIOUSNESS AND COURAGE, IF YOU START UNDERSTANDING THE 36 TATTVAS, YOU WILL START MANIFESTING POWERS IMMEDIATELY. *THAT IS WHY PATANJALI TEACHES SAMADHI PADA FIRST. THEN HE TEACHES ALL THE OTHER PADAS. *I WILL CONTINUE TO EXPAND ON THE 36 TATTVAS IN FURTHER SATSANGS. *ONLY WHEN YOU UNDERSTAND THE ULTIMATENESS OF PARAMASHIVA AND DECIDE TO BE WITH THAT, YOU CAN BE PART OF KAILASA ADMINISTRATION OR HINDU PARLIAMENT. SO FIRST I AM DOING WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE FIRST! *SO SIT STRAIGHT. LET US ALL ENTER INTO PARAMASHIVATVA, MANIFEST PARAMASHIVA GADHI AND PARAMASHIVATVA. *I HAVE A SHASTRA PRAMANA FOR YOU ON DHEERA FROM THE SRIMAD BHAGAVATAM, 3RD SKANDHA, 6TH ADHYAYA, 45TH SLOKA - तथापरे चात्मसमाधियोगबलेन जित्वा प्रकृतिं बलिष्ठाम् । त्वामेव धीराः पुरुषं विशन्ति TATHĀPARE CĀTMASAMĀDHIYOGABALENA JITVĀ PRAKṚTIṂ BALIṢṬHĀM TVĀMEVA DHĪRĀḤ PURUṢAṂ VIŚANTI TRANSLATION: THE DHEERAS, BY THEIR SHEER POWER OF SAMADHI - ALWAYS BEING IN ONENESS WITH THEIR TRUE SELF - THE PURE CONSCIOUSNESS, CONQUER THE POWERFUL PRAKRITI - THE WHOLE MANIFEST WORLD AND ALSO THEIR OWN ANTAH KARANA - INNER SPACE WHICH ARE INFLUENCED BY THE THREE GUNAS - SATTVA, RAJAS, AND TAMAS AND ULTIMATELY INDEED ENTER INTO YOU OH LORD! *WE WILL NOW ENTER INTO THE PARAMASHIVA GANAS MEETING WITH THE COMMITTED BRAHMANAS, KSHATRIYAS, VAISHYAS AND SHUDRAS. Read the full post here: https://www.facebook.com/138595819561610/posts/4283922591695558/

#Nithyananda #KAILASA

[igirisuhito]

Title: Afflicted Relationship(s): Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito Rating: Mature Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / ? Chapter Summary: Komaeda visits Hinata, tensions rise Trigger Warnings: Personality issues, forced kissing, IV stuff

[Ao3 Link]

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈

Ding dong, bing bong

The monitor rang with a familiar sound, the one that brought me from my sleep every morning since arriving on the island. I didn't bother to pay any attention to Monokuma's message, it was the same as it was everyday, pre-recorded drivel.

I rolled over, letting out a loud sigh before sitting up. My sleep was fine, but I couldn't help but feel a little worried about the direction this incident was taking. It was so immature of the Ultimates to panic over a measly illness and try to quarantine everyone! Souda and Kuzuryuu's hope had shined through miraculously, Souda putting together an effective way to communicate with such scarce resources whilst Kuzuryuu continued to sacrifice himself for the sake of others!

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I rose to my feet and stretched my arms over my head. Despite everybody's efforts, I still had to return to the hospital to assist Tsumiki. It was unlikely that she had rested either, especially considering Hinata's unusual behaviour. I wonder if she finally convinced him to accept treatment?

I wandered into the bathroom and picked up my toothbrush, wetting the brush then squeezing some toothpaste on. As I brushed my teeth, I found myself once again pondering the significance of the despair disease.

In the beginning, I realised that the disease represented the opposite of both Mioda and Owari's personalities. Mioda is usually a free spirit who refuses to take orders from anyone and Owari is a strong lady who isn't afraid of anything. I wasn't so sure about Hinata, however. If the opposite of apathy is enthusiasm, well that certainly wasn't a word I would use to describe him.

Hinata was, if anything, incredibly unenthusiastic.

After pausing the motions for a moment and biting down on the brush, I brought my hand to my chin in contemplation.

But if we think of the opposite of apathy being passion or concern, that would be much more accurate. Hinata could always be seen stressing out over something . He tried so very hard to hide it, but the way he pressed his hand to his lips whenever deep in thought truly gave it away. Not to mention the fact his confident façade usually came crashing down during a rebuttal, revealing an incredibly nervous personality beneath.

Ah, I really do think about Hinata-kun too much, huh? I must be forgetting my place. Especially after I so shamelessly spied on him changing through the crack in the door yesterday after bringing him his gown. How indecent, this little fascination of mine seems to be developing into a bit more than just 'thoughts'.

I rinsed my mouth with water and left the bathroom, ignoring the stupid burning in my face.

I picked up the jeans I had left neatly folded on the end of my bed, holding them by the waist and allowing the fabric to unfold itself. I then stepped one leg at a time into them before pulling them up to my waist and doing up my belt.

Sitting myself down on the edge of the bed, I pulled my shoes out from underneath and slipped my feet into them. I did up the zips and then made my way back into the bathroom.

As I leaned my hands onto the sink, I stared back at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were tired, dull, empty. The skin was much too pale, a disgusting shade of pasty white. My hair was thin and wispy, too delicate to bother brushing. Not to mention I was pathetically skinny, as if a too-strong gust of wind would knock me right off my feet.

Disgusting.

I forced myself to give the mirror a big smile and left the cottage, grabbing my jacket on the way out.

As I slung the jacket over my shoulders, I stepped out onto the boardwalk. Water swished beneath the planks, creating an oddly foreign sensation as if I was floating. I began walking, leaving the hotel area before making my way over the bridge to Jabberwock park, then across the bridge to the third island.

There was a cool breeze coming off the water that left a salty taste on my lips. The sun was hot, but never to an intolerable level. I don't think I ever felt too hot whilst I was here, which was somewhat peculiar. I'd always been rather sensitive to heat, had things changed during the years I had forgotten?

Suppressing the thought, I pushed open the door to the hospital, drawing the attention of the people awaiting inside. Tsumiki and Kuzuryuu were standing in the reception, presumably they had been talking.

"Komaeda, you're late. I seriously didn't think you were gonna fuckin' show up today." The gangster hissed.

"I'm so very sorry, I never intended to waste your precious time waiting for my worthless self." I smiled, waving casually.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No! Not at all! It wasn't my intention to sound like a liar!"

Kuzuryuu clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Whatever. Souda should be calling us soon to give us an update."

I nodded in acknowledgement and turned to Tsumiki, who was standing to the side with her teeth worrying her bottom lip and her hands clasped together tightly. "Good morning Tsumiki-san."

She jumped slightly and looked up at me. "Ah! G-good morning K-Komaeda-san!"

"How is everybody doing?"

"N-not great…e-everybody is in a s-stable condition…but Mioda and Hinata-san have been a little…d-difficult."

"How so, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Mioda-san has a t-tendency to get up and walk around, I guess. H-Hinata-san has just been…stubborn."

I laughed softly. "Mioda-san has always been like that though, she's difficult to keep in one place! Truly such a lively spirit."

Tsumiki-san nodded in agreeance. "Well…if you would like to see any of them, I think everybody's awake."

"I may check in with Hinata-kun after we receive word from Souda. He was quite ill yesterday so I think it would be good to see how he's doing." At that moment, the light on the monitor began to flash blue, signally somebody on the other end attempting to make contact. "Ah, what perfect timing."

Kuzuryuu answered the call as Tsumiki bowed and returned to the hospital's ward. The screen lit up with an image of Souda at the music venue. It seemed some of the others were there as well, standing further away from the camera.

"Hellooooo!? How is it? Can you see my handsome face?" His joyful voice screeched from the speakers.

"Yeah. We can see your ugly mug." Kuzuryuu grumbled in response, likely in retaliation towards the mechanic's flippant attitude.

"Hmph! Well, we're all good on our end too, can see your sad ass faces bright and clear."

I squinted, peering closely at the people displayed on the monitor. "Is Saionji-san not with you?"

Tanaka chuckled, crossing his arms across his chest with a knowing smile. "It seems you've noticed our missing party member. Alas, her cowardice knows no bounds, and she has declared us to be her adversaries!"

Sonia cleared her throat, signalling that she was willing to elaborate on Tanaka's rambling. "She has locked herself in her room. She declared that she wouldn't be coming out until the despair disease had been cured…"

How unfortunate, no Ultimate should be willing to give up hope so easily!

"Saionji-san aside, what about you? How are you guys doing?" Nanami piped up suddenly.

"Shit. How else would we be doing?" Kuzuryuu hissed.

"Yeah yeah." Souda sighed, scratching his cheek. "Well none of you guys are sick yet, right?"

"I doubt the disease would have such a short incubation period. We're all still in good health! Although…" I trailed off a little, looking towards the ground as I thought.

"Although?"

"We'd be much better off with more hands on deck! Surely you agree, Souda-kun?"

"Hell no! Ugh it's like you want us all to get sick!" Souda groaned, pointing an accusatory finger towards the camera.

I waved, dismissing his accusation. "Of course not! There's no point in everyone catching despair disease."

"Guys!! Please stop fighting!" Monomi's shrill voice suddenly cut through the air. I'm pretty sure a few groans of displeasure came from the other side of the screen.

"Huh? Are you seriously over there, Monomi?" I blinked a few times, disbelieving in what I was seeing.

"Y-yes! It's too dangerous for me to get close to the hospital when I don't even know what's going on there…" She grabbed hold of her ears with her tiny stuffed paws as she spoke, seemingly nervous.

Kuzuryuu's face pinched into a snarl. "You're fucking kidding me…why would a goddamn stuffed animal need to worry about catching a disease?!"

"Uwaaah! Please don't discriminate! The d-despair disease is horrible and dangerous, it can even destroy this whole island! I know it seems inappropriate, especially since I'm your teacher, but until we can figure out how to deal with it…I'm gonna be on this side…"

Kuzuryuu lunged forward, the scowl still twisting his expression as he hit the button on the monitor. The screen flicked off, leaving only our reflections staring back at us.

"That shitty stuffed animal, she's seriously fuckin' useless! God I'm pissed off!" Kuzuryuu spat, absolutely seething as his small frame shook with rage. I opened my mouth to say something, but recalling how Hinata had reacted to my words about Pekoyama's sacrifice just the other day, I decided against it and shut up.

Kuzuryuu seemed to pull himself back together without my help. "Argh, dammit. It's not worth it…I'm gonna go get some fresh air."

And so he left, leaving me all alone in the hospital lobby.

Alone, in the hospital…

I shivered and wrapped my arms tightly around myself. There was nothing we could do right now but wait, wait and hope things get better. But…it probably wouldn't hurt to go check up on Tsumiki, or Hinata, or anyone for that matter.

As long as I'm not alone here.

Shaking off the thought, I pushed open the door to the hospital ward.

It was surprisingly quiet, empty. All the patients were in their rooms, Tsumiki was standing in the hallway, wringing her hands nervously as she glanced between the ward's entrance and the stairs. She seemed to perk up as soon as I entered her line of sight. "Oh, Komaeda-san! H-how are the o-others?"

I smiled as I approached slowly, lowering my voice a little to match the volume of hers. "I think they're doing okay. Saionji's apparently holed up in her room though, she's scared of catching the disease."

"Oh! Th-that's good to hear! I-I mean! I-I-It's really unfortunate!" Tsumiki stammered out, waving her hands.

"Hey, it's okay, I know what you're trying to say. It's wonderful that everyone's doing okay, but sad that Saionji's seemingly given up hope, right?"

Tsumiki stopped her arm waving and now stared with a rather flustered expression. "Y-yes…something like that…"

"Anyway, is Hinata-kun awake? I'd like to see how he's doing." I questioned, glancing towards the door of the second room.

"O-oh! Of c-course, he's been up for a l-little while, you're f-free to see him…" Tsumiki smiled a little, but spoke again before I went to thank her. "I should m-mention before you go in…H-Hinata-san's a little…mentally unwell."

I blinked a few times, a little perplexed. "Huh? I might be stepping out of my place in asking this, but isn't everyone? I don't think Owari-san's stopped crying since she got here."

"Y-yes th-that's true! I-it's just…Hinata's been a little…delusional. I-I'm a bit worried he m-might try to hurt you…"

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, tempting me to laugh at the thought. Hinata could barely stand yesterday, it would be most surprising if he was able to kill me in such a state. But if it's Tsumiki who's concerned it's likely warranted. "Please don't worry, I can fight off Hinata-kun if need be. I know I may look disgustingly scrawny but I'm stronger than I seem!"

Tsumiki gave me a concerned glance, but left with a soft "O-okay then." Now that I had her approval, I made my way up to the door and rapped my knuckles lightly against the timber.

"Komaeda." A rather monotone sounding voice spoke from the other side. I assumed it was permission to enter and turned the doorknob, slowly pushing open the door.

Hinata was out of his bed, situated near a white cabinet. In his hand he held a flower, one he must have plucked from the potted plant in front of him. He didn't turn around upon hearing me enter the room, choosing to instead keep his eyes fixated on the flora before him.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, the second the door clicked shut Hinata spoke. "Do you know about the significance of the red spider lily, Komaeda?"

"Ah, I don't actually. I'm not well versed in flower meanings." I gave him a soft smile, rather interested in his strange choice of conversation.

"Legend has it that they grow in hell and guide the dead to their next reincarnation. I wonder if that's why it was planted in this room."

"Are you implying this place is hell?" I questioned.

Hinata glanced back at me, a judgemental gaze. It was almost as if he saw straight through me, picking me apart piece by piece like a raven devouring roadkill. A shiver went down my spine as he spoke again. "Do you honestly believe otherwise?"

"A-A hospital room is a place teeming with despair. But that's what makes it a perfect birthplace for a stronger hope!" With a wide grin on my face, I spread my arms excitedly. Hinata simply stared back with an unamused looking expression.

He was silent for a moment before averting his eyes from me and back to the flower. "I believe this was placed here on purpose as a means of reminding me of what I'm here for. I'm merely being guided towards my reincarnation as Hinata Hajime."

"I…don't quite understand what you mean."

"That's to be expected."

I sighed, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. Hinata-kun was so incredibly puzzling, I couldn't help but resent the way this disease was making him act, as if he knew something, everything that we didn't yet would never tell if you asked. It felt as if I was talking to a completely different person, Hinata was an empty emotionless shell that not even despair inhabited.

But for some reason, he wasn't pushing me away like he usually did. Whether it was from simply being too exhausted from the disease, or perhaps he had changed his outlook, either way it was more than I deserved. Scum like myself didn't deserve to get close to somebody as radiant as Hinata-kun.

Hinata finally diverted his attention from the plant and turned to me. "So, the others are staying in the Hotel to avoid contagion, correct?"

"Huh? Yes that's right." I affirmed. "But on that note, how did you even know it's contagious? You had already fainted by the time Monokuma disclosed that information to us."

Hinata pursed his lips together before taking a small breath. "The fact that Souda didn't want to escort me to the hospital told me all I needed to know, it's unusual for him to refuse help to an acquaintance out of sheer laziness. The proof that Monokuma had informed the class was in your enthusiasm to assist."

I blinked a few times. Hinata was good at putting the pieces together slowly, but I don't recall him ever being this quick witted…

Wait. "What do you mean 'my enthusiasm to assist'?"

Hinata's eyes narrowed, similar to the way he'd focus when accusing somebody in the courtroom. "There's only been a single occasion where you have stepped up like this, rather than allowing others to do so, and that occasion was when you were planning a murder."

My body seized up. It felt as if time began to slow down and I could feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. Hinata was suddenly no longer by the cabinet, but now standing eye to eye with me. His nose was bare millimetres away from my own with his breath hot on my face.

Why is my heart racing? What is this sensation?

Attraction?

Fear?  

With Hinata so close, I found myself taking in every sight and sensation. The teen's lightly tanned skin, his cheeks flushed with fever. His chapped lips, irritated and a rosy red colour. The murky swirls deep within hazel eyes, glassy and sunken with fatigue. Even if he wasn't showing it, he was undoubtedly ill.

Hinata's lips parted, dry skin slowly sticking apart from one another. "Your intentions lie in dangerous places. You either are planning take advantage of our diseased states and murder Mioda, Owari, or myself…"

He paused, brushing his thumb against my chin before taking hold in a light grip.

"Or, the more likely scenario, you want to spread the despair disease, indirectly causing a murder."

This is too much. I must be going insane.

This isn't the Hinata Hajime I know.  

I let out a raspy little chuckle and grinned at the other boy, feeling a strange emotion bubbling up in my chest. It was so incredibly disappointing that he had caught on to my plans, but I couldn't help but be intrigued by his newfound insight.

"I was right on, wasn't I? How exactly do you intend to pull something like this off?" Hinata spoke, his voice almost a whisper.

"I had a few different ideas. The one currently playing out involves Souda-san. You see, if luck is in my favour, he has already picked up the despair disease from merely touching your arms, the symptoms have yet to manifest. He's the diseased hiding among the healthy, rendering the quarantine completely pointless." I took in a shaky breath as a smile grew on my lips.

"The hope born from every single Ultimate falling into despair will be magnificent! Even now you're all fighting so hard against it! I can't even imagine what it will be like to watch you all piece yourselves back together, trying to understand what the despair disease truly meant whilst figuring out the motive for the murder. I can hardly wait!" I wrapped my arms around my waist, holding myself together as if I was going to burst from this uncontained excitement.

Hinata was silent for a few moments, before sighing and letting go of my face. "How boring…" He muttered.

"Ah, I-I'm sorry to have been such a dis-"

"I was right not to have expected anything better from you." His voice was rough, forcing every single muscle in my body to tense up out of primal fear. I felt like a deer in the headlights, a rabbit stood before a starving wolf.

"You're so predictable, Komaeda Nagito. Utilising a talent as boring as luck to bring about despair?"

I opened my mouth to apologise for my shortcomings, only to have fingers grab at my jaw and dig into my cheeks in a way that prevented my teeth from meeting. A strangled noise akin to a whimper forced itself from my throat. My knees were weak yet my body felt light. It was as if I was merely putty in Hinata's hands, completely submitted to his control.

"If you want to spread the despair disease so badly, why don't you take it?" Hinata's practically spat the words, the emotion in his voice betraying that empty expression he held.

He leaned even closer and I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. This is it, this is the part where he kills me. That thought caused an inappropriate sensation to stir in my gut, I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, yet my laughs were cut short by a warmth pressing to my lips and devouring them straight from my mouth.

My mind went blank.

Is he…?

No…

No way...

Every muscle in my body went limp as something warm and wet forced itself into my mouth. I shivered with excitement and rubbed my tongue against the other.

The euphoria overwhelming me was dizzying. This is what I had wanted. I'm so disgusting, taking advantage of Hinata-kun like this. The bad luck awaiting me now would be immense, perhaps I really am going to die.

Despite my brain's protests, I melted into the kiss and wrapped my arms around Hinata's neck. As my chest leant into his, I could feel the burning fever radiating from his skin. Haha…I really am going to get sick if I keep this up…

The thought made me shiver and moan, sucking greedily at the other boy's tongue. His mouth had an awful taste of blood and stale water, but I just couldn't resist. Our lips made quiet wet noises as they rubbed against each other, drool now leaking from Hinata's mouth and down his chin.

It wasn't long before I was finding it hard to breathe with the heat radiating from Hinata. I wiggled my face free of his grip, separating the kiss and gasping for air. Hinata panted softly, staring at me with half-lidded, glazed over eyes. He looked calm, unfeeling, unexcited. It made my heart sink and I found myself mad for thinking it would be any different, as if he would have felt anything more.

"Ko-"

Hinata spoke with a hoarse voice before suddenly choking on the name. His eyes rolled back and he slipped from my grasp, collapsing to the floor below.

"H-Hinata-kun?!"

#Komahina #Hinakoma #Kamukoma #Hinata Hajime #Komaeda Nagito #Kamukura Izuru #Ficgiri

[caps-lockdown]

Operation: Man Flu Part Two

Thank you to everyone for such kind comments and reblogs on my first part of this new series, it’s been so heartwarming hearing how much you guys love this idea! Without further ado here is part two!

This fic is going to jump time a lot, so just make sure to pay attention to the military time. Also the past will be in italic, forgot to put that in the first part. Thanks so much for reading!

Pairings: Steve x Shield Agent Female Reader!

Words: 4,198

SMALL WARNING: There is a couple of crude adult jokes in this chapter, just letting you know. Also mentions of family death in here too.

Ratings/Warnings: I’m going to put hard R here for the whole thing because there’s going to be cussing, mentions of sickness, alcohol consumption, physical fights, mental breakdowns. Jealousy, love triangles (sort of), angst, drama, and lots of crude humor. Just strap in.

Also no Beta so my mistakes are my only thing to claim, I don’t own any characters either, with the exception of the reader, a doctor, and some random characters here and there.

It is in Y/N (Your Name) L/N (Last Name) format. Enjoy!

Part Two

1100 hours

You sat in the secluded darkness of an unused office, slightly away from all of the current noise of quarantine. These men were tap dancing on your last good nerve in soccer cleats. Rubbing your right temple you tore into the wrapper of a protein bar, your stomach sounding like it was trying to demand Han Solo and the wookie be brought to it.

“Easy Jabba, it’s been a long morning.” You pleaded with your stomach, chewing into the bar without mercy. This was the first moment of silence you had truly to yourself since this morning when Steve Rogers had dragged a near dead Tony Stark off the Quinjet and turned your life into pure hell within a matter of hours. It took sheer skill to sneak away from the chaos, but you’d be damned if you let the circumstances keep you from eating anything.

Right as you were about to enjoy another large bite of your semi-decent protein bar however, the office door was flung open and the lights were turned on. Your eyes squinted to adjust to the bright light, a small hiss leaving your lips as you recognized the looming figure standing in the door way.

“Well look at what I found here. Hungry?” Steve’s blue eyes danced with amusement as he looked you over in your current state. You had crumbs all over you, shoved in the corner of the office and hunched in a chair looking nothing short of some kind of Gollum creature. Your eyes slanted into a mock glare.

“Shut it Rogers, it’s been a shit last few hours and I’m out of coffee.” You sighed, standing up from the chair and straightening out your clothes.

“Easy L/W, I understand.��� He chuckled, watching you with a smirk while you made your way over to him.

“When are you going to start calling me by my first name?” You huffed, placing a hand on your hip and taking another bite.

“When you start calling me by mine.” Steve said nonchalantly and you nearly choked, bringing up your free hand to hit your chest a few times to help the food continue down your throat.

“That’s different Rogers,” You tried to brush it off as if it were nothing, noticing he now had a smile on his features, clearly trying not to laugh at you. “It’s a respect thing.”

“So I can’t respect you as much as you respect me then?”

The high pitch squeak of annoyance left you as you processed what he said, pushing past him and stalking away in response. His loud laugh carried through the hallway and although you loved hearing it, you didn’t need him throwing your words from earlier back in your face like that.

~~After the meeting with Dr. Hooper, approximately 0800 hours~~

“Awh hell I knew I should have stayed in bed today.” Sam muttered angrily as he dramatically leaned back in his chair.

“It’s not like Tony thought to get sick Sam, cut the guy a break.”

“Oh I’ll cut something alright. We had plans! All of us did! I don’t want to spend one of the only three day weekends in the year sicker than a dog Y/N!”

“Stop being so dramatic Wilson, we’re in the same boat.” Bucky countered, only earning another glare from Sam.

“I’m sorry I must have forgotten the part where Hooper said that super soldiers, demi gods, and hell even BANNER would all be affected differently and most likely WOULDN’T have the same symptoms or nearly the same intensity!” Sam spat, Clint looking at him with a sad expression. You had to feel sorry for them, knowing what fate awaited them was just down the hall.

They had turned the large conference hall into a quarantined area. The hospital beds and some of the machines had been moved from the small medical bay that Stark Tower had, and by the sounds of Tony’s sneezing fits you’d confirm he was moved in and as comfortable as he could be. It was also easier to lock down this whole floor as opposed to anywhere else, as it didn’t have nearly as much traffic as other parts of the tower.

“Hey at least you don’t have to worry about dropping like a fly within the next couple hours!” Bucky barked back, you looking to Steve with an annoyed expression.

Doctor Hooper had informed your group that those exposed to Tony the longest would be the first to develop symptoms, but due to their “special” genetics she couldn’t tell them exactly what they would experience. Clint and Sam were obviously the most upset, being the fact that even with the arc reactor in place Tony seemed to be going through absolute hell. At least you didn’t have to worry about spending the weekend sick or stuck with these guys.

Or so you thought.

“Don’t worry Buck, I’ll be here to make sure you all survive the weekend.” Steve stated calmly and you bit back a swoon. He was always so collected in dire situations, always kept his head on his shoulders. You envied that in a lot of ways, your temper usually getting the better of you.

“Oh great. You’ll look terrible in a Nurse’s uniform Rogers.” Bucky scoffed, folding his arms over his chest as the table chuckled in response.

“I don’t know, I think he has great legs. Wouldn’t you agree Y/N?” Sam looked at you pointedly, your face heating up as you directed your gaze back to the table top in embarrassment.

“I hope you croak Wilson.” You muttered darkly to him, choosing to ignore his snicker and Steve’s raised eyebrow in your direction.

“Nah you like me too much but hey that gives me an idea! Why doesn’t Y/N help us out this weekend? She doesn’t have to worry about catching anything and she makes really good chicken noodle soup!”

You had never given murder much thought until this very moment in time. Your eyebrows shot up to your scalp as everyone started agreeing with him.

“I don’t think so guys…I like all of you…but um…ah…” You started to stammer, Steve’s laughter ringing in your ears as you slowly brought your gaze to his.

“Not up to the challenge L/N? You don’t want to spend the whole weekend with me?”

“It’s not that at all!” You quickly interjected, letting out a deep sigh and staring back at the table. You said that too fast, you knew for sure he would probably think you’re a creep. Composing yourself, you took your turn looking around at the other faces that made up the table.

“I don’t know if I can handle seeing all of you sick. You’re the Avengers. You save the world sometimes on a daily basis. I’m just a nobody. I don’t have any experience in the medical field, I don’t like blood…” You trailed off, ignoring Sam clucking his tongue at you in disagreement.

“Come on Y/N, you’re not a nobody.”

“Sam I’m literally on a team of agents who are called ghosts.”

“Yea well you’re our favorite ghost!” Bucky tried, earning a small half smile from you in response.

“We respect you a lot here.” Steve’s words caused your heartstrings to bow out and his blue eyes just seemed to suck you in.

“So I can’t respect you as much as you respect me then?” You raised an eyebrow as Steve’s face fell just as you continued,

“What if something happens? What if you don’t get better? What if one of you doesn’t…make it? You can’t ask me to be there for that Rogers. After all, you will probably get sick too.”

“Pepper is going to help out too when she can, and we have Doctor Hooper until late tonight. It’s only a few days and a few sick guys, how awful could it be?” Sam pleaded as he gave you giant puppy dog eyes and you only had to look at him briefly to lose all of your resolve.

1130

Turns out it could be pretty damn awful.

It didn’t take long for the sickness to start claiming victims. Clint dropped first with a one hundred and two degree fever about ten a.m. Bruce had a coughing fit that nearly knocked him out at ten forty-five. It was spreading fast, and you couldn’t keep up with it.

“Y/N I need you to keep calm. We’re going to be alright.” Steve uttered as you watched Doctor Hooper and the couple nurses run tests on Clint, the only noise that could be heard was Tony heaving his guts up a few beds down.

“How can you be so damn sure Rogers? Aren’t you worried for when it hits you?”

“I’ll worry when the time comes. Isn’t going to help them or anyone else if I start now.”

“You are such a damn boy scout.” You scoffed, looking at him with both respect and exasperation.

“So I’ve been told.” He shrugged and you could see why women fell all over him. He was always in control of a situation. It was maddening how he could even find a way to calm you down in all of this mess. You didn’t know if you wanted to smack him or kiss him.

“Steve! Y/N!” Sam’s voice brought you back to earth and quickly your day went from bad to worse as you ran to help him with Bucky, who looked like he had been hit by a truck.

“Can’t..breathe…throat…burning...”

“Jesus Barnes you sound like you just finished giving a cheese grater a blow job.” You said matter of factly, causing both Sam and Steve to look at you with a shocked expression before Sam dissolved into a fit of laughter.

“Y/N where did that come from?” Bucky managed to get out when you sat him on the bed next to Tony, pouring out some nasty looking throat coating medicine into a small plastic shot glass.

“Y/N has always been like this, you clowns just never get to see this side of her.” Sam countered as Bucky took to drinking the dark purple colored liquid, his face contorting in disgust as he swallowed it.

“This….this is disgusting!”

“Sorry Bucky, I should have warned you.” You apologized, looking over to a sedated Clint and sighing at the finally lowered body temperature.

“It’s ok at least you’re pretty. If Stevie here had made me drink that I would have spat it out in his face.”

“Gee thanks buddy.” Steve rolled his eyes as you let out a giggle.

“Don’t mention it pal.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” Steve stated plainly before leaving to talk with the Doctor about Tony, who hadn’t seem to be letting up on purging his whole body of everything he had eaten in the last five years. Your eyes wandered over to Bruce, who was sitting upright in his bed and reading a novel. Besides the coughing fit he had been pretty much fine, his body temperature only slightly higher than normal. They had hooked him up to an I.V just to be on the safe side.

Thor, although completely fine, had gone ahead and put himself in the bed next to Clint, leaving a vacant bed in between Bruce and Bucky. Then there was the empty one on the other side of Tony, which you had no doubt was for Steve, whenever he would finally fall ill. Within a mere five hours, three of The Earth’s Mightiest Heroes had gotten sick with varying symptoms. You found yourself hoping no one would decide to try for world domination this weekend. Your world currently didn’t have the man power to stop it.

This was going to be a long weekend.

1500

“Y/N, can you bring me some more water?” You heard Tony ask for the tenth time in the past thirty minutes.

“Can’t Rogers bring it to you? I’m fluffing Bucky’s pillows.” Again. You huffed as you attempted to readjust the blue plaid covered pillows you specifically brought from Bucky’s room for his bed. You had never even considered going in to the winter soldier’s room prior to the request, but found it surprisingly clean and organized for a guy who had his personality.

“But I want you to do it!” Tony whined, you shooting a glare in his direction.

“Listen mister. You have three perfectly good and mostly full water bottles right there on your table. Why do you need a new one?”

“They aren’t cold anymore. And I need cold water.” You let out another exasperated sigh as he looked at you innocently, “Doc’s orders.”

“Ohmygod. Hang on a second then.” You finished Bucky’s request and watched him lay back down on his bed, nodding in appreciation.

“Thanks sweetheart, you’re the best.” You smiled at Bucky before running over to the refrigerator Steve had set up in one of the offices nearby, grabbing a couple water bottles and walking back out into the hallway.

“Here Stark, don’t choke.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm as you placed the bottles on the small table next to his bed. He only gave out a muffled grunt in response bringing the bottle to his lips and chugging half of it.

“Right behind you Doll.” Steve whispered, stepping behind you to grab the half empty bottles, his hand touching your shoulder while he used his other to collect them.

Your breath caught in your throat as your senses were assaulted by his touch and amazing scent. Goosebumps appeared on the back of your neck and you were certain your face was the shade of a tomato. You were completely frozen, your face distant and you didn’t notice Sam’s huge shit eating grin while he stood on the opposite side of Tony’s bed. You were certain this was the first time you had been this close, let alone having the blonde touch you in a way that wasn’t the typical “Good Job” handshake or short pat on the back after a mission.

“I’m going to put these in the fridge so Tony can have them later.” Steve removed his hand from your shoulder and immediately you felt saddened from the loss of warmth from him.

“Uh,…ya…you…youdothatRogers.” You stuttered watching him walk away, Sam shaking his head. Tony spared no time rolling his head up to look at you and calling you out.

“Was that even English Y/N? Sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“She has a different kind of sickness Tony,” Sam cut in, Tony rolling his head to give him his attention. “Don’t worry, nothing a shot of penis-ilin won’t cure. I’m sure Ste..”

“You finish that sentence and I will end you Wilson.” The icy look you had given was enough to send Sam backing away in fear, something you were quite proud of.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You know somethin? I see it now..” Tony mused, your eyes darting to his in a mix of embarrassment and anger. Looking for a way out, you were more than ecstatic to hear Thor mention something about stomach pains.

“I’m on it!” You exclaimed far too happily, rushing away from Tony’s bedside, a very confused Steve returning to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Did I miss something? L/W was off like a bullet.”

“My dear Capsicle, I’d wager you’ve missed a great deal.” Tony coughed out, Bucky nodding to their bewildered friend.

1900

”Well I wouldn’t have to puke if I didn’t have to keep looking at your ugly mug!”

“You want to say that again rich boy? Sick or not I can still kick your ass!”

“Ladies please, you’re both pretty. Can we stop this childish fighting for two seconds?” You interrupted Tony’s and Bucky’s arguing, which they had been doing off and on since Bucky had taken the bed next to him.

“Yea guys, Y/N made us soup the least you could is be a little appreciative. She doesn’t have to help either of your sorry asses. You’re sick, not dead.” Sam tried, beaming over at you from across the sick Stark’s bed.

“Sam’s right. Let ME take the high road and apologize for my terrible behavior.” Tony puffed his chest out proudly before coughing up a lung, earning a grimace from everyone in attendance.

“You are high Stark, those meds they have you are potent. But we can agree that your behavior has been a thorn in my side all day.” Bucky shot back, Tony sticking his tongue out at the other brunette.

“Do you two want soup or not?” You asked the two squabblers before they could get into another row. Instantly the two idiots shut up and looked at you expectedly. Giggling to yourself at how fast you were able to silence them with the promise of food, you made a mental note for later. Should the need arise again that is.

You passed out the paper bowls you had been carrying to the three men. Your laughter escaped you, Sam going to town on his portion like he had been starving all day.

“Man I love this soup!” Sam exclaimed as he dug in, Tony and Bucky giving mumbled thanks and appreciative groans as they took on their soup. You looked on as Steve passed out bowls to Clint, Bruce, and Thor.

“Make sure Clint doesn’t fall asleep into his bowl and drown Rogers!” You called out, causing Clint to frown at you.

“I’m not that drowsy!” The archer shouted back crankily.

“Please. You fell asleep while the nurse was drawing your blood.” You quipped, Clint’s eyes shooting down into his paper soup bowl guiltily.

“Okay…I might be a bit tired.”

“Uh huh.” Rogers nodded as he handed him a spoon, watching him carefully as he began to eat.

“This soup really is amazing Y/N.” Thor complimented, causing a large smile to break over your face.

“Thank you Thor, I’m glad you like it. My mom used to make it for me when I was sick, and my Grams used to make it for her. My Grams taught me everything I know about cooking.”

“Lucky for us.” Bruce commented and the rest of the men eagerly agreed.

A brief moment of sadness hit you as you recalled fond memories of your Grams in the kitchen. She often times would set you up on the counter top so you could watch her work. You usually made a huge mess while trying to “help” but your Grams never got mad at you. Not once. Your mind slipped away from you as you wandered your way back into the office that was slowly becoming cluttered. Medicine bottles, water bottles, a refrigerator, and now a giant pot that had been put on a portable induction cook top to keep the soup warm sat on the desk.

“Do you miss her?” You blinked as Steve walked into the office, looking at you closely as you poured two more bowls of soup.

“Every day Rogers. She was my person, someone who helped shaped who I am. I honestly feel like part of me is missing some days. If she could hear some of the stories I have from working here…” You chuckled as you grabbed a couple spoons, handing a bowl to Steve before taking a seat in one of the many chairs strewn about.

“I bet you probably have some real dirt on us.” The blonde smirked at you while he took a seat in the vacant chair next to you.

“Don’t worry Rogers, you’re safe. Actually my Grams was a huge fan of yours.”

“Really?” He mumbled, slurping into his soup which caused you to giggle.

“Oh yea. Pretty sure she was the president of your fan club. She was always telling me “Y/N, why don’t you find a nice wholesome man like Steve Rogers to date? I’m not getting any younger.” Both of you chuckled at the memory, the soup warming your soul as you started eating.

“Well I’m sorry I never got to meet her.”

“You say that now, but if you had I doubt a crow bar and seventeen firemen could have detached her from you. She always thought you were so handsome.” He nudged your shoulder.

“Quit it L/N I’m blushing.”

“I mean she isn’t wrong but still..” The sentence fell out of your mouth before you could think about it. He had stopped chewing and was staring at you with a soft expression, his beautiful blue eyes intently focused on yours.

“What was that?”

“Nothing at all!” You hurriedly shoved the last few spoonfuls of soup into your mouth to keep anything else from coming out and quickly stood, making a bee line to throw away your paper bowl and rushing out to check on the sick crew. Steve only stared down into his bowl and chuckled, wheels beginning to turn.

2100

“Alright, you two are on your own.” Doctor Hooper’s hand shook yours as you left the hall.

“We really can’t thank you enough for staying and helping as much as you could. I hope your family can understand, please send them my apologies for keeping you from them today.” Walking to the elevator with her, you couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the doctor losing precious time with them.

“Oh it’s nothing Y/N, my daughter would kill me herself if anything happened to this bunch. She’s the one who threatened to disown me if I didn’t take the job when Stark offered it. But Pepper should be here tomorrow, so she can handle her husband then. They’ve all been given sedatives to help them sleep so you should be free of them until morning.” The two of you looked back where the men were passed out, your eyes rolling hearing the loud snores that echoed after them.

“God willing Doctor Hooper. I’m going to need to put myself in a quarantine away from them for a few days when this is all over.” She laughed, the three of you stepping inside.

“We’ll manage the best we can Doc.” The super soldier smiled, pulling you into a side hug that left you dizzy.

“I know you will, you two make a great team.” Her knowing smirk ruffled you a bit as you stepped off to your floor leading to your room, jumping slightly when you noticed the large man next to you had stepped off as well.

“Goodnight you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The Doctor called out as the doors shut, heat rushing to your face as you tried to conceal your embarrassment by looking at the wall opposite the tall blonde drink of water.

“I just wanted to make sure you got to your room okay Doll, I’m sorry she has the wrong idea.”

“No, no it’s totally fine! I appreciate that.” You waved dismissively, “Besides I know we don’t know each other that well, and that I’m not someone that someone like you would consider dating. Which again I totally understand and don’t blame you at all and did I mention how much I love this color of paint?” You rambled on, silently counting the number of doors until you would reach your room and shut yourself away forever. Twelve.

“Don’t sell yourself short Y/N. I think you’re a wonderful person.” His bright smile was disarming so you began to study the floor in great detail.

Eight

“In fact, anyone that manages to sweep you off your feet will be really lucky to have you.” Steve’s compliment had you internally screaming, your pace picking up a little.

Five

“That’s going to be a bit difficult Rogers. I’m pretty sure the guy I like wouldn’t know I do even if I stood right in front of him with a giant flag that proclaimed my feelings in huge red, white, and blue letters.”

Three

“I can only hope he comes around and realizes how special you are.” Steve gave you a pat on the shoulder and you found yourself wanting to hit your head against a wall.  Oh sweet lord how dense can you be? You thought bitterly as you came to stand in front of your door.

“Well this is me. Thanks for walking me back.” You forced a smile, disappointment bubbling inside you and you wanted nothing more than to throw yourself onto your bed dramatically and cry until your lungs gave out.

“Not a problem at all. Thanks for all of your help today. And in case I don’t say it, thanks for tomorrow and Sunday too.” Your heart broke as he gave you another dazzling smile, you opening your door and looking at him for the final time that night.

“Goodnight Rogers. Sleep well.” It took everything in you to shut the door, not wanting to hear anything else from your crush that would just end up crushing you further.

“Goodnight Y/N.” Steve sighed, turning to head back to the elevator so he could keep an eye on everyone.

It wasn’t until he was headed back down the hallway towards the sick and still snoring men when your words about waving a flag containing your feelings hit him like a ton of bricks, causing him to stop dead in his tracks.

“Son of a…”

Tag List (I couldn’t find all of the recent people for some reason so just shoot me an ask or comment here!): @kaytizzle @cuffski @giggleberts

#steve rodgers x reader #the avengers #marvel #fanfic #captain america

[elliegratrick-blog]

Virtual studio visit

Saskia Cameron- Email Conversation!

Me and my friend had organised a trip to go visit Saskia Cameron in Banks Mill Studio. I had found Saskia’s work on the Banks Mill website when looking what creators were based there. Her work instantly drew me in. I particularly like her  series of woodcut illustrated train tickets, following the West coast line. The blocky shapes, quite angular shapes used still show a sensitivity and sense of tranquility. The medium of printing means marks and textures come from the screens and lino which gives her work a lovely tactile feel. Unfortunately this visit was planned just around the time corona virus really became serious. It was safer for all our sakes to do the interview over email. It’s disappointing as I would have liked to see the space she works in and what is on offer after you graduate but not much can be done! 

How did you get into illustration? I studied illustration at Edinburgh College of Art - I had done a foundation before that and honestly I don't think I really got the opportunity to try enough stuff there, I wish it had been a bit less narrow! I knew I liked drawing and I was good at it, and I was too impatient to do animation at the time, so I picked illustration! But I think overall it was a good choice - what I really love about illustration is how good it is at transcending boundaries, and now I dabble in textiles, graphic design, all sorts. Top 3 illustrators that inspire you? Oh man this is a hard question. I love Sophy Hollington's work - I work a lot in woodcut and lino myself and it's great seeing that someone else is out there doing that too. It's a weird medium to work in nowadays as it can really restrict how you work to a deadline, but usually if a client wants it they're willing to put up with those restrictions. Roman Muradov is a really great illustrator in the truest sense of the word - his work is clever and clearly communicates concepts visually. Jesus Cisneros is brilliant, his work always pushes me to loosen up and open my horizons about what drawing and narrative can be. Honestly although I do look at a lot of illustration, I think the most important thing is to have people who AREN'T illustrators to inspire you, don't get stuck in an echo chamber of your own discipline. Other creative people who really inspire me are: Jon Zabawa (graphic designer, illustrator, art director, allsorts man) Braulio Amado (graphic designer artist type - he's prolific and so creative) Palefroi (this is arguably illustration, but they're a collective of two, and focus on print, art, installations, small press and animation) Ako Castuera (artist and ceramicist) Ali Smith (writer) And that's just contemporary people - I like to look at a lot of stuff from the past as well, and if you asked me next week I'd probably have a different list of people! When you create a new illustration, what is your process? Research > rough exploratory sketches > thumbnailing > work up a couple ideas > pick one and refine it into the final thing. What's your favourite thing to draw right now? I'm really into drawing people's gardens at the moment, especially those ones that are really overly 'done' you know, with sculpted hedges and garden gnomes and stuff. I just think they're really weird. Is illustration your sole income or is it managed around another job? Nope! My illustration work has always always been wrapped around at least one other job. This has varied from cafe/bar jobs, to admin jobs, to teaching. At the moment, I teach part time on the graphic design course at Nottingham Trent. Most illustrators I know work other jobs most of the time - it's pretty standard, especially at the start of your career. Personally I like this, I think I'd go a bit crazy if I was working alone on my own work all the time. I try and stay open to what my working week looks like, because at the end of the day I need an income, and freelance work can come and go. For me, I don't plan to ever go full-time freelance - I don't like the pressure it puts on my work, it can suck the joy out of it when you need it to provide all your food and shelter. Honestly I still consider myself fairly early career, I'm only 26 and it can take a really long time to carve out a creative career, particularly if you don't come from a wealthy background that can offer you a safety net. I worked full time my first year out of uni as a studio assistant, then went from that to working 3 jobs, then did a masters at Glasgow School of Art and now I've moved back home to Derby and until recently I've been working 3 jobs again! Wrapping an illustration career around that has been tough going, so for me it's only now that I feel I have the time and space to start making this all work properly. If illustration is an income, is the work you produce mainly through commissions/selling prints/etc? Mostly commissioned work! I need to develop more of a passive income, and I'd like to get into selling work more. So far it's mostly practicality that's been stopping me, as I've moved every year for the past 4 years. I'm hoping to be a bit more settled soon! Do you find putting your work out there on Instagram helps? And what’s your attitude towards social media? There's no good answer to this. Yes, it helps. I've had a fair bit of work come through Instagram - and most art directors/clients out there look at it even if its not their main way of finding illustrators. But it's not the be all and end all, the work I've had through it is just a product of having my work out there in the world for people to see - that's the important part. So exhibitions, physical and digital mailouts, networking in person, all of those things are just as likely to find you work. Social media is good for getting seen, but it can be a bit of a sinkhole. My attitude is to use it but not get too reliant on it - really I should be a lot better at updating mine, but I find real life gets in the way a lot! Thanks for reminding me to actually get organised with that. Do you find it more productive having a separate studio space vs working from home? Oh my god yes. But as a caveat - I have never had the luxury of a dedicated space at home. I think if I lived somewhere with a spare room I could convert to a studio it would have a pretty similar effect. Studios vary a lot too - I'm on my own in this one, but usually they're shared spaces. I think my dream scenario is to find shared studio space so I have other creative people around me to bounce ideas off and keep me motivated! I think however you work, it is important to get out now and then. Either for a walk or for your second job, whatever it is. If you can say What are your ambitions or future projects? My current plans are a bit up in the air at the moment with the corona virus! As I was saying above - I'm finally getting into a position to push my illustration career a bit, so I'm working on getting some new, self-directed work together. I'd like that work to be a bit multi-discliplinary, and to involve making work to sell so my income is a bit more diverse. I have a lot of big ambitious plans, but for this week I'm just focusing on keeping alive the commission that came in last week - I know it could be a difficult few months ahead and it could be my last in a while. After that, at least I'll have a lot of time to work on personal projects, so hopefully at least my portfolio will benefit! I have a collection of illustrations that I'm working on putting into a book of some kind, and I'm starting to work on getting a collection of prints, textiles and objects together over the next 6 months to start an online shop! I'm looking to get into a more permanent work/home/life set up soon, but who knows - life looks like it's being put on hold for a while. It’s really interesting to hear from an young illustrator and relieves my own internal pressure of having to ‘have my shit together’ as soon as I graduate. I am particularly interested in the people who inspire her as they are from a variety of disciplines. It motivates me to expand my horizons and not be so narrow focussing on work by illustrators. The rebellious and chaotic style of Bráulio Amado is something I’m really drawn to. It welcomes me to accept my own mistakes and be more loose and free with my drawings. Not worrying so much if a hand looks like a hand! The colours are vibrant and full of life. 

She mentions a shared studio space which something I hope for in the future.  Working on your own, I often get in my own head and overthink my pieces. Being in a space with other creatives definitely boosts your own creativity and you can ask questions. It gives another opinion on your work and ways to improve. A shared space opens up avenues for collaboration and collectives. Hopefully I will stay in contact with friends from uni and could be something we all do together!

Action plan:

definitely look at manicured gardens and draw my own! there needs to be a poodle or worm shaped bush

explore more artists from different avenues possibly looking at film/ book festivals for directors, authors

read more books (i have the time now we are quarantined)

[sweetnestor]

Story of Another Us | Week 10

university au, platonic af, now on ao3!

previous chapter | masterlist

The front row of last resorts...

“I’m just saying,” Mark told me casually. “You’ve spent a lot of time with him.”

He only brought it up because Jack wasn’t home. Maybe this was the first time he could actually get me alone. To a normal person, his words would have seemed like an innocent comment with no undertones. To me, it made my stomach drop, like I had done something wrong. I’ve upset my boyfriend and now he was going to leave me. I might as well start preparing my life of solitude, maybe adopt some cats.

Wait, no. I had to think logically, like my therapist had suggested.

“We share an apartment,” I said. “We go to school together. He records videos here.” Yes, perfect. That explains the friendship we developed. That should do it, right?

“Yeah, but aside from all that,” Mark continued, shifting in his seat on the couch. He still sounded casual, but his face was saying something else. “You’re pretty close with him now, aren’t you?”

Logic, Bella, logic!

“He’s my friend?” I sounded pathetic. “I don’t have any other friends…?” Even more pathetic.

“I thought he would help you make new friends, though. You two are really different, I didn’t think you’d get so close so fast.”

Logic was starting to go out the door. Confusion and a bit of anger were getting mixed together.

“What, did you get him over here so he can babysit my unstable ass?” Okay, a lot of anger and irrationality.

“No! Why are you getting defensive?” Of course, it was easy to get Mark fired up. It wasn’t my intention, but it was happening.

I sat up and scooted away from him. “It feels like you don’t trust me! Am I not allowed to be friends with other people? Are you jealous because Jack actually has time for me?”

I wasn’t one for conflict and confrontation, but man, did I know how to hit ‘em where it hurts. Mark was taken aback and he stood up from the couch, pacing angrily. He placed his hands over his face and took a deep breath.

“Okay, listen,” he said, now calm and not taking the bait I dished out, “it just feels like you don’t confide in me as much as I to you. You never wanted to tell me about your struggle with suicide, but you told Jack with no problem? How do you think that made me feel?”

I was still seeing red. Suddenly, I had a desire to hurt him and push him away before he could do it to me. “Maybe because you’re never here for me to tell you anything! You say you’re always busy, but I don’t see you doing anything! Maybe you just want to leave me alone with Jack so you have a reason to leave me!”

To a normal person, I looked crazy. Mark is a normal person. He was bewildered at my sudden burst.

“I don’t want to leave you! Will you stop jumping to conclusions? Are you actually keeping something from me?”

“No! I just don’t understand why you don’t trust me or him! He’s your friend, and you know I would never do something to betray you!”

Just like I knew how to get him where it hurts, Mark knew how to throw it right back at me.

“Well… I figured there must be some reason why we haven’t had sex.”

Oh, I wanted to pull my hair out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to physically push him out of my apartment.

“You know why that hasn’t happened!” I cried, my voice trembling. “I thought you understood that! I can’t believe you’re - I don’t-”

“What else am I supposed to think? You two are joined at the hip! All you have to do is-”

“Stop! Please, just stop!”

“Bella?”

My crying was actually wheezing. The pain in my chest was my heart racing and palpitating. Seeing red was actually seeing the room spin. Of all fucking times…

Mark was able to calm me down, but that was it. I was still hurt by what he said, hurt by the situation.The panic and anxiety was settled, but I still wanted to be away from him. This argument was still unresolved but I was too afraid to talk to him. My anxiety was only going to get in the way, like it always does.

“I think you should leave,” I managed to say softly. We were sat on the couch again, and I was laying my head on his shoulder, despite the circumstances.

“I think so too,” he agreed, moving to get up. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“It doesn’t matter, just go.”

Mark opened his mouth to say something, but instead let it go. He left my apartment without another word. Wonder if he’ll accuse Jack of anything and yell at him too. I also wondered if Mark was going to let him come back here or keep him quarantined. Would Mark really do that, though? Was he going to be that controlling?

Even though it wouldn’t help the situation, I wanted Jack here. I needed him to tell me that it was going to be okay. I needed reassurance, I needed a shoulder to cry on.

But why did I need Jack in particular? Why did I feel more comfortable with him? Did I want to spend a lot of time with him? Yes. Did I have feelings for him? Yes, but not in the sense that I wanted to date him or fall in love with him. Was I bad girlfriend to Mark for wanting to spend time with his friend? Did I just cost my relationship for a measly little friendship?

Or… maybe I wasn’t meant to have any relationship. All I do is attract people and then I hurt them. Maybe I should just cut off what I have left.

I was sat on the couch for a while before I heard the door unlock. I quickly dashed into my room, knowing that it was probably Jack. He was the only other person who has a key to the apartment, something I now felt guilty for. As much as I needed him, I didn’t want to face him, so I locked my bedroom door and pretended to be asleep. However, I did wonder why he came back until I heard him do his typical video intro.

Surely Mark must have said something to him. When Mark is angry, he does not hide it. He’ll let you know if you’ve upset him. He and Jack are pretty close, so they definitely should have talked. I wanted to know, but I was far too emotionally compromised to face anyone.

I lied in bed and waited until Jack was finished filming. I thought about getting up to go and talk to him, but my stomach turned over. He had gotten here pretty late in the night, so he was probably more focused on getting his videos done. Or worse, he was mad at me too. I decided to do nothing, as usual.

After a couple of hours, his voice stopped and everything was silent. All I could hear was my own breathing. I could see light from the cracks on my door, and footsteps disrupt the brightness. My heart began to race when I heard a knock on the door.

“Bella? Can we talk?”

I stayed quiet, hoping to god he would think I was asleep.

“Please? If you’re upset with me, I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic, and that only brought tears to my eyes. Why would I be upset with him?

He gave up after a short while, stepping back to his room. I let out a sigh of relief, only to continue crying. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried myself to sleep. Actually, I don’t think I slept at all that much either. I was tossing and turning, unable to stay asleep, the whole argument with Mark playing in my head over and over. I just wanted to turn it all off, to stop thinking about it.

When the next morning came, Jack knocked again. This time, I audibly groaned.

“Bella,” he called, elongating the last syllable. “Please, can I come in?”

Reluctantly, I sat up, pulling back my covers. Any kind of confrontation usually makes me cry, but I probably cried myself dry last night. I pulled on my shorts once I got out of bed and then went to the door.

Jack had a very guilty look on his face, like he had done something wrong. It broke my heart even more, and then last night’s events played through my head again and I teared up.

“Aww, Bellers!” He opened his arms, but then hesitated. “I’m sorry…”

“You didn’t do anything!” I told him. “I’m not mad at you!” And I just flung myself into his arms, desperately needing some kind of comfort.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he told me, gently rubbing my back. “It’ll pass over.”

“Will it?” I replied, pulling back to look at him. “He was s-so angry… I f-feel awful…” Just as I said that, I became aware of the position we were in and I removed myself completely.

“Did… did you tell him about the conversation we had?” Jack asked.

“N-No… Imagine if I had. Did he say anything to you?”

“It doesn’t matter, I-”

“What did he say?” It was probably going to make me feel worse, but I had to know.

Jack hesitated, scratching the back of his head. “He asked if anything was going on between us. He asked why you’ve told me things you hadn’t told him… Um, he was angry and I couldn’t really take it anymore. I tried telling him that we’re just friends and that I would never betray him, but… I couldn’t stay there, because he started getting irrational. I had Ryan bring me back here, and I have a feeling that now Mark is taking it out on him and Matt too…”

I was right. It made me feel worse. Look at all of this shit I caused. Now lightheaded, I went to sit on the couch, and Jack followed.

“Listen, I’m so sorry that I got in between you guys,” he told me. “I should have made boundaries from the start.”

“This isn’t your fault!” I said, losing control of my words and sounds. “It’s all me, it’s my stupid disorders! ¡Si no fuera así, todo sería diferente! ¡Tuviera más amigos and my fucking boyfriend would actually want to be around me! ¡Odio ser asi! ¡Odio a mí mismo! ¿Porque no puedo ser normal?”

I buried my face in my hands, knowing that Jack was giving me a look of pity or a look of confusion. I had only broke down like this in front of my therapist, someone who was actually qualified to handle people like me. It felt like everything had come crashing down, and all the progress I had made was for nothing.

“Bella…” Jack paused. “I don’t know what it is that you go through, but it doesn’t make you broken, and it doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re so much more than your anxiety, and if Mark, or anyone has made you feel like you’re broken or small or unworthy, then fuck them. They’re wrong.”

Maybe they’re right, though. Maybe I was small and unworthy. I come with a lot of baggage, it wouldn’t exactly be a shock if nobody wanted to be around me. It was actually a shock that Jack still wanted to be around me.

“He used my anxiety against me,” I said softly, tears still leaking out of my eyes. “He thinks I’m not attracted to him or that I don’t love him. I’m just so scared and anxious, it makes everything a thousand times harder. It’s hard to get close to somebody, it’s hard to do anything without second guessing your actions! ¡Pensé que entendía! I thought he understood that everything about me was going to be hard!”

Jack hesitated. “I mean… I know he gets a little crazy when he’s angry…”

“He was surprised that we’re actually friends,” I continued. “It’s like he doesn’t even think I’m capable of creating friendships. Lord knows it took forever for me to date him…” Another thought fell into my head. “Before you came here… did he ask you to hang out with me?”

“What? No, not at all!” he replied.

“You can be honest, I wouldn’t want to be around me, either.”

“Bella, how can you say that? I’m your friend, I’ll always be your friend, truly and honestly, one hundred percent. I’m so grateful that you’ve let me stay in your home, that you let me record here. I’m so happy that you’re able to trust me, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you. I’d never lie to you about any of that.”

I still didn’t exactly believe it. I found myself fighting off making a look of confusion because I really couldn’t believe he was saying that, much less meaning it. However, I was done arguing. I had done enough of that last night. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mark would sit here with me at a moment like this, or if he would just ask me why I’m like this.

For once I would have an answer. It was because of Mark. He took my disorder and used it against me. Now I was left wondering if I had any disorder at all. Was I just being stupid this whole time? Was I just not attracted to my boyfriend at all? What if i just inherently hated people and any kind of intimacy? God, I was doing so well, and he just took all of that away from me.

“What do we do now?” I asked, trying to pull my mind away from that. “I mean, you and me. What’ll Mark think if we carry on like we normally do? What does he think, knowing that you’re here now?”

“Well,” Jack said in thought, “do I stay here with my friend’s girlfriend and make things look worse, or do I go back to his house so he can yell at me some more? I can’t think of anyone else who might let me stay with them. Maybe I can use one of the dorms on campus.”

As if I didn’t feel bad enough already. This wasn’t Jack’s fault. I didn’t want him to leave because of me. I didn’t want him to leave, period. I couldn’t be left alone in a state like this, I knew that much.

“No,” I told him. “Don’t leave. I’ll work it out with Mark whenever he cools down. This is your living space too, don’t let my dumb relationship problems get in the way of that.”

“Bella, I don’t know. I’m surprised he hasn’t come here yet to tell us off.”

“Well, it’s like he’s always telling me. He’s probably busy with something else.”

_______

next chapter

#jacksepticeye x reader #jacksepticeye x oc #markiplier x oc #markiplier x reader #soau #sweetheart writes #so i just counted #and holy shit batman we're 4 chapters away from the end #this story is shorter than i thought

[braindamageforbeginners]

Life is, Perhaps, Maybe, Possibly Less Disastrous and Terrifying Than I Thought - and I Don't Like It

So, starting the next step in my ambitious, “Don’t die a horrible death” project, I met the team that will be overseeing the next phase, located at a large research hospital in Southern California. Which is closer to home than the large research hospital in Northern California, but my mad scientist oncologist didn't think there would be any better or worse outcomes, provided I kept her in the loop.

If there is one thing you take away from these macabre little memoirs, it's that if you get a dangerous disease, don't screw around; do some research and go straight to the best specialists in the field. That's the key step in making a fatal disease into a dangerous disease. And if you have a rare dangerous disease, that talent is usually at a research hospital. I especially recommend research hospitals, because it opens up opportunities that simply aren't available at your local Health Mart. Case in point, my new mad scientist oncologist walked into the room with a clinical trial for some exciting new chemo drug that would probably be just the thing, based on my pathology report. And, I know I won't be getting the placebo, because they're still testing it for side effects and safety. Now, this is an interesting case study in how desperation makes us behave differently, because, under normal circumstances, I would have some choice words for anyone offering to inject me with an unproven, potentially fatal substance (and demanded regular blood samples for the privilege). BUT, the clinical coordinator said the study would require regular check-ins for years, and, right now, the word “years” is unbelievably sexy. So, if I stop updating, there's a solid chance the miracle drug was less miraculous than advertised. And these researchers have some pull; there's a deadline to get into the wonder drug trial (I should be okay, but I'll make it in just under the wire), but I originally wasn't scheduled to meet the radiation team until next week; a call from from my oncologist got me an appointment literally within the hour. It's always good to know your physician has some pull in the hospital (I later looked it up; the neurooncology faculty of the hospital is less than about a dozen, so it was probably less “institutional clout” and more “personal favor”). Which brings up another selling point of research hospitals for the exotically diseased; the rules governing clinical trials are very specific, and very limiting. If you developed some new drug to treat Ebola, you wouldn't be allowed to just fly to a quarantine zone and start administering it; you would only be allowed to test certain patients that had certain qualifications and under certain conditions (this is to protect us from Josef Mengele types). So, when these researchers meet patients who qualify for their trial, they'll move heaven and earth to get you in. Speaking of which, I got a call from the clinical coordinator this morning - not 24 hours after being admitted to the trial - saying that I had an MRI next week, so that I could meet admission deadlines.

Meeting the radiation oncologist was a little less heartening.  She seems perfectly competent and decent, but her assessment was not totally reassuring. She said that my surgeon did a superb job removing the tumor, and that gave me a solid shot at survival (hooray), however, these are extremely invasive, fast-growing, dangerous tumors (no shit, Sherlock), and, to get best results, she'd be nuking rather more of my brain than the surgical borders. And this would probably result in some unpredictable neurocognitive deficits. Holy shit. I know from tumor #1, back in 2002 (again, it is fucked up that I have to specify that), that any time a neurologist says something like that, it's code for, “You will have some sort of post-procedure defects. It could be virtually unnoticeable, you might never walk again, we might lobotomize you; we’re not sure.” In 2002, that meant learning to read again at age 17, and it left me extensive brain damage that actually limited my career options (I'm not exaggerating any of that, and I have the EEGs to prove it). So you can understand why I'm rather skittish about a clinician using the term “brain damage.” But, the radiation oncologist mentioned that she was running a clinical trial to assess cognitive function at various stages of radiation treatment - I leapt on that one, too, because I know from experience, if you lose any IQ points, you want to know about it the minute it happens. And, although I'm upset at the thought of impairment, I do know a neurofeedback therapist. And, fortunately, the chemo drugs I'll be using don't directly kill cancer, but makes them more susceptible to radiation,  which means they'll be less harsh than feared. Somehow, the most upsetting thing she said was that I'd probably lose the hair on the right side of my head. And it may or may not grow back. God damn it. Now, that's not going to make it into my top-ten list of concerns at the moment, but it's like everything else about cancer - another needless cruelty, making the whole thing just a little worse. Life is already far too difficult, even if you don't look like a Bond villain. Even if I limp out of this nightmare, I do not want to start every introduction with, “Oh, yeah, a number of years ago, I survived an awful disease that should - statistically - have killed me. No, they didn't really cure me, this isn't the sort of disease that ever really goes away. I know that because I lived with it for fifteen years before it became dangerous.”

Side note, I believe I previously discussed the rationalization method where you make yourself feel better by comparing yourself to someone who's obviously worse off. All of my physicians tried to do this by comparing me to patients who were worse off - by comparing me to other patients with slightly worse forms of glioblastoma. I guess I should be grateful that I don't have the deadliest form of a deadly disease, but I still have a deadly disease (the same deadly disease as the other patients, in point of fact, just a slightly different breed). It's like pointing it out that the family in “The Shining” have it worse-off than the residents of Derry, Maine. It might be true, but is it too much to ask not to be in a Stephen King novel?

Now, there are way too many moving parts in this scheme for comfort (any Lex Luthor scheme is less convoluted). And there's still an almost-unacceptably high risk of permanent debilitation or death. And no one'll give me a solid prognosis (as Dad pointed out, I've outlived my own life expectancy so long, for so many times, that I'm completely off the charts). And I'm sure there will be at least one major insurance screw-up (there always is, the question is merely if it'll kill me or not). But, overall, I'm feeling 5-10% less terrified than yesterday (I'm still way beyond the normal human experience for fear, but I'm feeling very, very slightly better).

And that has me worried. With the kind of luck I've been having, even the smallest bit of luck has been completely and ridiculously overshadowed by a much greater misfortune. It's like winning $20 from a scratch-off lotto ticket, and finding a $75 parking ticket on your car. So I feel like I might be killed by an asteroid.

#brain cancer #brain tumor #cancer

[notesfromthepen]

10 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW BEFORE COMING TO PRISON... or any other place you'd rather not be for an extended period of time

This is the first few chapters of a nonfiction book I've been working on. Rough Draft. I wanted to share it with you. Feel free to comment, critique, or rave about the words to follow. Again, ROUGH draft. So, without further adieu:

10 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW BEFORE COMING TO PRISON... or any other place you'd rather not be for an extended period of time...(working title)

(intro)

I never thought I'd be here, in a cell, writing a book about prison that I hope no one ever has to read. But since this is the country responsible for this here book's largest group of potential buyers anywhere in the world—inmates—it does make a bit of sense. I guess it's only right that the hard-earned knowledge between these covers is laid down where it was picked up, born in the place it's most likely to come in handy: America, land of the free, home of the slaves...

So you're headed to prison.

DON'T PANIC.

Take a deep breath. Contrary to popular belief, and every instinct you possess, this is not the end of the world. If it makes you feel any better, I know what you're going through—millions know what you're going through. You're not the first to walk through those gates, and you won't be the last. You're just the most recent member to be inducted into the storied fraternity of America's Prison Industrial Complex; a fraternity in which your humble author is a fellow a card-carrying member.

Our current national charter of incarcerated brethren boasts upwards of 2.3 million members. From coast to coast, brothers and sisters, as varied as the colors of the rainbow, call this place home. In running for the saddest statement ever put to words, America's inmates are, quite possibly, the most eclectic and non-discriminating society in the history of this great nation. Send us your poor, your weak, your huddled masses. It doesn't matter your gender, your nationality, your race, creed, color, sexual orientation, or religious beliefs, you will always have a place in America's prisons.

I'm not here to judge you. It's not my job. I don't care what you did that lead you to the point in your life where you're thumbing through this book. I stopped asking those questions a while ago. Which brings me to the first of many rules.

Rule number 476: don't ask questions you don't need the answer to.

I'm here to help smooth the transition, to save you some time and, hopefully, the blood, sweat, and tears it often takes to gain the hard-fought knowledge kept between these pages.

Think of me as your cultural liaison for the prison industrial complex that has claimed you as property for the foreseeable future.

Being new to rule # 476, you might want to ask, who the fuck am I to be giving you advice? It's a good question. I mean you don't know shit about me.

If you want to blend in you need to know the locals and speak the language. So feel free, at anytime, to access this database.

Chapter 1 Perspective

Before we get into the dirty details of your newly minted prison life we need to build a foundation, something to support the rest of the shit you'll need to know about incarnation.

Ironically, the first thing you need to know about surviving prison has nothing to do with the actual intricacies of prison life; it has to do with mental fortitude, and it's something you must develop on your own��if at all possible—before ever setting foot on a prison compound.

The secret to life in general and especially surviving a serious prison sentence is to develop a deep understanding of these four words:

It's all about PERSPECTIVE.

There is nothing more important to surviving, and even thriving, in prison than your perspective. In a place that renders you this helpless, with so little personal control, nothing will protect you longer, or kill you faster, than your personal outlook. Once your freedom has been stripped away, your ability to develop a healthy and unshakable perspective will be your safety net throughout your sentence, and you're truest act of freewill. 

The first step in affixing your perspective is finding your core; the gravity that will hold you in orbit through the emotional rollercoaster of prison life.

Prison, and life in general, is full of reasons to either feel sorry for yourself or to feel blessed. Look to your left and you'll find someone, usually a real undeserving asshole, with an account full of money who's just a week away from an unconditional release. Look to your right and you'll find someone, often a good person, who has truly changed their life, someone who genuinely understands the tragedy and magnitude of their crime, who's serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. Just a few inches to either side is someone who's got it better and someone who's got it worse. It's up to YOU to choose which direction you will train your attention.

The point is universal. EVERYONE, even the person to your right, with the life sentence, has something to be grateful for. It's up to you to pick yourself up, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and find your core. Maybe it's as simple as LOVE, knowing that you have someone in the world who cares, someone who puts money on your books, maybe it's that you have your health, your kids have theirs, or just the fact that you have an out date and will again have a chance at freedom when many will not. Whatever it is, only a whiny coward will sink into despair and self pity when faced with struggle. A real man, a real woman, will stick their chest out and meet whatever challenge is around the corner, with fortitude and determination.

Look deep enough and you will find this hidden strength within.

As crazy as it sounds, the best form of perspective control is the glass half-full perspective, even in prison...especially in prison. If you can mine every situation for the gold within, rather than the piles of shit you will undoubtedly have heaped upon you in here, you will be able to make it through anything.

ANYTHING!

I'm not suggesting this will always be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is.

For the sake of your sanity, you must also learn to differentiate between the controllable and uncontrollable circumstances you find yourself in. In prison, the scales will lean heavily in favor of a seemingly endless series of uncontrollable situations with rare, but brief moments, of actual control. In most cases, our perspective may be the only true form of control we actually possess; a realization that's simply easier to come to behind bars than in the real world.

Once you gain the ability to see a situation as beyond your control, you must let it go. I mean really let it go. There's a Buddhist saying that if there's a problem that you can fix, there's no need to worry because it is fixable, and if there is a problem with no solution, something that you can do nothing about, then there's no need to worry because, after all, there is nothing you can do. The point is that anxiety is at best a wasted emotion and, at worst, a destructive force all together. If you have to meditate and be a Zen master then so be it; if you have to look at it as a pragmatic and logical approach to remove pointless emotional distress, then do that. There is no one-answer-fits-all approach. Do what works for you.

"It could always be worse."

Make these words your unending mantra. "It could always be worse." Words that may initially seem hollow, considering your circumstance, but believe me, they are anything but.

Are you blind? Are you deaf? Are you in constant agonizing pain? Are you in the midst of a never-ending cluster migraines, or on the verge of death at the hands of an incurable disease with no friends or family to put flowers on your grave after you've gone to dust? If not, then things could undoubtedly be worse. And if you are the ONE inmate, blind, deaf, alone in the world, with a terminal case of unending migraines, well this book alone may not be able to save you, and for this I am sorry.

For the rest of you: "Things could always be worse."

Chapter 2 Quarantine

So the gavel has fallen. You've been stripped, shackled, and stuffed into a transport van headed to prison. Your first stop in the prison industrial complex: quarantine.

Quarantine is the cocoon you enter as a free member of society only to emerge a short time later as a ward of the state, another chrysalis or monarch butterfly of the prison industrial complex. Quarantine is where masses of inmates from the varying counties, or jurisdictions, of your state are housed to be examined, sorted, poked, and prodded before being shipped to their corresponding prisons.

The time spent in this weigh station is meant to be temporary but institutional overcrowding and lack of available bed space has lead to much longer and, often, miserable stays. What was designed to be no more than a week or two can stretch into several months. Like many transformative experiences, it will be one of the more uncomfortable phases of your incarceration; it's an abrupt exposure to a strange, alien, place, completely unwelcoming with absolutely no frills, harsh C.O.s, and a population of temperamental and newly incarcerated inmates. I spent just over a month in this state of convicted limbo.

But remember—it could always be worse.

Think of it as a month long, chaotic and rather violent, waiting room. Most of your time in quarantine will indeed be spent waiting; waiting to see the doctor, the dentist, the psych, the counselor, the orientation presentation, the quartermaster, and on and on until they have built you up and dressed you out as they see fit for your incarceration. In fact it's great preparation for the rest of your sentence; a master's class in waiting, with a minor in lack of control.

Fortunately, like every situation, quarantine is a blank slate. While they poke and prod you looking for reactions, as they run you through the mill and jot down the results into their little clipboards, you should be doing your own experiments in information gathering; you should be taking your OWN notes.

Life, and the Universe for that matter, is fractal in nature. Look close enough at anything, no matter how seemingly unrelated, and you will see the same systems, mechanisms, and lessons at work; mechanisms and lessons that can be applied across the board. Myamoto Musahsi once said, "Find the way in ONE and you will find it in ALL," or something like that. The point is, if you can master one thing—truly master it—you can master anything, because the qualities it takes: the traits, the insight, the self awareness, the discipline, and the commitment it takes to master one thing—no matter what it is—can be applied to the mastery of anything.

This perspective is the alchemy that will allow you to turn any circumstance into opportunity.

The good thing about quarantine is that it's as close as you can get to a practice run in prison. It's a month long chance to calibrate, to test the water and yourself around other inmates who are doing the same—most of which you'll have the comfort of never seeing again.

You will start with intake. If you're being transported from a large county you'll be with other inmates, which is a good thing if you want company; a bad thing if your past—specifically your case—is something you'd rather leave behind.

This is a good time to talk about the consequences your case can have on your comfort level while incarcerated. Even civilians know that the nature of your crime can determine your level on the prison hierarchy. When it comes to categories of crimes, the social structure is less like a pyramid, or a ladder, and more like a raised platform in a lake of shit.

Pretty much everyone is on the platform: the killers, the thief's, the drug dealers, the drug addicts, the extortionists, the con artists, the arsonists, the assaulters, the involuntary killers, the drunk drivers; they're all commingling in a nice big felonious-platform mixer.

Sure there are certain crimes that are more, or less, admired. Beating a child rapist to death, for instance, will get you more cool points than passing out in a pile of your own shit behind a police substation with a half ounce of heroin dangling from your shirt pocket with a needle in your arm. But other than having a hilarious shit story, the junkie will still be on the platform. There are only two things that will certainly keep you from the platform: a CSC case (criminal sexual conduct) and snitchin'. Either one is nearly guaranteed to keep you knee deep in shit. Though, as you'll find out, nothing in life—and especially in prison—is entirely black and white. 

So arriving at quarantine alone may be preferred if your goal is to hide. Though keeping a secret in prison is more difficult than you might expect—come to think of it, it's nearly impossible.

Rule #932 Keep quiet.

The only group of people more concerned with gossip than a squad of high-school cheerleaders from the Valley, are prison inmates.

I, arrived at quarantine with company. His name was Tate and it was his second bid. Tate was an easy going, slightly goofy, guy. You'd never mistake Tate for an alpha male—in appearance or demeanor—which gave me a little extra confidence knowing that he'd survived his first prison sentence relatively unscathed, but more than anything it was someone to talk to; someone who wasn't a complete stranger. Plus, having Tate there made the cramped, three hour, ride to quarantine infinitely more bearable. At least I had someone to share this experience with.

Whether you arrive by yourself, or in a group, the path ahead is whatever you make it. But remember this, no matter who you’re surrounded by—in prison—you’re always ALONE; it's just the nature of the beast. It doesn't mean you can't build real and meaningful relationships. On the contrary, the "foxhole friendships" forged in extreme circumstances can be some of the realest friendships of your entire life but, when the lights go out, you'll still be alone. We are all doing our own sentences, battling our own demons, and walking our own paths. 

Rule # 658 You are alone.

An inmate's path is not wide enough for two people to walk at the same time. You can SEE each other, you can TALK to each other, you can even bond with each other but you can't walk on someone else's path.

Upon arrival at intake, you'll shuffle your shackled ass into a room where the transport officer from your county will un-cuff you and strip you naked so he, or she, can take the shackles and clothes back for the next unlucky bastard to make the one way trip.

This is a good first lesson.

Rule # 88 Nothing in prison is ever really yours.

You may have bought it, stole it, or had it issued to you. It may have been in your possession for a few days or for twenty years. It may have your name and number engraved on it but, make no mistake, it is not yours. Do not confuse possession with actual ownership. The minute a corrupt CO takes it, breaks it, or the institution decides that it is no longer an approved item, it becomes contraband and is either destroyed, discarded, or absorbed back into the system for reuse.

After being stripped searched again, this time by a department of corrections officer, you'll be issued a state jumpsuit, usually still warm from the poor bastard that filled it last. And that's it, standing there in newly-used duds and a pair of dirty socks, you are no longer an inmate of county jail; you are now—officially—a ward of the department of corrections; a prison inmate.

Quarantine starts with a series of stations and checkpoints waiting to strip you of every last bit of freedom and personal identity that might've survived your county bid.

You'll see a nurse who'll make sure you're not currently dying of any infectious diseases; apparently they want you healthy before draining you of vitality, probably so they can check your deterioration, and their success, against a base line of health. Sick bastards! You'll see a shrink to make sure you don't plan on doing immediate harm to yourself or others. They can't take credit for driving you mad without first proving that you were sane. Though they have trouble proving sanity when over a quarter of all inmates suffer from mental health issues. You'll see an STG (Security Threat Group) coordinator who'll take pictures of your tattoos and determine any gang affiliation. You'll be weighed, measured, branded and pushed on to the next line.

Somewhere in the hours of waiting to be ushered into the next station, long after the hunger pangs have made your need of sustenance impossible to ignore, you'll be tossed a soggy sack lunch and a cardboard carton of flavored drink.

You'll eat your first meal as a prison inmate with no shoes, standing in a line, or huddled over a concrete bench. You'll find an apple, four duplex cookies in a sandwich bag, and the makings of a sandwich, which you'll attempt to construct out of two smashed pieces of white bread, a slice of American cheese product, and a meat-like sheet of skin pealed directly from the face ‘Freddy Krueger'. Oh, and a single packet of what's, supposed to be, mayonnaise but is labeled salad dressing. You'll search the paper sack, convinced that there has to be more—that there's no way they could expect you to survive off of such minuscule amounts of food. But try as you might, you will find nothing else inside but the bottom of an empty bag.

Rule # 52 You've got nothing coming.

You can forget about what is fair, what is right, and what SHOULD happen. If this expectation is your barometer for what will happen, you will be consistently wrong and, in no time, entirely defeated.

I, arrived at quarantine with company. His name was Tate and it was his second bid. Tate was an easy going, slightly goofy, guy. You'd never mistake Tate for an alpha male—in appearance or demeanor—which gave me a little extra confidence knowing that he'd survived his first prison sentence relatively unscathed, but more than anything it was someone to talk to; someone who wasn't a complete stranger. Plus, having Tate there made the cramped, three hour, ride to quarantine infinitely more bearable. At least I had someone to share this experience with.

Whether you arrive by yourself, or in a group, the path ahead is whatever you make it. But remember this, no matter who your surrounded by—in prison—you’re always ALONE; it's just the nature of the beast. It doesn't mean you can't build real and meaningful relationships. On the contrary, the "foxhole friendships" forged in extreme circumstances can be some of the realest friendships of your entire life but, when the lights go out, you'll still be alone. We are all doing our own sentences, battling our own demons, and walking our own paths. 

Sometime after eating your five-star sack lunch, in the prison eatery of a cramped room with a toilet, you will be called out to one more line. A small room where a disinterested, and perpetually annoyed, CO (the go-to demeanor of nearly every employee in the Department of Corrections) sits behind a digital camera with a log book by his side. With the speed and care of someone with better places to be, without warning or instruction, the C.O. will snap your photo as you try to flash your quickest tough-guy look for the camera. Without time to prepare, most of the pics end up looking more like constipation than intimidation.

With a speed, uncharacteristic of the Department of Corrections, you'll be issued your prison ID.

On the front: your picture, barcode, and prison number.

On the back: name, DOB, height, weight, scars, piercings, tattoos, and STG status.

This is your first piece of state-issued property. This little piece of plastic will prove to be a useful accessory in the hands of the innovative prisoners. The convict's version of a Swiss army knife of sorts: something to scrape water off a steel table to play dominoes, or to clean the dirt off of a place to sit, to wedge a towel or sheet in the crack above your cell door so it hangs down and covers the window when you need privacy, but most frequently, the prison ID is used as cutlery. With enough practice you'll soon master the plastic of dicing and slicing meat sticks, cheese, and onions...It's gotten to the point where I can cut up a meat-stick faster with my ID than an actual serrated plastic knife.

Whatever you do, make sure not to lose this versatile piece of property. The first one's free. After that—if you break it, deface it, or lose it—expect to be charged. The current rate to replace a Michigan State ID is 5$. And you're required to keep it on you at all times. A single moment of forgetfulness and you run the risk of catching a major-out-of-place ticket.

Every three years they'll call you in to take a new, updated photo. You can count the years of your sentence by the pictures behind you and the ones still ahead. I'm three constipated pics in with two to go.

After getting your identification you'll be given a mixture of hygiene products. A clear plastic grab bag filled with the shit you'd find in the bathroom at a cut-rate motel in the shittiest part of town: a little disposable toothbrush, three bars of small soap, a tiny tube of clear toothpaste, tiny stick of clear deodorant. The only thing of actual monetary value is a single stamped envelope. Whether you plan on writing anyone or not; hold on to this envelope.

Rule # 15 waste not want not. 

A quick stop at bank teller style window to declare any and all income or assets, to be claimed by the State's treasury and you're on you way.

The last stop of the initial intake process is the quarter master. It's where you get your state-issued clothes. Ours was in a reconstituted gym.

Roughly thirty of us planted ourselves randomly on three long benches, each man making sure to keep as much distance between himself and the next man as possible. Random inmates scuttled around behind a massive cluttered in the middle of the gym. One of the inmates wound himself through the benches checking our IDs against a list on his clipboard. Making sure to keep his voice low and avoiding eye contact as he went, he said, "If you want anything extra in your bag put your stamp (envelope) on the bench and I'll pick it up. We looked around at each other like lemmings waiting for someone to make the first move.

A CO stood up from behind a desk in the corner. The convict repeated his offer. Again no one moved, everyone afraid to be the first one to look stupid. I pulled out the single envelope and put it on the bench beside me. He verified my number and circled something on his paper. Before the C.O. could make it over to us the convict had slipped the envelope behind the list on his clip board.

One by one we were called to a little window in the cage. The convict with the clipboard eyeballed the sizes for each inmate and yelled out his estimates for each article of clothing. The minions behind him scuttled around the cage filling green duffle bags with the orders. Everybody was to get the same:

2 pairs of blue pants with elastic waste bands and a single pocket in the back.

2 blue canvas v-neck shirts

2 white t-shirts

3 pairs of white socks

7 pairs of whitey tighty underwear 

2 thermal tops

2 thermal bottoms

1 pair of orange basketball shorts

1 blue coat slightly thicker than a windbreaker

1 orange winter hat

1 pair of gloves

1 pair of cardboard like shoes

When it was my turn at the window the clipboard guy asked me what size pants I wore.

I told him, "large." 

He said that they run small and waited for my response.

"Extra large?" I said.

He yelled back, "Three Pants, extra large! See if we still got some of the pocket pants back there! Oh, and a belt." 

One of the minions brought a stack of pants up to the window. He handed me the first pair. "See if these are too big." I unfolded the pants and held them up to my waist. Unlike the all-blue stretchy waistband pants that my fellow newbies had received, these pants had an orange stripe running down each leg. Plus they had four pockets, a zipper with a button, and instead of an elastic waste band there were belt loops.

“These will work," I said, and handed him the pants.

He went down the rest of the list giving me almost double of every item; the best of what they had in that cage of their's.

A part of me thinks that they went overboard in hooking me up just to show the other inmates, in my group, just how much they'd missed out on.

Which brings me to Rule # 411 Take what you can get, when you can get it.

Fortune favors the bold and abhors the indecisive.

Either way, it was the best stamp I'd ever spent in my life.

Rule # 312 Nothing is free; you have to be willing to pay for what you want.

The extra clothes cost the quartermaster guys nothing; they're convicts, they're not exactly loyal to the system that incarcerated them, and this little scam just provided them the chance to even the scales—one pair of pants at a time—not to mention to make a few bucks in the process. Each stamp is worth roughly two ramen soups, a soap, or a honey bun—about 60¢.

Of course, it was a risk; that's why no one else dropped the envelope. I could've lost my only stamp and had to fight this guy in the middle of the gym, on my first day in the joint, but nearly everything with a potential come-up comes at a risk.

It's simple risk vs reward. I couldn't see these guys playing this as a scam. If clipboard had approached just one or two of us, I would have been more suspicious. I would've thought he could be singling out the inmates he saw as easy marks; the ones least likely to retaliate. But the fact that he asked all thirty of us, gave the deal a little more validity. No way could he assume that he would be able to get down on all of us without any retaliation. Plus if this was a scam it would be short lived; how long would it have lasted before someone either fucked this guy up or one of these fish simply ratted him out?

Determining things should become second nature, but until they do, use your intuition and a little critical thinking to help you make your decisions. Or, you can just play it safe until your Spidey senses have fully developed.

After getting our new duds we were ushered into the shower area of the gym. We stripped, changed, and returned yet another borrowed jumpsuit. Next we were separated into groups. The CO behind the desk said "One North, stand over here." He read out a list of inmate numbers and pointed to his left. Though I didn't know what it was for, a part of me hoped that me and Tate would end up in the same group

"One South," yelled the CO. He pointed to his right. Tate's number was the first one he called in this group. Mine was the last. He did this until we were in four separate groups.

We were led out of the building and directed to our cellblocks. Overwhelmed and slightly disoriented, we dragged our new duffle bags, full of our new clothes, across the yard to our new homes.

Walking into the cell block is the moment prison nightmares are made of; the infamous scene in every prison movie. In Michigan, the quarantine cellblocks are long rows of cells stacked on top of each other in the oldest prison in the state. The noise is the first thing you notice. A thousand voices, all competing for clarity, hum. How could that much sound be so constant? A five tiered wall of prison cells reach towards the distant ceiling. Necks bend skyward like baby birds trying to find where the tiers end.

A little desk sits off to the right under an awning of sheet metal; a barrier to protect the officers from the gravity assisted assault of batteries, flaming toilet paper, and any other objects that can be squeezed through the bars overhead. It's a lot to take in but stay calm. Fans buzz from every direction. Electrical cords crisscross the floor briefly disappearing under mop buckets full of dirty water. An inmate drags dark streaks across the exposed concrete with his mop. Signs and orders with exclamation points are painted along the walls near the desk.

The seven of us try our best not to look overwhelmed; nearly all of us are.

A short grizzled brown-skinned CO, with tufts of curly grey hair rebelling under his black—state issued—ball cap, comes around the desk. Clipboard in hand, he reads off prison numbers followed by, I'm assuming, a cell number. It's hard to make out anything but snippets of what he's saying. I'm glad I wasn't the first number on his list.

Rule # 58: Mistakes or mishaps don't have to happen to you to learn from them.

The guy to my left steps forward. The diminutive CO points to a table with seven bed rolls and fourteen rolls of toilet paper. The guy to my left grabs a bedroll and two rolls of toilet paper. He looks around, unsure what to do next. The CO yells over the buzzing of the fans, the river of voices, and the banging of cell doors, "What are you waiting for?!" 

Struggling to hold onto his duffle bag and bedroll without dropping the rolls of toilet paper, the guy to my left says nothing, but the look on his face says, "Tell me what the fuck to do old man, I'm lost."

"Three forty two!.." The hook points up at the wall of cells. "Third tier, cell forty two!" The guy to my left drags his duffle bag towards the first set of stairs, dropping a roll of toilet paper. He didn't bother to pick it up. I grabbed it on the way to my cell; waste not want not.

My temporary living quarter was on the fourth tier right in the middle. Jackson has the movie style prison cells, rows and rows of bars with arms and angled mirrors protruding from the cells into the catwalk. Forty some feet in the air, on a narrow walkway with nothing but a waist high handrail to keep you from plummeting to an uncertain death, possibly paralysis, is a disorienting path to your very first cell.

I dragged my duffle bag down the rock until I found the cell with the corresponding number above the door. Hundreds of eyes. There's no way around it; everyone watches everything. Prison is an introvert's hell. I couldn't wait to get into the anonymity of the dark cell. I pulled on the bars. The door was locked. I had to stand there until an officer came to let me in. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes but it felt like an eternity.

Eye contact is a tricky thing in prison. A little too much can come off as a challenge; too little can be perceived as weakness.

Rule # 41 Trust your instincts

Animalistic instincts—allegedly—long ago abandoned by modern society, are alive and well in prison. Intuition, fear, confidence, strength, and weakness are all indispensable aspects of the social interactions behind bars.

Standing there, with all of my recently acquired earthly possessions, I waited. The cell next to me had a pair of arms protruding from the door. In cells that small there is really no other place to stand. It's either stand at the door or lay down on your rack. My neighbor was standing. I made just enough eye contact to illicit a head nod. The CO bent the corner onto the catwalk. I nodded back.

The door rattled. I pulled it open. I dropped my bag onto floor and the bedroll on the bed.

First you should know how cramped this tiny cell actually was. Closing the cell door behind you leaves about 6-8 inches from foot of the bed, on your left, and even less to the desk on your right. It was so small that the left side and right side designations are merely symbolic. In actuality both bed and desk are pretty much in front of you, just slightly oriented to either side. Spreading my arms I could just about touch both walls at the same time. Between the bed and the desk was a gap just wide enough to squeeze through. The cell itself is slightly longer than the bed. On the left, above the bed, was a decrepit, asbestos-ridden, cork board—or what was left of a cork board; a place for inmates to hang Playboy centerfolds or their doctorate degrees from Harvard. On the right, past the desk—though still touching it—was a high school style locker, about 6'0ft tall. In the corner, past the locker, was a stainless steel toilet. The positioning of the locker was fortuitous; sitting on the toilet, you could open the locker and be partially shielded by the door. I eventually discovered that if I hung my coat on the open locker door I could get full coverage. Next to the toilet, sticking out of the back wall, was a tiny waist-high sink. And that's about it. Oh, and there was a single light bulb above the sink. There wasn't enough room to fit a chair at the desk. Fortunately, the bed was close enough to serve double duty. Cramped and claustrophobic does little to convey how small this place will feel.

I sat down on my rack and exhaled half of my spirit. Though technically my time started the day the gavel dropped at my sentencing, this is when your bid is officially underway. I took a few minutes there, staring at the pockmarked concrete floor beneath my feet; a few short, but pivotal, minutes to close the door on the life I was leaving behind and to open the reinforced steel door in front of me.

Rule #32 In prison, reality is something you must not allow yourself the comfort of ignoring; you are where you are and it is what it is, act accordingly.

I remember taking a deep breath and shaking my head free of anything other than resolute determination for the path ahead. Letting a mixture of pride and anger fuel me through a tough situation wasn't new to me, but this was different, this would prove to be the longest and

most difficult struggle of my life. I exhaled my last breath of uncertainty and stood up.

There was work to do!

The first thing you should do in any new cell, before unpacking your clothes, kicking off your shoes, or taking a shit (unless it's burrito day in the chow hall), is CLEAN your area of control. 

Rule #19 Cleanliness is next to godliness.

I'd say roughly 50% of physical altercations are over hygiene. When you are forced to live in close proximity with other people, you should always go the extra hygienic mile.

I fished around in my duffle bag and pulled out one of the two mesh laundry bags I'd got from the quartermaster. Each inmate is issued two large towels and two washcloths.

I had four of each; the best stamp I'd ever spent.

Inside my hygiene bag were four small rectangles of green antibacterial soap. Two identical half-used bars were stuck to the edge of the sink. Since I was cleaning the room, and not myself, I figured the ones on the sink would do.

I lathered a washcloth and cleaned every surface in the cramped space: the sink, the nylon sleeping mat on the bed, the industrial green railing of the bed itself, the chipped wood surface of the metal desk and all of its shelves, the thin high school style, graffiti-laden, locker, the walls, the steel bars of the cell, the floor, and finally the toilet, inside and out.

Rule #91 Think about what your doing before you do it. Measure twice, cut once.

Always start with the cleanest surfaces and finish with the dirtiest. What sense would it make to start with the toilet and cross contaminate every other surface with shit water. This might seem like common knowledge but you'd be surprised.

After working up a sweat, cleaning every reachable inch of the cell, I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed out the washcloth until it was reasonably clean and hung it on the little knob on the side of the stainless steel toilet, specifically designed to hold dirty washcloths (or so I've always assumed). This would now be my floor and toilet rag.

With the cell no longer a petri-dish of disease and filth I felt comfortable enough to start making my bed. Unrolling the bedroll I found four sheets, two pillow cases, and a blanket that had, apparently, been constructed by somehow fusing a series of brillo pads together—at least that's how it felt. The county jails I'd been to always had "bed socks" that simply slid over the mats. Now I had actual sheets. It took me a few nights of sliding around like an oiled-up seal, inevitably waking up on a bare mat, to finally ask my neighbor for some advice.

I'll save you the hassle;

Take your sheet and stretch it out. Take the top corners and tie them together into a knot, making a sort of hood. Loop this hood over the top of your mat, where your head goes. Move down to the bottom and tie the corners of the sheet in the same manner. It should be a tight fit, so you may have to fold the mat up towards you to fit the sheet over the bottom of the mat. Once you secure the sheet, flatten the mat back out an you have a fitted sheet. You should never have to actually touch that disgusting piece of biohazard plastic again. The rest of the bed is made up as normal.

After sliding the crisp white pillow case over the dilapidated pillow and laying back onto the cool new sheets, I felt a genuine sense of relief.

Rule # 17 Take the time to appreciate the small things.

As I laid there, in MY bed, in MY cell, I feel like an actual smile spread across my face as I stared up at the ceiling.

A though floated across my mind. When did I become such a germ-a-phobe. It's not that prison turns you into a totally different person as much as it messes with your dials. Prison will force you to turn your cleanliness factor up a few clicks. Unless you want to be stepped on and looked over, your level of introversion will move a few clicks towards the extroverted end of the spectrum as well.

It's interesting to watch the way this place changes you. Prison is where your habits and quirks meet the Darwinism of practicality.

For example, I'd been a nail biter my entire life. Since I was a kid, I'd chew at my nails until I had bloody stumps for fingers. I'd tried numerous times to quit, only to realize the futility after I'd gone back to devouring any nail growth as soon as it'd appear. Since coming to prison, I no longer bite my nails. It's just too dirty. Cleanliness takes on a whole new meaning when you have nearly 200 roommates, all with varying degrees of hygiene, all touching the same surfaces. My whole life I was a nail biter and all it took was a twelve year prison sentence for me to kick the habit.

It wasn't long before I was roused from my contemplative day dream by the scuttle of movement somewhere outside of my cell.

Maybe I'd dozed off.

"CHOW TIME!! DON'T MISS YOUR DOOR. MISS YOUR DOOR, YOU DON’T EAT!!"

"Ehh, ya goin' ta chow?"

I leaned my head against the bars.

"Ya goin' to chow?.." 

A hand reached out and tapped my bars. It was the neighbor.

"Yeah, I'm goin,'" I said.

"When they get to our tier," he said, "they brake all the doors at once, for like five seconds, if you don't pull your door open your stuck in here. Won't be able ta eat."

I'd already heard about this. It was a cornerstone of the gossip as we were processing in. "Don't miss your door," the inmates on their second or third bids would say.

I asked how to tell when the doors are broke.

"By the sound," he said. "They use a big ass metal bar to unlock the cells on the rock. When they get ready to break the doors they tap the bar against the railing."

I could hear metal clanging on one of the tiers below us.

"I'll let you know. If you lean on your door it'll slide open when they break it."

"Bet. Good look bro."

"No doubt."

I got ready for chow, which didn't consist of much other than putting shoes and coat on.

I walked to chow with the neighbor where he offered up all kinds of unsolicited information about prison. This was his second bid. A "P.V. new bid" (parole violation with a new case)

Rule #56 Everyone knows EVERYTHING. 

Seasoned inmates love to tell you what to expect and how to jail. It makes them feel important. And yes, I can see the hypocrisy of pointing this out while I'm literally writing a book on the subject. 

Don't be an asshole.

It's up to you to disseminate the usable information from the bullshit. So much of the fabricated info offered up will be unnecessary and, seemingly, un-beneficial for the one spewing it. This can make it difficult to sift through the bullshit. "Why would he lie," has been the Trojan horse that allowed entrance to many a skeptical mind.

If knowledge is power, and pretending is easier than actually gaining knowledge, then the liar, armed with confidence and a practiced delivery, is king of the naive. Which, in prison, is a formidable percentage of the population.

This brings me to one of the ACTUAL 10 things you should know about prison.

Rule #5: Don't listen to what someone says, watch what they do.

Your rudder, to steer thorough the river of bullshit you will undoubtedly encounter in prison, will be your ability to accurately judge character. And the only reliable way to do this is to observe a persons qualities, traits, and habits, not their words. Base your character assessment on a person's presentation of themselves and you will be consistently disappointed and frequently victimized.

There was a guy in my unit, I'll call him "Frankie," who'd been down for twenty some years. Frankie, was a hell of a talker. According to him, he was a published author, he had his own publishing company, he'd written a series of children's books for which one publisher called him the "Dr Seuss of the 21st century." I know because he told me this three different times, as if it was the first. He said he had numerous businesses and had grossed over a million dollars while in prison.

Eventually Frankie talked himself into one of only three laundry-porter positions in the unit. It's a good gig. As a laundry man you suddenly have access to all kinds of fringe benefits. You're allowed out of your cell all day, you have access to bleach, real soap, favoritism by the CO's, but most importantly, it's the best "legal" money hustle in the joint. 

In addition to their regular job duties, the laundry guys provide a PREMIERE laundry service. For a monthly fee—usually a bag of coffee—they will wash your laundry separately with the proper amount of detergent, bleach your whites, and fold your clothes on any day of the week, regardless of the schedule. They will do whites on color days, colors on white days (laundry, not races), and linens whenever you want.

Being a laundry porter is good, consistent, money. And other than being time consuming, it's simple work. Each laundry man comes up with their own system. The days are on an alternating schedule; whites, blues, whites, blues, whites, blues, linen, rinse and repeat. Pun completely intended. Our cell, or bunk, numbers are written on a tag on the side of our laundry bags and our corresponding cell, or bunk, numbers are written in large bold print above our cells, or bunks. Our bags are turned in, washed, and passed back out. It's the simplest of all systems. Straight forward, black and white, no room for interpretation. Numbers! 

For months, people would tell me about Frankie's accomplishments, they'd send me to him after I'd finished my first novel, to see if he wanted to publish it; when I was working on my query letters, for advice; and when I was having a lawyer draw up intellectual property rights for my work, for a second opinion. But I'd seen the writing on the wall. 

This isn't an after-the-fact "I told you so," way to demonstrate my superiority. It's only due to my neurotic need to look for systems in everything that I noticed the tell-tale signs of a con. Ask me about ANYTHING and I have theory on it; our inherent addiction to novelty and how it affects fashion, freewill vs determinism, the sociological factors involved in prison gang recruitment. This was just another example of my neuroses.

Liars, or people who have a penchant for habitually exaggerating the truth, have trouble keeping things straight. The few conversations I'd had with Frankie were enough to pick up on the idea that he might just be a bullshitter of the highest degree. There were things he'd repeat, word for word, bullet points of bullshit that he'd whittled into effective propaganda—like the Dr Seuss line. Plus by the time I'd met him I had been down long enough to know that most, not all, but a huge majority of seemingly impressive people who are insistent on consistently telling you how impressive they are, are consistently...impressively...full of shit.

It wasn't long after Frankie got the porter job, that laundry related problems began to occur. Bags were left unwashed, delivered to the wrong cells, or came up missing all together. Time and time again, inmates came to find that it was during Frankie's shift that their bags were being delivered to the wrong cube, when their bags disappeared.

At first, most were surprised by these laundering discrepancies and quick to believe Frankie's excuses for the constant mishaps. Over the span of a week he told my cubie that it was his coworker's fault, that he wasn't the one who passed the bags out, that the bag wasn't tied enough times so it had opened, mixing his items with others, that the number on his bag wasn't legible, and finally, after all reasonable excuses were exhausted, that he does such a shitty job because he really doesn't care about doing a good job. But no excuse can change the fact that this self proclaimed genius couldn't figure out how to pass out, clearly numbered bags, to clearly numbered cubes, when the other laundry porters, far from being geniuses, were flawless in comparison.

Just as Myamoto musashi said, find the way in one and you will find it in all. I believe the inverse is also true; do a shitty job at one thing, no matter how minuscule or unimportant and, odds are, that you'll do a shitty job at most other things you do.

If the inmates who'd, essentially, paid Frankie to lose their clothes for them, had watched what he DID rather than listening to what he was SAID, they wouldn't have been so blindsided by his failures.

Which brings me to another point.

Rule # 49 Don't put people in the position to let you down. 

In prison, you don't get to choose who you interact with, or live with for that matter. In this environment, if you don't want to spend you entire bid in the hole, you have to learn to deal with people and to accept them for who they are. As long as you know WHO you're dealing with, they should never be in a position to disappoint you. You can be friends with the guy who never pays anyone back, just don't ever loan him money if it will bother you when he doesn't pay you back. You can kick it with the guy that talks shit about EVERYONE, just don't be surprised when you find out he was talking shit about you.

In a place where you're essentially powerless over your surroundings, knowing WHO it is that's around you is an important tool to exercise SOME control.

Fortunately for me, in my vulnerable state of prison infancy, my neighbor Beto wasn't a bullshitter.

At least I don't think he was. 

In any case I wouldn't allow him into a position to disappoint me. I took the practical, and verifiable, advice that Beto had to offer and took the rest with a grain of salt; like the fact that, though he looked Irish and his real name was Eric, he claimed to be a Mexican named Beto. He could speak fluent Spanish though.

In any case, I liked him.

A pleasant surprise about prison—a phrase you rarely hear—is that there are genuine, helpful, selfless people who just happen to also be incarcerated. And the more you live up to these qualities and attributes, the more you invest into the positive things, the more you will run into these like minded people.

Beto was my prison SIRI. All I had to do was beat on the wall and ask him a question and I'd soon have a detailed and well explained answer. Come to think of it he was better than SIRI, in the sense that he'd offer up helpful info without me even asking.

In civilian lingo, prisons are designated as minimum, medium, maximum, and super maximum security facilities. In the state system, prison levels are number based, 1-5. This he explained unprompted.

It's easiest to think of level 1 as minimum, 2 & 3 as medium, 4 as maximum, and 5 as super max.

Each increasing security level has more limitations. Your placement is determined by an often irrational scoring system. Points are accumulated by disciplinary infractions—which makes sense—but also, when you first come down, points are doled out by the amount of time you're sentenced to—which is definitely a refined type of bullshit that has nothing to do with temperament or behavior. If you're sentenced to more than seven years you automatically go to a level 4 (maximum security) prison, no matter your crime or how well behaved you are.

Quarantine was run as a level four with just one, hour long, yard a day. Other than yard, chow time and administrative-related call outs, you're locked in your cell. Which was good preparation for me because, as Beto explained, that's where I was headed. My first three years in prison would pass in level 4 facilities.

Fuck!

Since quarantine is a temporary stop you can't acquire any real property. You can't order things like TV'S, radios, or tablets until you make it to your first real joint, and because there's really nothing else to do in quarantine, and everyone is new and equally alone, we tend to talk a lot.

It almost always starts the same: "Where you from?" It's asked in the hope that you might know some of the same people, or been to the same places; it's all an attempt to not feel so alone.

Since I was raised out of state, I had given up any hope of such menial comforts.

I got to see Tate at chow but it was becoming obvious that prison would be a one man path. On the ride out, Tate had asked me about Buddhism—specifically, meditation. It was a great excuse to start writing. That first day I wrote a few pages to pass to him at chow. I also started a journal. Before coming to prison I had been dabbling on the border of what I considered to be serious writing at the time (something I knew nothing about). Now, I finally had the time I'd needed to really figure out what "serious writing" was all about.

Rule #3 find something productive to do with your time.

I cannot overstate the importance of this rule. This is the only way to reclaim the TIME the system(or life in general) is actively trying to take from you. TIME; the most valuable, least renewable, resource in the universe. Don't let it be stolen from you without a fight.

Whether it's fitness, getting Arnold huge, writing a novel, learning a second, third, or fourth language, painting a master piece or reaching spiritual enlightenment, you have to find something to do. Your life isn't on pause when you're locked up. Unless you let it be.

Chow was a chaotic, bustling, feeding trough. The food was terrible and the portions meager, but I was starving. Our IDs were scanned and we followed the metal partitions through the cafeteria line. Think Subway, except the glass that allows you to see the fresh vegetables is metal and conceals God only knows what.

"Cake or Apple?"

The guy a few spaces ahead of me looked confused.

"Cake or apple?!" repeated the kitchen worker.

The same unflappable confusion, this time accented with a smattering of anxiety.

Again he said nothing.

He got an apple dropped on his tray

I got a cookie.

The apple guy grabbed a milk and a cup of orange liquid. He balanced the drinks on his tray.

"One or the other," said a C.O. stationed at the end of the line to check our trays.

He had to go back to return the milk.

Poor guy.

Others mistakes.

We ate our trays of rice and chicken broth with semi-cooked peas and bread. A C.O. stood over us repeating a few select phrases.

"Let's go, we need the seats!"

"Let's go gentlemen. Eat and go!"

We ate what we could and dropped our trays off where an inmate slapped them clean-ish on the inside of a dirty trashcan.

We stretched our walk back to our cell block sucking up all the fresh air we could. This zombie-like trek, to gain a few more minutes of precious fresh air, is referred to as the Level 4 shuffle.

An inmate's relationship with their cell is a complicated matter—at least it is for me. We want to be outside, to have some freedom and fresh air, but chaos and unpredictability lie beyond that steel door. Your cell is your sanctuary, as well as your... CELL.

It doesn't matter who you are; the first days of actual incarceration will have your head spinning. This is the culture shock phase of prison. Past present and future swirl together in a complex storm of emotions. Alone in this place, completely alone, your mind reels, darting in unforeseen directions.

Rule #79 Find your anchor.

In a place with such little certainty and control, breathing becomes vitally important. It's always there, ever reliable, completely anchored in the present moment. Our emotional state, as well as physiology, is tied to the breath. Deep calming breaths always help. Become a master of the breath.

With the heavy steel door secured behind me I changed into my orange shorts and laid back onto my crisp new sheets, somewhat satisfied from the hurried lunch. Laying there, I realized how noisy prison is.

Staring at the ceiling, an activity I'd grow increasingly familiar with, I thought about the life that had, so recently, crumbled to ashes around me. I felt the bottom. I was secure in the fact that I could go no lower, that I had nothing left to lose. It was crushing, but knowing what I know now, I would have understood that, sometimes, losing EVERYTHING is what it takes to appreciate ANYTHING. And, as hard as it is to survive, walking through the fire is often the only way out of a burning house.

Rule #67 Every situation is full of potential.

It's up to you to work the alchemy necessary to mine the gold of in your circumstance.

Quarantine is a limbo we're all anxious to escape. There is nothing to do; It's run as a maximum security joint; there's just one yard a day; we have no personal property; and phone access is extremely limited. We didn't have much to compare it to but the inmates who'd been here before told us we should be miserable—so we were.

I lay there wondering how long it would take before I'd ride out of this place. Everyone claimed to know the pattern behind the madness of who left and when. Some said if you were headed to a level 4 you'd be here for at least sixty days. Others said level 2s would take a month, and level 1s, just a few weeks. None were reliable predictors. From what I could surmise, we were stuck there until a space opened up at a facility that could take us.

Akhems razor is a tool rarely sharpened behind prison walls.

That night I went to sleep to the symphony of voices and conversations, so numerous that they'd become an increasingly familiar hum. I drifted away wondering what my kids were doing, hoping my family was OK.

Every twenty minutes or so I'd roll over, in an attempt to find a position comfortable enough to squeeze out a few more minutes of slumber. I tossed and turned but couldn't hold on to any meaningful sleep. I thought it was the noise, the new surroundings, the stress, the stiff plastic covered pillow, the thin brittle mat, the scratchy blanket. After years and years of sleepless nights I've come to realize that it's not one of these culprits alone that keeps you from REM sleep, it's a concert of all these factors...but mostly the mat and the pillow.

I was awake long before I opened my eyes. I sat up to the sound of crashing metal and booming voices. A loose sheet of paper was wedged between the bars. It was my first "call out" or daily itinerary.

Anything you have to do will be printed on your call out: doctors and dentists appointments, work detail, library, barbershop, church, classes..etc, all set to military time, all passed out the night before...

TO BE CONTINUED…

Prison Dictionary.

All day: (noun; slang) life without parole.

Area of control: (noun) the area, most often in your cell, you are responsible for. Any contraband found in your area of control will be considered yours, regardless of actual ownership.

Back forty: (noun) the large area of the yard with a track.

Banger: (noun; slang) a prison knife.

Bird bath: (verb; slang) to wash up in the sink.

Blues: (noun) your official prison uniform that is blue in color.

Bottles: (noun; slang) alcoholic beverage.

Box: (noun; slang) administrative segregation, aka: the hole.

Break: (verb; slang) when a door is opened/unlocked "break my door" means "open my door”.

Call-out: (noun) daily itinerary.

Chow hall: (noun) cafeteria.

Day room: (noun) the common area in every unit with television, phone, and microwave access.

E.R.D: (noun; abrv) Earliest release date, or you first parole eligibility.

Flix: (noun; slang) photographs or pictures.

Health care: (noun) medical unit.

Hook: (noun; slang)a prison corrections officer.

Jack: (noun; slang) telephone.

Jail:  (verb; slang) the act of living, and all that it encompasses, while incarcerated.

Jpay: (noun)company that provides email services, some states have jpay tablets with music, games, photo album…etc

Kite: (noun) an inner-institutional a message, letter, or form.

Laundry bag: (noun) a mesh bag you will hand in to be washed and dried by a laundry porter. Make sure to tie as many knots as possible when you tie it closed. Also make sure to have you cell number clearly marked on the bag.

Lock down: (noun; slang) to go to a secluded area, most commonly a cell, to fight.

Lock up: (verb; slang) to willfully refuse to return to cell in order to be relocated to another facility, most commonly to avoid a debt or violence.

Quarter master: (noun) clothing dispensary and repair.

Rack: (noun; slang) your bed.

Rec: (noun; slang) recreational activity. Occasionally used as slang for fighting.

Rock: (noun; slang) wing or tier of a unit.

Rotate: (verb; slang) to actively participate in gang activity with a specific set.

Service: (noun) religious meeting.

Stamp: (noun) a pre-stamped envelope.

Stinger: (noun) a homemade electrical device designed to boil water when plugged into an outlet.

Tube: (noun; slang) television.

[andykoons]

PROLOGUE - PATIENT(S) ZERO

Fucking zombies. Of all the seemingly impossible calamities in the entire universe to wind up being real, it just had to be fucking zombies. Not dragons, not robots, not aliens. Nope. Hell, we’d have been ok with killer fairies. I’d kick the everliving shit out of a killer fairy. Curb-stomp that little bitch into rainbow dust. Personally, I think the world would be less chaotic, and would definitely smell a bit better if it was the killer fairy apocalypse instead of the rotting, biting, putrid one we were handed. But no, mother nature is a bitch, and she must have been fed up with humanity, because she didn’t give us killer fairies, she gave us fucking zombies. Who can blame her? Humanity has been systematically raping her for the last several hundred years.

I guess I better give you some backstory. Nobody knows how it started, we just know the when and where. It happened in the emergency room of a hospital in Tokyo. It was the perfect breeding ground for a contagious disease. Patient, or rather, patients zero, (depending on how you look at it), was a twenty-three year old woman who was eight months pregnant. The disease got out of the hospital and into a city densely populated with 13.35 million people. This was two years ago. It spread like a wild fire thanks to public transportation and something called the “Incubation Period” which is the time it takes to show symptoms after being exposed to the disease. This particular virus is called Nakashima Virus One, named after Dr. Hitoshi Nakashima, the virologist who got the first good look at the beast, or NV-1 for short. Typically, new diseases and viruses are named based on location, host, and effect, so it actually should have been named something like Japanese Reanimation Disease, or J-RAD. But given how fast it took for this thing to go from bad to worse left little time for a large number of protocols to be followed. Besides, J-RAD sounds like a Japanese boy-band from the 90’s. NV-1 has an incubation period between fourteen and eighteen hours, and symptom numero uno is being a fucking zombie. It’s like a switch gets flipped and all of a sudden, uncle Jerry looks delicious.

The Japanese military tried to quarantine the inner city but Tokyo’s population is, or was, packed so tightly that the measly five percent of the city they tried to lock down still contained upwards of 670,000 exposed people, most of which had already turned. Four days into the outbreak, NV-1 had swallowed Tokyo and the United States stepped in and dropped a dry fuel hydrogen bomb in the middle of the city. The bomb was designed after the Castle Bravo hydrogen bomb that the U.S. tested in the 50’s, which, including the surrounding cities, caused the deaths of over 3.3 million, of which maybe half were infected. Nature has a nasty way of bringing up the past.

NV-1 is a resilient little bastard, though. It got out. Maybe it became airborne after it’s many hosts were turned to red mist. Maybe a handful of privates were bitten and brought it back to their various bases in the Southwest. Nobody really knows, but no more than a day later, there were NV-1 cases popping up on South Korea’s east coast, first by the hundreds, then by the thousands, crawling up to North Korea and eventually to Beijing. When the reports came in that Beijing was overrun, we all knew we were fucked. All flights were grounded but it was already too late. The vast network of airliners was very instrumental in the dispersion of NV-1 into every major city on the planet. Like I said, fucked.

The first case in the states came from the LAX airport in Los Angeles, the second at JFK in New York. The U.S. population was sandwiched between the coasts which gave way pretty early. I found that particularly surprising. We all had zombie movies, video games, shows, comic books and various other mediums that were saturated in zombie culture, and it was not uncommon to hear about someone’s “zombie plan”. Most involved drunken frat boys punching their way to victory. Because of this, I always assumed the zombie apocalypse would be over in fifteen minutes. If it was on everybody’s mind, then we should have been prepared, right? Well, the reality of shooting your friend/mother/father/child in the face to preserve your own life is a pill few people have the balls to swallow. It’s not pretty, it’s survival.

The biggest difference between the undead of lore and the undead of reality is they’re just broken humans. Dead, broken humans. The CDC in Seattle had been working on something that could fight back on a biological scale, some said there was a breakthrough, a cure even. However, something went wrong and the laboratory, with all the technology, and people necessary in stopping this virus, went up in flames. Some say it was an explosion, others say it was domestic terrorism, conspiracy theorists say it was the Illuminati, and racists say it was the Jews.

In movies and television, zombies had a distinct sound, a growl or a snarl, a gurgly sound of gasses escaping their bloated stomachs, making it easier for the audience to: A. Sympathize with the heroes against a singular foe, and B. Make the distinction between human and zombie. Not in reality, though. When you get bit, you don’t all of a sudden develop the vocal chords of a velociraptor, at least, not until they being to rot. You still have the same ones as before. So, do you want to know what newly-turned zombies sound like?

People.

Yeah, that will fuck with you for a while. No, they don’t talk, but real quick, make a sound with your mouth, a note, like talking without any actual words, enunciation, or pronunciation of anything. Just a solid noise. That’s what they sound like when they’re docile, when they’re hungry, they scream. Just like a normal person would if they were terrified. This cost probably just as many lives as the disease did. People scream when they’re scared, zombies scream when they’re hungry, in the middle of a panic-stricken crowd of people, nobody can tell human from zombie. 

It took a grand total of eleven days for NV-1 to go global and claim it’s first million. A month later, it’s first billion. Now nobody is keeping track. At least, not of the dead. I heard one guy say that there could be less than four million survivors left worldwide. I’m not a mathematician, but on a global scale, four million out of seven billion is like the preverbal drop of water in the ocean. But like so many other details in this zombie clusterfuck, nobody knows.

There are no governments left anywhere, so the military personnel that run the safe zone we are living in are getting their orders from the highest ranking guy in the zone. There’s no coordination with other safe zones because there’s no communication. Cell phones are a thing of the past, obviously, as well as electricity, pizza, and literally anything clean. We don’t know how many safe zones are out there other than Union Pier on the Lake Michigan coast and the one up in Alamo Township, that’s the only one we have any sort of communication with. We send a couple guys in a truck over there to trade supplies if needed and the communication I spoke of is usually nothing more than, “Yeah, they’re not dead yet.”

Rumors about Union Pier have been circling around the zone. Reports of walls instead of fences, fully staffed security, and next to a nearly infinite water and food supply. Sure, the winters suck with the lake effect snow, but that’s advantageous when you consider that zombies don’t do well in the snow. The Alamo Township Safe Zone, however, seems to be a carbon copy of Leonidas. A small community surrounded by weak fences.

Walls. That word alone makes my mouth water. To be honest, we really have no idea if Union Pier is even still standing, but it makes me feel somewhat lighter to entertain the possibility of a walled-in community. We are constantly repairing the fences around our zone. Razor wire can only do so much when you have thousands of pounds of rotting flesh pushing against it. It was the fact that we have fences instead of walls that almost got my ass bitten six months ago.

The Alamo Township Safe Zone is about ten miles northeast of Kalamazoo, which is about thirty miles northeast of us. It’s the closest civilization to us that we have concrete evidence to show we’re not alone. Every once in a while we would send Paul, our agriculture guy up there to make sure they weren’t fucking up their crops, they would also send people to us so Jared, our cook, could show them how to properly cook game.

So this whole time I’ve been talking my ass off and you don’t know a damn thing about me. Sorry. My name is Milo Becker. I have a wife, Heather, and three boys, Wilson, (we call him Willis), Everett, and Luke, ages six, four, and one, respectively. My wife’s half-sister, Addison Fields, lives with us. Heather also has two half-brothers, David and Caleb. David is Addison’s full brother. He had the same mother as Heather, but he and Addison had a different father. He was somewhat of a recluse and we never heard anything from him after Beijing fell. Caleb was a marine. He had the same father as Heather but a different mother. He was deployed about a month before the United States sent troops to Japan. He said he wasn’t allowed to say where he was going, but we all knew once the news came in that were in Tokyo. Our safe zone is in a tiny town called Leonidas, (pronounced Lee-AW-nuh-dis, not Lee-oh-NIGH-dus like that Spartan king with painted-on abs). Leonidas, Alamo Township, and Union Pier are in our favorite mitten shaped state, Michigan. I’ve had a lot of different jobs in my life, fry cook, barista, nurse’s aide, driver for a medical supply company, etcetera. I even dabbled in blacksmithing for a bit, at the time it was a hobby, but now, any time someone needs their shovels fixed or a pickaxe sharpened they come to me. Now it’s a skill that has come in very handy. All of my experience landed me a job as a handy man in our safe zone. I know a little about a lot so I’ve made myself useful by fixing everybody’s shit and endlessly repairing the fences. Heather worked in a daycare for nearly a decade so she volunteered to watch everybody’s kids while they did whatever job they needed to do. Addy also worked in a dozen different jobs so she works with me. We do good together, we manage to get some stuff done when we’re not goofing off. When I moved away from my family in Kansas, she became my sister just as much as Heather’s. God, I have no idea what happened to my folks. The last thing I ever heard from any of them is a phone call I got from my Dad, telling me he was trying to get his congregation together in his church to wait out the plague. He’s a pastor, that’s where I get my long-windedness from. I may not believe in god, but I could talk in front of a group of people for hours about the things I believe in, mostly Star Wars or Doctor Who. After that phone call, I never heard from him again. As for my mother, she was living in Ozark, Missouri when the shit hit the fan. Her and her boyfriend had a house out in the hills. They might very well be alive. I was so busy getting my family to safety that by the time I had calmed down enough to worry about her, the phones were down. I had never met her boyfriend before, but he is, or was, a career military man, so I keep telling myself that she’s in good hands.

My older sister lived in Olathe, Kansas with her husband and three children. Her husband, Steve, was an outdoorsy type. Hunting, fishing, camping, that was his life. If anybody can survive out here, it’s him. And I can’t think of anybody better equipped to protect my sister and my nephews.

My younger sister, on the other hand, was in the process of moving to California to shack up with a guy she met on the internet. I don’t know anything about the guy. Don’t even remember his name, but he must have been a good guy. My sister is a tough little bitch, and not easy to impress. So if this guy convinced her that he was good enough for her to relocate across the country, he must be good. My only worry is that she was in, or at least heading to California, and the heavily populated states got it the worst.

Her means of meeting him gets no judgement from me, since the internet is exactly how I found myself, a Kansas boy, living in Michigan. Heather and I met online when I was in college. I went to a Christian university in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. I was expelled near the end of my first year because I was suspected of sneaking off campus and smoking that dangerous gateway drug, marijuana. Long story short, I was sneaking off campus and smoking a metric fuck-ton of weed, and was caught because I was sitting in the hallway of my dorm building, laughing my ass off at an air vent. I was inexperienced with drugs, to say the least.

The Leonidas safe zone, (we’ll call it LSZ from now on), was established mostly by the citizens living there and was later discovered by the remaining military and… I don’t know, taken over? We didn’t mind the extra firepower and security, but they definitely run the show now. They were the first to really push to get us working, which not only improved morale, but hey, a safe zone against a horde of zombies is going to have it’s hiccups here and there, and to keep those at bay, we needed a workforce. So good on them.

The first year of LSZ life was nothing but trial and error. The first thing we learned was that guns are loud, and loud things attract zombies. I remember someone once said that “Fire is your best friend, and a zombie’s worst enemy.” That guy was eaten by flaming zombies for being an idiot. The key to survival in this new, terrible world is silence and invisibility, so the light from a fire can attract the dead from miles away.

Your real best friend is a blade made with good steel, expertly forged, hardened, and tempered with the right equipment, unfortunately I have none of those things so I make what I can with what steel I can find. I have a homemade forge that I made with the deck of a push mower. I took the engine off and turned it upside down. The hole left in the middle was a good place to attach a grate and force air through it. My anvil and bellows was found at a nearby farm. If there is one thing the area has to offer, it’s tools. Leonidas is in the middle of several thousand acres of farmland and there are close to thirty farm houses in a five mile radius. Hammers, anvils, hardy tools, tongs, anything a blacksmith could ever need is only a short, yet terrifying, walk away.

There are probably about forty people living in the LSZ. Most of them are from surrounding farm towns, Athens, Colon, Bronson, Mendon, Centreville, and Sherwood. Many families share houses since there’s only about twenty houses in town. The actual size of Leonidas is much larger, but the small, one light neighborhood is where the bulk of the residents lived. The rest was farmland.

I guess I should mention the other family we live with. We share a house with the Hasely family. Jared, his wife Mamie, and their sixteen year old daughter, Keysha. They came from Coldwater. They were trying to make it to Kalamazoo but opted to stay off the main highway and instead went the back way, which, you guessed it, brought them through Leonidas. At first they just passed through, but they came right back a few hours later, without their vehicle. They had run into some undead related trouble. They’re good people. Probably the only black people to ever set foot in Leonidas since god knows when. At first there was a bit of rustled feathers with the older folks, but Captain Manallis made it abundantly clear that they either keep their racist shit to themselves or get the fuck out of town. Either way, after a few months of Jared’s cooking for everybody, it was all ebony and ivory, even for the ancient racists.

He went to culinary school where he met his wife. After graduating, they got married and opened a restaurant together in Coldwater called “Jamie’s.” An obvious welding of their names. I had never been there but whenever I passed it, it always looked busy. Which says a lot more than a food critic can. I can tell you this for sure, that dude can do beautiful things with a rabbit. He would just walk out into the woods and come back with a bag full of herbs I’ve never even heard of. It all looked like grass and leaves to me, but it was like LSD for the taste buds.

My family and I were in Colon, when it all happened and by the time we left, we got stuck in Leonidas due to a flat tire, which I had never had to deal with before. We were taken in by a family whose name I forget, since they left the very next day. We were on our way to Battle Creek, at the time thinking a bigger city would be safer. You have to drive through Leonidas to get to Battle Creek. Long story short, we just stayed here and helped build what we have now. It’s not perfect, but with a lot, (good god, a fuck-ton), of TLC, it’s safe for the most part. And, by the way, I can change the shit out of a flat tire now.

We have rules, well, they started as rules but you might as well call them laws now. The most important is to stay quiet. Shouting matches are bound to happen, but they’re best if hashed out indoors. Guns are a big no no, unless it’s your only option or you’re far enough away from the compound that anything that hears it will be drawn away from the rest of the community, such as when you’re hunting.

As I pointed out before, fire is also frowned upon. Zombies have eyes. They use their eyes. So anything that produces a lot of light needs to be put out. The solar powered street lamps in town had to be shot out, (we weren’t observing rule one yet), after we got stormed in the middle of the night.

The curfew is pretty strict. As soon as the sun goes down, only the night watch is allowed to be out. It’s not necessarily a “shoot on sight” type strict, but the night watch won’t let you off the hook without a well-intentioned black eye.

The top ranking guy in the LSZ, Captain Manallis, is a hardass, but underneath his rough and tough exterior is the softy, chewy, caramel center of a halfway decent human being. I think I pegged him in the beginning as someone who puts on a face of authority because we need it to survive. The man has seen some shit too. He served four tours in Afghanistan and the stories he had about his time overseas were chilling indeed. He and his squad were on a military base in Battle creek when they were overrun and fled. I don’t know what made them think of little ol’ Leonidas in the middle of East Jesus Nowhere, but they’re here now, leaderless and self-enlisted, and I’m pretty thankful for them. He stood at roughly six feet, with salt and pepper hair. He still wore camouflage even though the rest of his men donned blue jeans and t-shirts. It helped with the image of order though.

Most of us have been here for a little over two years and the climate is systematic and routine. We get by, in a place to wait while the zombies can starve to death… again… re-die? I don’t know if they ever will starve. At least it’s something to hope for in a seemingly hopeless world.

The next day is going to be long. Addy and I have to inspect the fences and check the town bulletin board for work orders that have accrued since we called it a day. That’s the extent of excitement for our lives now. I used to want to do big things. I wanted to be a writer, go to film school, record an album. Anything creative. And then, just when I was making enough money to get Heather through school to be an ultrasound tech and eventually to put myself through film school, this shit happens. Just when everything was finally going good, zombies happened.

Fucking zombies.

[toastydehmer]

1) It wasn’t a post on their tumblr but in one of the Arthor Notes on Far Away and Closer. Maybe I read/understood it wrong and that would be on me but please do not patronize me for that. Not appreciated nor welcome.

2) I won’t lie and sugar coat that I’ve been wondering about another chapter but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because reading through your words and tags and the way you ‘speak’ has me unbearably uneasy and sickeningly suspicious. What ‘friend’ would talk as if they hate their own, or at the very least, give off an air of it. Yet it felt as if you wished them dead for writing and enjoying something. Life isn’t all about reaching for something higher. If everyone did that, there would be no poverty. Were they wasting money in the name of the Kingsman fandom? Shutting themselves away from everyone they loved just to write FAaC? Were they refusing to eat when they wanted to work on it? Did they think themselves as the characters from the movie or the piece of fiction they were writing? Were they really doing so horribly that they weren’t ‘surviving’ because to me, living and surviving are two completely different ideas.

And it’s stupid it was done for free? That’s not stupid, that’s just wanting to enjoy whatever it is your doing. It’s a volunteering of a different kind and for you to shit on their work without any regard to the time they put in is horrendous. So you hate they were doing it in the first place, and? Was what they doing illegal? Impacting them and those around them negatively? Why did they need to be ‘quarantined’? Leads me to think they’ve been put in a psychiatric ward and that there is a possibility your hand is in the mess.

3/4) So what if canon was about to become real and theories answered? Are you sure it would’ve ‘broken’ them? Now I can’t speak for everyone a part of the Kingsman fandom but I personally think TGC was terribly written. I could care less if Hartwin was ever made canon. TGC was simply poorly done. Some aspects were what could be considered crack. The timing/meter of the movie was way too fast. There was so much less character development and gradual plot than the first and those are the things that had me liking the first movie. But all of that is neither here nor there, it’s a different matter entirely.

But since we’re on the course, fanfiction isn’t to hope it will become canon or to delude ourselves into believing that. It is to enjoy it and for some, to enjoy the question of ‘what if?’ and further expanding on it. If Q really did go too deep then that should have fallen on their shoulders. People recover from whatever hits them the hardest. Many do it each day when someone close disappears, a pet dies, they lose their job, etc. It’s the nature of humanity to rise and fall. Humanity is the echo of that with each person. It shouldn’t have fallen on you to fix it and that is definitely a fault on Q’s part.

5) Maybe Q got too deep but it’s not your responsibility as their friend (acquaintance) to care for them like a parent. It certainly isn’t ours when I’m guessing none of us knew Q personally. I only talked to them twice and can barely be counted both times; they were only replying to comments I posted on FAaC. As for sucking them dry, no one was forcing them. Hearing it from themselves and their reasons for stopping would’ve had less of a back-lash than from you. And that’s not meant to be mean, it’s a truth. Would you rather hear someone fucked up from that person or from someone else.

You’re angry. Fine. I can understand anger at someone and yourself for feeling like you’re the cause of their hardships. Bottling it up isn’t good but lashing out isn’t either. There is a character Q in FAaC and in it, they were passive aggressive. I’m going to guess you are as well as you’ve said they were going to base a character off you with the same name (I’ve done my reading, for once).

I may regret this and I highly doubt you’d take the offer up but it’s going to be a real and honest one should you want it.

In FAaC, Q (the character, not the pseudo) did what they thought was necessary for the good of their friends. While I think it’s a legitimate theory to state you have a role that is more than dealing with their tumblr, I also know being antagonistic back will not help anyone, not you, not me, and not the people who would have to deal with the backlash from us in the real world. That being said, I offer an ear. Not to hear about Q, not to know if they’ll come back (you’ve already alluded they’re dead), and not to hear more about FAaC. Yeah, I have questions that are burning and initially, you gave me some really bad ‘vibes’. But hearing/seeing the admission that you’re in anguish over this too has changed my perspective a little bit. I’ll keep my questions to myself because most likely, a majority those answers are confidential of the medical field kind. No clue where you really live but here in the US, we have HIPAA and I know what that is very intimately. So I’ll focus on the other ones.

Message me if you want to talk and for a good portion, I promise to shut up and simply be a sounding board. If you want advice, I’ll give it. You want a response of some form, I’ll give that too. Same goes for opinions. Otherwise I’ll be keeping my quiet. Again, I may regret doing so but oh well. The offer is there and it is an honest one without strings attached. You’re in pain, Severin.

It’s the kind I find achingly and painfully familiar.

@0-q-0 (though really, @Severin)

#btw #I rarely bother with tags