hold your tongue, you wicked cricket

Don't call it a comeback.

2014-03-03T20:47:22Z

Because it's just hockey-related pornography. Warning, there's a lot of blockquoting under the cut!

So 7iris wrote me an ask the other day about "kneeling in the NHL."

Semi-related to my feelings about the combine: I snicker every time sports writers talk about a team "topping" or "edging" or "knotting" another team (because I am twelve), but it's those stories about how you can "ruin" a young player that make me think dirty things. Like, obviously letting your whole team gangbang your rookie will ruin him.

So you have to pair each rookie up with an older, more experienced player as a mentor (Kaner with Sharpy, AGally with Prust, etc). Because, especially for the highly ranked rookies, it’s a lot of pressure, they can get wound too tight, so they need to be put on their knees regularly by someone they trust. The Bruins didn’t do that for Segs, they let anyone fuck him, and look what happened. The Stars put him with Jamie over the summer and it settles him right down.

So then I wrote a short fic that related to that:

Jamie’s not what Tyler expected from the tape he watched. Jamie’s built like a fridge, sure. But he doesn’t make eye contact — ducking his head to look up through his eyelashes doesn’t count. He talks sparingly; when he does talk, he hardly ever finishes a sentence.

"I figured we’d get some kale and, y’know, we’d maybe saute it and, Jordie’s got this recipe with vinegar, it cuts the bitterness, right, it’s pretty fuckin’ good, but— do you like kale?"

"Sure," Tyler says.

Seriously, this is the guy who’s supposed to take care of him.

—-

Tyler wants to fit in, though. He’s got to show those fuckers back in Boston, and if that means kneeling for Jamie, then that means kneeling for Jamie. So he follows Jamie back to his bedroom after dinner, and waits by the door for his orders.

"So, uh," Jamie starts. He drops a pillow on the floor, then sits on the edge of his bed. "You’ve knelt before?"

Tyler laughs. “Yeah,” he says. He walks over and kneels on the pillow. “Maybe a couple times. Maybe a hundred times.”

"Huh," Jamie says.

Tyler smirks at him. “So, anyone joining us?”

That makes Jamie frown. “Like who?”

"Your brother, or someone. I don’t know." Tyler shrugs.

"You want my brother in here?"

"I mean, whatever. I’m cool," Tyler says. He’s got a weird feeling that he said something wrong. Jamie’s squinting like something’s wrong, anyway.

"How many guys you kneel for on your old team?" he asks.

And really, this is like the press conference all over again. Tyler rolls his eyes and puts his hands on Jamie’s knees, making to push himself up.

Jamie grabs the hair at the crown of Tyler’s head and yanks Tyler’s head back, pushing him down again. He leans over Tyler, their noses almost touching.

"How many of them," he says. All the hesitation’s gone from his voice. He sounds almost dangerous.

Tyler swallows, reflexively. “Most of them.” He shrugs a little bit, as much as he can with his head hauled back on his neck. “I’m cool, whatever.”

Jamie lets go of Tyler’s hair, but slides his hand around to grip Tyler’s chin. “We’re different here,” he says. “You’re only going to kneel for me. Just me. You understand?”

"Sure," Tyler says.

Jamie tightens his fingers on Tyler’s chin. “Do you understand?”

"Yeah," Tyler says. It comes out raspy. He swallows, again, and says, "Yeah, I understand."

"Okay," Jamie says. He breathes out, almost like a sigh. "So you’re just going to stay on your knees tonight, nothing else. Thirty minutes. Put your cheek on my thigh."

Tyler does it. Jamie puts his hand in Tyler’s hair, lightly this time, and picks up his phone to do— well, Tyler doesn’t really care what he’s doing.

It feels safe, like this. Tyler pulls his arms up so that his hands are curled under his chin and lets the tension settle out of his shoulders.

For the first time, Tyler lets himself think that it might be better here than it was in Boston.

(PS that was supposed to be three lines long, it is to lol.)

Then 7iris reblogged the fic, and wrote in the tags:

Jamie would be all about praise too, little dumb things like how good a job Tyler did cutting the vegetables for the stir fry into even pieces or how happy and well-behaved Marshall is, but also big things, how fast Tyler is on the ice, how well he shoots, how good a player he is, and that stuff he says to the media too like he really means it. All of it makes Tyler's face heat, makes him duck his head and bite his lip on a ridiculous smile. The guys in Boston told him how pretty his mouth was, how good at sucking cock he was how hot he looked with their come on his face, so Tyler doesn't know why Jamie telling him he massaged the kale right makes his stomach feel warm and fluttery, but it does.

And I was like "SWEET JESUS GET ON ME WITH THEM TAGS," and 7iris responded:

AUgh, yes. It’s not like Tyler doesn’t believe Jamie when he said they’re different, it’s just a hard habit to break. And the other guys don’t actually bother him about it, not even when Jamie’s not around. No one acts like they have the right.

Tyler watches them with Val, too, out of the corner of his eye, because Val is nineteen and pretty and barely speaks any English, but no one bothers him either. Every now and then, after a bad game, Gonch will make Val kneel in his pads in the locker room, talk to him quietly in Russian until the hectic flush fades from his cheeks and the rigid tension in his shoulders eases up. No one gives them a second look, no one makes any jokes about what else Val could be doing while he’s on his knees.

(“Isn’t he married?” Tyler says, when he finds out they put Val with Gonch.

"Yes," Jamie says, giving him a confused look. Tyler raises his eyebrows, and after a beat, Jamie turns bright red. "No, he wouldn’t — it’s not like that."

"Oh," Tyler says, and Jamie’s mouth twists.)

Jamie never makes Tyler kneel in the locker room or in front of other people, but he’ll let Tyler sit on the floor in front of the couch when he’s playing video games with Jordie, so he can pet Tyler’s hair between rounds, hook his knee over Tyler’s shoulder and hold him still.

AND THEN 7iris WROTE MORE:

I'm sure that if you were a dick to those people, they deserved it. But more importantly, I've been thinking about Jamie Benn and how he's so big on praise with Segs because that's what Morrow did for him when he was a rookie. Jamie probably would have injured himself or burned himself out that first year if he hadn't had his captain to put him on his knees and tell him he was doing a good job, to drown out that voice in the back of his head that was always saying, "Work harder, be better."

Jamie is kind of unsure about the whole thing when they tell him they’re putting Tyler with him over the summer. He agrees, of course, because that’s what a captain does, but he knows he’s young for it and Tyler isn’t really a rookie anymore. So he figures it can be a low key, buddies kind of thing. But Tyler’s different from how he remembers. He’s friendly enough, happy to laugh and talk shit with him and Jordie, but there’s this tension in his shoulders and wariness around his eyes that never really goes away, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. By the end of the night, Jamie knows management was right, Tyler needs this. And he’s—really happy that he can be the one to do this for him. (He’s less happy after Tyler lets those things slip about Boston, because yeah, Jamie sucked Brenden’s dick, but he did it because it was fun and he wanted to, not because he thought Brenden expected it. He doesn’t want Tyler to think he has to, to think it’s expected.

And that's been it thus far, but this post makes it possible that we could exchange more. </blockquote>

(NB: Warning for some character assassination of the Bruins, which I hope to rectify if I ever edit this. I had a flashback to my Bert-McCracken-related rage when I reread it.)

Crossposted to DW!

Heads up for Delicious users!!

2013-10-16T04:17:05Z

I'm overdue to post here, but I figured this was worth a hasty update: if you have a Delicious account (the bookmarking platform, formerly del.icio.us), they may have your full name listed on your profile. I'm not sure how they got at that information -- it might have been required for sign-up, I can't remember -- but mine was listed. You can change it in "Settings," I did it on my phone in a few clicks.

signal boost

2013-10-05T22:25:00Z

As iphignia939 put it, "zillahseye is facing a shitty living situation at the moment, and is looking for someone - or multiple someones - to help by (temporarily) taking in her cats for the time being." If you live in the Wisconsin area or know someone in the Wisconsin area, and would be willing to take in a cat, please email iphignia939 at iphignia939 [at] yahoo [dot] com, or let me know so that I can contact one or both of them. Comments are screened if you want to leave your email.

Fic: People Against Us (Hockey RPF)

2013-10-02T14:32:32Z

People Against Us
Hockey RPF, Sidney Crosby/Jack Johnson
Mature rating, warning for underage.

"It made it fun to to know there were 20,000 people against us." - Jack Johnson.

There's Sid, there's Jack, and there's the rest of the world.

Notes: Written for the Stickhandling zine project. This project produced a bunch of excellent fic, which you can read or find links for on svmadelyn's website.

Thanks to wearemany, who actually got me to write in this fandom, and to algernon_mouse, who gave the story an amazing, swift post-posting beta.

The underage tag is for sex between a 17 year old and an 18 year old. Message me or comment if you'd like any additional information before reading. Criticism welcome.

Fic update.

2013-09-16T17:38:21Z

I finally wrote something! And then do it again, Teen Wolf, Derek/Kate, Derek/Stiles. For a prompt by andthedamned on Tumblr, "Derek/Stiles, dark!fic." I am dreadful at dark writing, so it's just sort of vaguely sad and melodramatic (in a Derek sort of way).

There are three comments on it; I have no idea how to respond to one of them. It begins, "So....this was a Sterek fic.....but NOT a Sterek fic?" Which-- yes? I suppose? That's why Kate/Derek wasn't listed as a background pairing? I suspect I should have been a bit more direct in what I was getting at.

---

I also wrote something off-the-cuff on Tumblr, which was mostly just an excuse to write Derek desiring cuddles. Warning for something like slavery (werewolves kept as pets) in the context of an alternate universe (Stiles has been captured by a djinn and made to think he lives in that world). I am planning on expanding it at some point.

---

At present, I am writing a Teen Wolf bigbang. The rough draft is due today. I have roughly 15K, which is the word requirement, with about 5K more to write. Luckily we're allowed to submit unfinished drafts, as long as they're over 10K or 80%. I'm worried about sending it in, since a) it's a hot mess, b) I am losing faith in the whole damned thing since there's an OFC and it's all paced weirdly and goddamn it, and c) it's unfinished. But oh well! Oh well, I say! Hopefully the artist who picks it up will be a forgiving sort.

I'm also writing a short story about Sidney Crosby's draft day (with bonus blowjob, heyo). It's going all right, although I'm lost in a morass of articles and primers, trying to get the feel of it and the relationship between the two primary characters right. I really like the other guy, Jack Johnson-- he's a big earnest galoot, and it's fun to try to write someone like that. (He gets compared to and compares himself to Captain America, and it's not far off. Big earnest galoot! "Proud to be an American" autoplays on his blog! I really wish I were kidding!)

---

Why is my hobby writing when both of my day jobs are writing? WHO MADE THIS DECISION?

sinsense @ 2012-12-21T11:16:00

2012-12-21T16:16:57Z

Does anyone know the 80s TV show The Young Ones, and would be willing to read through a story? I have a friend who's writing a story for that fandom for Yuletide, and she'd like someone to do a quick read who is familiar with the canon. Comments are screened so you can leave your email.

How are you belching resonantly enough to be heard over my music? How?

2012-08-10T20:23:08Z

There is an intern at my part time job. He has been assigned to the cubicle next to mine. He belches quietly but with great vibrato approximately every fifteen minutes. He slurps his tea (probably the source of the belching! quit aspirating your liquids!). He occasionally breaks into reedy-voiced singing. Also he has a lot of loud telephone conversations about how he doesn't have access to his data. I daydreamed today about throttling him. Just a little bit! A touch of throttling! I wouldn't even bruise him. It's just, I have this itch, you see, and the only cure would be his neck. Surely if it's for medical reasons, I could be forgiven?

On a more positive note:

I want every single story where Sam and Dean have a creepy deeply emotional relationship when they are kids, and it's sort of quasi-sexual, and then it gets all actually-sexyrexy after Stanford with lots of throwing each other into walls either in anger or in lust, and then eventually they buy each other pie and/or books as a gesture of deep manly commitment. I mean, that story exists, several times over, I know, but I want more of them. Nothing but them.
Basically I am going to have to write that epic about Sidney Crosby falling for Geno because Geno gets his screwed-up relationship to sexuality and then having a Freakout for the Ages because Geno's gonna get TRADED and this is BAD FOR HIS MENTAL GAME. Right? No one else is doing that for me?
When I am trying to go to sleep at night, I tell myself this really deeply awful story about a GLADIATOR IN THE FUTURE who stole something when he was a little kid and was sent to prison and then he ACCIDENTALLY KILLED A GUY who was being a dickhole to him and so he's CONDEMNED TO THE GLADIATORS but he turns out to be a pretty good soldier. And then he gets into this weird relationship with this other gladiator who, like, totally has a erastes/eramenos thing going on, and pretty much refuses to give the hero a reacharound or kiss him or whatever, because he's still committed to his wife, who COMES AND SITS IN THE STANDS. But then one day she doesn't, and the other gladiator finds out that his wife is DEAD, and so he sets up our hero to basically kill him. And oh shit the drama! The pain! Our hero is seriously gutted, but he's also like, "MAN UP HE WAS JUST YOUR BUDDY. MAN UP. OH GOD." And there's video (IT'S THE FUTURE) of him with his single tear trickling down his face as he walks away from the body of his lover, and rockbands write songs about his stoic manpain, but he has no idea. AND EVENTUALLY the emperor or whatever totally sets him free (deus ex machina, handwave handwave shut UP) and then he's like, gotta learn how to wear underwear and other clothes and how to sleep in a bed and how not to KILL EVERYTHING ALWAYS FOREVER and it's lots of awkwardness and eventually he takes up with this guy who runs a homeless shelter and is astonished by the idea of a reacharound. Um. The end. (Although sometimes he's shipped off to live on some duke-person's estate and he falls for the duke and there's a lot of angst before reacharounds and so on.) So, yeah. That story.
hetrez and I were talking about a story where the Avengers find out that Captain America, because of his bionic issues, has to jizz twice a day. Except he's kind of bad at jerking it? The idea is that they all ~~~sacrifice themselves to the cause, and give him handies on a round-robin arrangement. And the first time Thor sees Steve's wang he's like, "BY THE GODS, YOU HAVE BEEN BLESSED. TRULY, YOU ARE A SON OF ODIN!" And Hawkeye is really a turn-off, because he STARES the entire time. And Tony tries to build a machine to do it, except he keeps fucking up the machine and also somehow he does twice as many days as anyone else, when it's supposed to be a round robin, that's weird. And Natasha is seriously business-like about handies, but then she's also like, "This is extremely erotic. I enjoy this." And Bruce has to do zen breathing the entire time. I want that entire series, like, right here in my lap. Don't take the idea, though, because I also really want hetrez to write it. MY BIRTHDAY'S IN OCTOBER, YOU KNOW.
I still sometimes think about an epic story about Bert as a lady rockstar.
I have a Tumblr now to keep track of all the thinking I do about why kinks are hot, and I kind of want one of those stories, a la rhyssj's kink series, where a couple is just trying everything. Like, not just cross-dressing or bdsm or whatever, but more outre stuff, like adult baby play. DEAN IN A DIAPER DEMANDING A PACIFIER. Look, it makes me happy. (Did you know that a lot of adult babies are, like, teenagers and also attractive? It's kind of interesting. Also the other day -- I didn't reblog it, but now I'm reconsidering -- one of the adult baby blogs I follow had a post from a guy who said that the best cure for a bad day was a wet diaper. WHY ARE HUMANS SO WEIRD. Somebody write me Dean being that weird.)

Tell me about stories you want. Go on!

Avoidance chronicle.

2012-06-22T18:07:44Z

Today, while at work, I planned my trip to Washington D.C. I also researched jello wrestling opportunities. There's lesbian jello wrestling in D.C., but it's not while I'm there -- I may have to make a second trip.

I really should start a jello wrestling tournament, that's what I'm thinking. It'd be like a poetry reading series, but with bikinis and jello. I almost said, "and no poetry," but two people grappling in gelatin is pure poetry, please don't front like it isn't.

(Oh man, wait, no, I'm going to have a really stoned guy stand ringside and read Wallace Stevens over a megaphone. Now that is pure poetry.)

Speaking of pure poetry, I'm beginning to be fully and completely irritated by the lack of bedazzled light-up Converse shoes for adults. Today I started mocking up plans for making my own. I will also be making lace-on wings for said shoes, if it comes to that. Like this, but for an adult-sized pair of shoes. (Also I would make them in orange.)

Which is to say, any help to be offered on how to make light-up shoes and/or lace-on wings will be gladly accepted. I already know how to wield a bedazzler, so no help needed there. I was in NSync fandom, son.

Today I have also read all about the Oilers draft situation, because it brings untold hilarity. I'm kind of hoping they take Yakupov, mostly because I think he would fit in on the failboat. The other prospects don't horrify me, though. Of course, it's entirely possible that they're going to pick a violently drunk guy in a chicken suit, though, because Oilers management is the weirdest bucket of doofuses you'll ever meet.

The Edmonton Journal has a nice rundown of the Murray vs. Yakupov draft debate here, if you're interested, which you're not. (It's either Ryan Murray or Nail Yakupov, it seems. Yakupov gives the fewest fucks of anyone ever, though, which is why I like him best.)

---

I also typed up the following! It is (quasi) serious, but brief. Mostly I am getting this out of my system, because yesterday I found myself ranting about it while cutting up vegetables, and my veggies don't need to hear that.

First, a statement of fact! Fanfiction is fantasy. In this space, we can imagine that hockey players are secret adult baby fetishists, or dinosaurs, or that they jerk it to highlight reels (this is Crosby canon, though, right), or whatever.

Here is another statement of fact! Triggers are hard to predict. I was present for someone being triggered, once, and it was weird and out of nowhere and pretty much unavoidable. Long story short, people who know this person know not to grab her by the elbow when she is on stairs, but a stranger could not be expected to know that. It ended with everyone awkwardly apologizing for about twenty minutes straight, and I think the triggered person was the most embarrassed out of all of us.

With both of those things being said: dude, there are some things you warn for. I've been a dick about this in the past, okay? To be honest, though the response to that dickishness taught me a lot, I'm still a slap-happy asshole douchebro about a lot of things. But certain things are just straight-up abuse, or not consensual, and those are things that people should have warning about.

Not that you shouldn't write them! I want you to write me a goddamn weepy epic about Taylor Hall being a faily sex worker, okay. Taylor Hall the street-walking fetish model who has secret pain, and how Magnus Paajarvi is a rookie cop who keeps accidentally beating him up during arrests until they realize that they're S&M life partners. Write me a million words of that. But at the top of those words, leave a little note where you say, "man, there's some dub-con and hitting and inaccurate depictions of sex work up in this piece." That way, someone doesn't have to ENTER A GODDAMN FUGUE STATE without any goddamn warning.

I mean: I look at tumblrs of people eating poop because I want to understand everyone's bliss! (I wish I were kidding.) I believe that fantasy is an important part of defining the limits of what is impossible and possible in your life, and I believe in the right to fantasize freely. Sometimes your fantasies are going to impinge upon other people, though -- violently impinge upon them -- and it's good to at least give them a heads-up. Nobody likes a sucker puncher.

---

Things that I have not yet done at work: any work. Whoops! I should go attempt that, maybe. Or should I buy a bowtie? DECISIONS.

SPANDEX ONESIE.

2012-06-20T19:56:24Z

That is a Jordan Eberle, a hockey player for the Edmonton Oilers. Apparently he is practicing moves from Cirque de Soleil. ALSO HE IS WEARING A SPANDEX ONESIE.

Thank you to slashpile for the link. Nuge is also in a onesie at that link. There is also a video, if you would like to choke on your own spittle. More pictures here, too.

I won't lie, I had to go sit in the bathroom and breathe quietly for a minute after I saw that.

Dream a little dream of my non-face.

2012-03-05T18:26:54Z

I've been thinking about a dream I had a few days ago. Here is what the text below the cut contains: references to pornography, relatively-bloodless but still-disturbing mutilation of a corpse, grossness.

I was working on the set of a pornographic movie. The woman who was the star of the production had been ill, and died rather suddenly. The director, another woman, claimed that she had permission to use of the star's corpse. (This permission, it was implied, was a written document, signed by the star. It was never produced for me to read, and I had a vague sense that it didn't exist.)

The bonus section of the DVD was to include a featurette entitled, "What Happened to Her." I was part of the crew who filmed this featurette. The woman's body was sitting upright in a chair, naked, her hands open and loose on her thighs. Her hair was stiff and tangled, and her skin had the waxy sheen of the newly dead. Her face, and the front portion of her skull, had been cleanly cut off. A pink plastic oval had been installed, and the edges fused with her skin.

As we filmed, the director plugged in an electric drill. She drilled through the plate, into the skull of the woman. She set up a stand to hold the drill, and left it there, running. We took pictures, with flash, while the director crouched beside the star's body. The star's left foot tapped once, in slow-motion. "It's a leftover impulse," the director said, still smiling for the photographs.

I woke up from this dream feeling shaky and hungry. I finally dragged myself out of bed, and gave MOSS a hug as soon as I got up, going up on my tiptoes as I did so. My head started to swim, and I remember saying "head rush." There was a lot of shouting, a car turning a corner too fast, a bright day in the Piazza del Popolo. Then I was on the ground, sitting tailor-style, shaking. MOSS was sitting next to me. "Huh," I said.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm okay," I said. I took a deep breath. I stopped shaking.

"Okay," he repeated. "You went limp and sat down, and you were shaking."

"Did you shout something?"

"No," he said.

Later, we talked to his mother, who is a nurse. She said it was probably low blood sugar.

His mother is having surgery on her rotator cuff soon. They offered her the opportunity to have a tape of her surgery. "I would take the tape," I said, when MOSS told me.

"I know," MOSS said.

"I love me some uncanny valley."

"Jesus fuck," MOSS said, and rolled his eyes. This is a fairly common reaction that MOSS has, and is entirely deserved.

Still, I'm kind of interested in the idea of a video -- which is by nature of being media a disembodying frame -- of a temporarily disowned body. I've been reading affect theory in my spare time, with a fairly skeptical frame of mind. Affect theory is -- and I am hopelessly reductionist here, keep in mind -- all about "intensities," about the pre-language, embodied experience of emotions that are then translated (by language, signification) into feelings. What I will admit to liking about affect theory is the idea that the body can act and be part of our lives without our control. What happens when my body is not my possession, but rather another co-existing entity?

I think the combination of all that, the affect theory, the surgery video, is why I had the dream of the pornography star.

Still no concrete clue of why I fainted, or why the Piazza del Popolo flashed through my mind, but I'm sure it's connected. Why not?

------

To reassure you:
Last night I dreamed about Care Bears that were punching things and then the things turned purple and then I had a raygun and then I made out with someone who looked weirdly like Lady Gaga but was not.

Unrelated hockey fandom stuff:
spinfrog has been posting links to hockey videos and stuff lately, which makes me wriggle with joy. Here is a video where Kaner scores a goal and then jumps into ~~Duncan Keith's~~ Patrick Sharp's arms. [Edit: Also you have probably seen this already, but Patrick Burke and some other hockey dudes are not down with homophobia and it's adorable.]

I'm at a writing retreat for my dissertation this week. I have been pretty good thus far, but later I am probably going to keep working on Sid/Geno bruiseplay fic like a creeper. It's supposed to be commentfic, but it's already a thousand words and it's mostly just Sidney being asexual and then having issues. I don't know why I'm telling you this, I just really like thinking about Sidney Crosby being all conflicted about his not-quite-asexuality.

Also seriously someone write me a long story about Hall and Eberle and RNH playing gay chicken until it's just a sexpile. Or I'll cry. Thank you. [Edit: I keep seeing this when I read my friendslist -- because none of you are posting because you hate me -- and each time I think "NO SERIOUSLY SOMEONE OUGHTA WRITE THAT." God, it would be amazing. Just the thought of the awkwardness makes me laugh like a drain.]

Recommended:
pearl_o linked to this amazing X-Men: First Class kink prompt fill, where Charles and Erik jerk off next to each other and then have feelings and also underage (age sixteen) sex. Highly recommended, if you're into that sort of thing.

WARNING: I HAVE BEEN GRADING PAPERS ALL GOLDANG DAY.

2012-02-20T01:04:38Z

MOSS, on seeing a billboard for This Means War, said, "That movie would only be really good if, at the end of the movie, they realize that they weren't that into Reese Witherspoon, and that they really wanted each other."

I replied, "You have just described a whole lot of fanfiction."

"Oh," MOSS said. "So you're just stating the obvious, kind of."

"But with actual dick-touching."

"Right."

-------

Speaking of dick-touching, I've been into hockey lately, and it's turning out to be just the sort of obsession my dissertation-addled brain needs. It's a little like bandom, really, with the horrifyingly ridiculous people doing things that gaylords like to do. For example:

(I got the video from totheviktor's amazing two-part primer, which starts here.)

Things I like about this video: Tazer attempting to chirp Kaner all the way through the thing. Tazer seeking affection/validation from Kaner all the way through the thing. Kaner wanting to improve on his previous first pitch. Tazer's terrible throw. Tazer's initial denial of the terribleness of the throw, followed by making fun of the height of his throw. Their rehearsal of the lead-in to the song. Both of their terrible singing voices. EVERYTHING ABOUT THEM.

Videos like this make the fandom thing pretty easy, hey? Based on this video alone, I want all of the fanfiction where Tazer is pining for validation from Kaner. Like, trying to make Kaner laugh, of course, and telling him things, and when Kaner ignores him he's sad. Except that he is embarrassed by that sadness, because it is based on Kaner, who is a horrible person and has ugly hair.

Somebody write me that. All I have is Tazer emoticons. :|

>:|

Anyway. In spite of the similarities, there is one obvious difference, which is the whole sports thing. This would be the reason why getting into hockey is a little weird for me. I've started watching the games, as part of the whole ridiculous new-fandom experience. I'm not a spectator-sports sort of person; my family doesn't do it, and I've never gotten into the habit. I mean, I'm used to watching fencing and rugby videos, from when I was seriously training for those sports. I'm familiar with a process where you watch people who are better than you or equal to you so that you can analyze their approach to the sport, either so you can copy them or so you can beat them.

Spectating, though, that's weird. There's a fundamental disconnect in my head, where I care about the game, and I'm having fun watching it, but I can't understand why. I'm not FROM Edmonton, why am I suddenly so bonkers about the Oilers? Why do I feel the urge to say things to the television? I normally only do that with the evening news and commercials, and then my SERIOUS OPINIONS are the motivation.* These are grown-ass men being paid too much to do neat things on skates! Why am I sassing the announcer?

On the plus side, yesterday I ran into an acquaintance at the library, who I will call Canadian Jon. I asked Canadian Jon if he watches hockey, because I am a horrible person.** He said yes. "I'm getting into it!" I said.

"What teams do you like?"

"The Oilers. And the Blackhawks, pretty much."

"THE OILERS? THAT'S MY TEAM!" he said.

And then we talked about the Oilers, and I knew what I was talking about! We shared our feelings about Nugent-Hopkins! It was amazing. I felt like a Real Boy.

AND THEN I went home and watched Justified with MOSS. I AM TURNING INTO THE PATRIARCHY, GUYS. SOMEONE SMASH ME.

I had other thoughts to put in here about Doom Patrol and Atomic Robo, but I think I will save that for another post.

-------

* - Mostly I sit there and go "FUCK YOU THAT'S NOT HOW [WHATEVER] WORKS" and then cram Oreos into my face so I can chew angrily.
** - "All Canadians like hockey," I told MOSS. "So obviously the question was a gimme."***
*** - THIS WOULD BE ONE OF THEM NEW-FANGLED JOKE THINGAMAJIGGERS.

Default icon will do.

2011-08-06T18:59:03Z

Can we talk about cat penises? Of course we can. Rather, I certainly can -- I already am -- but you should not feel obligated to read. Let me suit html to words and put a little LJ cut right here, so that those of you averse to zoophallic discussions can scroll right on by.

Typically, what people know about cat penises is that they are barbed. This barbing helps the male cat remain in flagrante delicto, so to speak. In general, the barbed cat penis is brought up in the context of jokes, usually which are vaguely imply to heterosexual women that they should be grateful for what they have, because that's a great way to get yourself laid.* I have to admit that I had never thought of a cat's penis other than in this context; before a couple of days ago, I had never googled images of cat penises, I had never attempted to metaphorically represent a cat's penis, and I had never had a cat's penis touch my wrist.

Let me backtrack.

About a month or so ago, I adopted a second cat from a local pet shop, which fosters animals from one of the city's no-kill shelters. I had adopted Malcolm from this shop, and frequently stop there to gaze at the kittens in the window. Booker, nee Brooklyn,** was a solemn-looking cat who had been in the window for a week or two. MOSS and I nicknamed him Sith Cat, because of his pointed chin, dark tabby striping, and large ears. After I had dithered about adopting a second cat for a while -- as company for Malcolm, as well as for myself -- I finally decided that I was ready to keep a second cat in the house. Scarcely a day after making this decision, I found myself walking home, which meant that I would pass the street on which the pet shop was located. "If Sith Cat is still there," I said to myself, "I will get him."

Sith Cat was still there, and -- some paperwork, some money, and a long conversation with his foster mom later -- he was mine.

When I adopted Malcolm, the store owners said that he was about eight to ten weeks, but the vet I took him to said that he was more like six. This is not a good age for kittens to be fixed, but he had already had his little tallywhackers taken out, as part of the rock-em-sock-em process at the shelter. Malcolm has never had any hormones flood his little bloodstream, and thus has never really seen any purpose to putting his penis out to take the springtime air. You can poke him right in his furry little nubbin, and no penis will result. He will look at you funny, mind, but no tentacle erupts from the furry mancave.

Booker, by contrast, was six months old when I adopted him, about a month or so ago. He is already a large cat -- nearly the same size as Malcolm, who is close to three years old -- and promises to get even bigger, if his ears, tail, and paws are any indication. He was not fixed at six weeks, I think; I suspect he was fixed closer to two or three months, after the tidal wave of hormones first knocked at his body's front door.

I didn't think of this. I was so used to Malcolm, who seems to have no cocktail weenie to speak of, no fleshy ballpoint pen concealed in his codpiece. When Booker flipped over onto his back in my lap, then, I gaily scratched his belly, resting -- as I am wont to do with Malcolm -- my wrist along his groin. He usually licks me when I rub his belly, but this time his licking had a slightly frenetic edge. Then something poked me in the wrist.

YES. IT WAS HIS PENIS.

"THAT'S YOUR PENIS," I observed. I hurriedly lifted my wrist -- experienced cat owners will note that I did not dump him off of my lap, or indeed stop scritching his belly -- and Booker quickly took the opportunity to go down and tongue-butt his rogue penis into its hiding place. He seemed astonished by his genitalia's disregard for social conventions, for the record. It was no accidental bestiality scenario; instead it was a little like his slip had shown. Since I have no manners whatsoever, I laughed and half-screamed "YOUR PENIS" for the next twenty to thirty minutes, interrupted only by phone calls to MOSS to exclaim, "IT WAS LIKE A HOT DOG TENTACLE. IN A PUFFY CRESCENT ROLL SLEEVE. HIS PENIS. OH MY GOD."

This, for the record, makes Malcolm's mating dance even funnier. Malcolm will hold on to Booker's nape with his teeth, massage the sides of Booker's body with his front paws (in gentle circular motions, very reiki-influenced), and attempt to balance his back feet on Booker's spine. It is like extremely inept surfing, if the surfer were to also attempt to bite his surfboard. And yet Booker is the one with the motion in his ocean!

All of this is to say: I remain immature. Carry on with your day!

(Pictures of Booker to come when I get them off of my phone and have access to some sort of image-resizing software.)

* - A lie.
** - The shelter tends to name their animals along themes. I understand this; naming one cat is a pain in the ass, naming hundreds must be unimaginably difficult. Booker's mother was named Soho, and her five kittens were named after other New York locations, including Brooklyn and Bronx (his brother). I can't say that I like the name Brooklyn for a cat -- it was also the name of a friend's cat in college, meaning that it Would Not Do -- but I didn't want to confuse the poor dear. My father eventually suggested Booker. This is fortuitous for two reasons: one, it is in keeping with my "Problematic Heroes of Oppressed Peoples" theme (Booker T. Washington, natch), and also it can also be mispronounced "Booger."

Back to the hermitage! Back I say!

2010-08-04T20:39:15Z

Before I scurry back to my internet-free hole: this post at Racialicious has a fascinating discussion and collection of links related to the game "Hey Baby." Hey Baby was designed by a woman in response to street harassment. In it, you mow down an array of men who call out typical lines (from "Hey baby" to much more invasive and offensive lines). If you're freaked out or triggered by gun violence or street harassment, you might want to give it a pass. I really like the reaction of Seth Schiesel at The New York Times: "And that is the point of Hey Baby. The men cannot ever actually hurt you, but no matter what you do, they keep on coming, forever. The game never ends. I found myself throwing up my hands and thinking, 'Well what am I supposed to do?' Which is, of course, what countless women think every day."

The game doesn't play particularly well on my netbook, but I'm going to give it a try on a desktop soon. Let me know what you think!

RANT: Twenty-first century shitheads.

2010-06-22T21:47:01Z

I saw an advertisement a day or so ago, on the side of a city bus. It really stuck with me. I haven't been able to find an image of it online, and I wasn't able to photograph it when I saw it, but my recollection of it has been clarified by well-seasoned, well-aged irritation.

The following description is what I remember from a quick glance, and may contain minor errors: In the center of the ad, which appeared on the side of a bus, there is an Asian American doctor, who appears male, and who is wearing a white labcoat. He is photographed from the waist up. He stands with his arms folded, staring directly ahead. He is at the center of the advertisement. The majority of the advertisement is deep blue. Around him, in white letters, it reads, "Practicing 21st century medicine since 1751." The advertisement is for the Penn Hospital, which is associated with the University of Pennsylvania.

Of course you know what's coming. "What's this humorless pantywaist up in arms about now?" you say, and, "Screw this, I'm getting an Oreo and watching reruns of ANTM."¹ Well, go on! I'll just stay right here and burble angrily to myself.

Here is what doesn't bug me about this ad:

The doctor is Asian or Asian American, indicating an effort at representing diversity.
The doctor is cute, which represents an effort at sexy medicine.
The doctor appears to be biomale. Not all doctors can be ladies, even if ladies are taking over the universe with their ladypowers.²
The labcoat, which is very professional-looking.
The blue background, a lovely color.
The nice white font, very good choice.
The visual appeal of the ad. I found it quite striking, as you can tell.
The hospital itself, which in my experience is of a higher quality than most.³
Their logo.

Is there anything to find fault with in this paragon of advertising? Yes! Yes there is!

First: It's amusing to claim that you've been practicing something since 1751, accompanying this claim with an image of someone who would have found it difficult to gain admittance to the school until the mid-twentieth century. The earliest reference I can find for an Asian American student at UPenn is 1894. This is early, of course, but nowhere near 1751.

Relatedly: While the University is considered a strong school for Asian Americans -- the statistical data and my own anecdata attest to a high matriculation rate of Asian Americans -- their Asian American studies program was not established until 1996. Furthermore, there was recently talk that they would close down this program, due to budget issues.

Second: There's something a little tiny bit funny about choosing a "model minority" for the ad. I suppose it's a smart move on the part of the advertising company, since it increases the likelihood of people taking the ad "seriously" (read: "as conforming to their expectations"). And better that than if they put a Black or female doctor on the ad! In that case, the entirety of my response would have been: "1751, my dimpled white ass."

Finally: I have read some of the records of Penn Hospital, from around the middle of the nineteenth century. Sure, they were forward-thinking for their time. However, forward-thinking for the time meant things like phrenology, eugenics -- and still other racist, sexist, ableist horseshit! Forward-thinking for the time led surgeons to believe that they didn't need to cleanse their instruments while operating on Civil War battlefields! And forward-thinking for the time led people to hide Eakins's painting of Dr. Gross (now UPenn's patron painting of sorts), because it was obscenely gory to them.

I run into the kind of thinking that lies behind "21st century medicine since 1751" all the time. Medicine is perceived to be fact. For most able-bodied people, that's the end of the story. Its history as an art -- its present reality as an art -- is ignored, or, at the very least, derided as ignorant.

It's this, this belief that somehow we can escape the influence of our prejudices and our culture -- that we can escape heteronormative romance narratives and normative ideas of what a body "should" look like⁴ -- that leads to bullshit like the recent genital cutting of intersex children at Cornell under the guise of research. [Trigger warning, natch.]

FUUUUUUUUUUU--

I need to lie down.

---

Footnotes:
¹ - No, you're not saying that, I know. You're being thorough! You're even reading the footnotes! I wouldn't judge you for the Oreos and ANTM, of course, because those things are off the proverbial chain. I would, however, judge you for using the word "pantywaist," because it refers to a garment worn by children in the 1920s, consisting of a shirt and shorts that are buttoned together to create one garment. The implication is that whomever you refer to is as a child, or a "sissy." Etymology: kicking you in the patriarchy since whenever. (You were right that I'm humorless, though! Right in the kisser!)
² - See every goldang article I've run into over the past couple of days that claims that women are taking over the world. WHERE'S MY HOVERCAR, THEN?! If a group I belong to took over the world, then I would get a fucking hovercar first fucking thing. A purple one. With neon-yellow cats on the hood. (Also I love how ALL WOMEN are taking over the world. No, a select handful of predominantly white women are earning a fuckload of money, and some men are good at being in touch with their emotions (until it threatens their masculinity, and then they call it gay). This does not equate to taking over the world. I reiterate: motherfucking hovercar.)
³ - Which is to say that I've usually had a positive experience there. Keep in mind, however, that I don't have the issue of "being sick while black" or "being sick while in a wheelchair," so my experience is weighted by privilege. They're not nearly as difficult to deal with as some other hospitals I've been to, especially as regards issues of mental health, women's health, and communication with patients. (Praising with faint damns: just one of the many services I offer!)
⁴ - I enjoyed Toy Story 3. But don't think I didn't notice that all the girls end up with boys, and that the Spanish-speaking Buzz is a lothario! DON'T THINK I CAVED TO YOU, PIXAR. I WAS ON TO YOUR SHIT. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME WITH YOUR CUTE SHENANIGANS AND DERRING-DO.

Bad habit, no biscuit.

2010-03-28T18:20:28Z

I interrupt! I speak quickly, as the thought enters my head. I run roughshod over the words of others. These errors were pointed out to me by several people over the course of last week, with that peculiar simultaneity that personal criticism seems to have. I am, as you might expect, attempting to spackle the crack in my shining exterior.

There are two horns to this particular mixed metaphor. On the one horn, in academic contexts, it is simple impatience and eagerness. On the other horn, at social events, it is a sort of defensive gesture, born of anxiety. (Neither is particularly attractive, I realize.) The academic horn requires concerted attention, but I feel more confident that I can master quietness and waiting my turn. It is a project that I feel I can undertake. The social horn is less thrilling to contemplate.

One possible solution for this second horn is to speak only so often as I really feel like speaking. I am actually a rather quiet person, when I stop caring about whether or not I'm making a good impression! I tried this technique on Saturday, when I was out with T. T then inquired at various points whether I was sick, or tired, or perhaps angry with him. This strategy will take some adjustment, in other words, on my part and on the part of others. For my part, I can't speak as much as I want to speak, in either direction. It's frustrating. Still, I think it can be achieved.

(If you see me in the real world -- as it were -- please don't bring this up. The nature of the error makes me feel like a child being scolded by my elders. Appropriately, my first reaction is to cry. This will only be embarrassing for everyone involved.)

On a happier note, the arduous nature of the task, and the pressure it adds to already-fraught social situations, means that I have allowed myself to renege on three other goals. I will pick up change from the sidewalk (even though it interrupts conversations and is dirty), I will cross myself when I see police cars or ambulances (even though it's sort of ostentatious), and I will pick my nose. Go on, call me a scrounging holy-roller of a nose-picker-- I won't interrupt.

I went out dancing last night, thinking it would be an opportunity to practice this, but no one I knew very well actually showed up. I danced for a few hours, and then walked home. I was very quiet all evening, at any rate! Today I am in the library grading papers, but I will be going out with T again tonight. My stomach hurts at the prospect of managing my talk -- probably from that same childish embarrassment and self-consciousness, on top of social anxiety -- but it'll pass.

Anyway, my life is not so very hard. I think I will have a rough draft of a chapter completed by the end of this week! Crazy, man, crazy.

GON GO WRITE SOME MORE ANGSTY LJ ENTRIES BOUT YOUR LEGBONES, PATRICK.

2010-02-12T19:44:21Z

I'm going to see the Used tonight, for the first time. why_me_why_not PMed me at just the right time (I already had my credit card out for some other reason, now I can't remember, probably bills) and was like "Hey, Atlantic City, Bert, people from the internet, whaddya say." And I was like "I feel like paying Ticketmaster some charges and taking a bus to the ass end of the shore right now. Let's do this." In the interim, I have gotten wretched sick, sort-of recovered, and been snowed in for two days, but I think it's still going to happen. I don't pay Ticketmaster charges for nothing, bitches! So barring some unfortunate incident, I am going to go stand in a mass of people and ogle Bert McCracken's sweaty pot-belly.*

Weird.

I'm probably going in my school clothes, which consist of: too-big black-and-grey argyle sweater, white button-down, black Magnolia Electric Co. t-shirt, black hat, and jeans. If you're going to be in AC tonight, and you see some ladygirl with long blonde hair wearing said clothes, it might be me. Scream "I LOVED YOU IN YOUR INTERNET PORN!" and see if the ladygirl reacts. Hope you don't get arrested!

Speaking of internet porn, the department secretary moved my office assignment to the English department's main floor, and it was the worst decision ever. I don't notice how bad my language and attitude are until people give me that Cat Making Doots face, and then it's too late. Today I was like, "Wow, this printer doesn't work. GAYWADS." in the Undergraduate Office, and I didn't even realize I had said "GAYWADS" so loud until a professor gave me a look. I mean, really. And then I decided I should sing that Why? song, "The Vowels Pt. 2," the part about faking suicide for applause in the food courts and malls in the hallway. It's like I am foreign to the whole idea of inside thoughts. I will never be properly employed. But I will have used up my lifetime quota of neologisms! I guess that's all I can ask.

---

Related fact: I have introduced the concept of "inside thoughts" to many undergraduates. My work will never be done, however. Seriously, some girl informed me about her sexual history today, and I am a T.A. Not the professor! A TEACHING ASSISTANT. It's like the internet all over again (I didn't like the internet the first time).

I want a t-shirt that says "how fucking awkward are you". No punctuation, no explanation. I feel like it would apply to so many situations in life. (Originally there was an anonymous comment there that was the source of the phrase. It was amazing. It has been summarily deleted, along with the rest of the exchange, which is probably best, because it was AWKWAAAARD.)

Speaking of which, if Pete Wentz could bring more dramz to the yard, you can be sure he would. DRAAAAAAMZ-FEST. I am glad being sad gives him a case of the boners, man, because otherwise there would be a lot less awesome in the world. PATRICK DON'T LOVE ME NO MORE. GON TELL THE INTERNETS. STOP IGNORIN MY TEXTS PATRICK, OR I'M GON WRITE MORE TERRIBLE PROSE-POETRY. Awesome. Get in my astral pants, you crazy drama fiend, and let's make astral whinerbabies.**

---

* I say "pot-belly" because it is a potbelly that resulted from pot use. I love that dude more than I love the P Weez.

** Note: I fully understand Pete's drama ways. Lately I have been feeling massively woebegone because I'm a big jerk who loses the people I care about blah blah blah emotionally removed and avoidant blah blah. Anyway, though, the differences are: 1) I am not famous, thank Christ, and 2) I respond to these feelings by being all "FUCKIN HOMOQUEERS MCGEE" instead of writing poetry. See reasons why I will never be famous. Thank Christ.

The glad game told me to kill you.

2009-08-29T15:08:28Z

It has been a rather enervating week for me.

My father and I had both neglected to put anti-virus software on my new computer, which I only sort of vaguely registered. This meant that my computer was absolutely riddled with spyware and viruses by the time I finally cottoned on. This in turn meant that my father had to wipe my computer clean. It now has anti-virus software on it, and so I am very pleased. However, due to some miscommunication, my father didn't pull my documents off of my computer before he wiped it. I lost everything, including the various drafts of my dissertation prospectus, some stories I was working on, my pictures (including some from Rome I hadn't uploaded on Flickr yet), and all of my music.

Before this news arrived, I had also: realized how broke I'm going to be until the end of September, learned that my parents will be out of town this Christmas, scraped a bunch of skin off of my big toe, and lost my source of internet at home.

Nothing all that awful, in other words. When combined together, however, they have slowed me down considerably. It's only been half a day since I found out about my computer, though, and only a couple of days since I found out about Christmas. I'm hoping that soon I'll get a little hitch in my giddy-up again. School starts on Monday, which means that it's good that I'm starting fresh. I prepared a (hard copy!) collection of notes that I'll need for my meeting with my dissertation advisor on Wednesday, and I have hopes that I'll get my topic at least pre-approved. Each day gets me closer to a paycheck, too.

Whoops, excuse me, I got Pollyanna on your shoes. Be assured that I was not so glib yesterday.

A request: I would love it if anyone could share zip files of any albums by The Used, My Chem, Why?, or Sleater-Kinney. They're the ones I've paid money for. Other musical recommendations accepted, but the RIAA tells me that music sharing is naughty and promotes Communism, so keep that in mind. [Edit: I found Artwork already, and I'm planning on buying an official copy when it comes out, so no need for that one.]

---

The other day I asked for top five lists, which was a CLEVER PLOY to get content suggestions. Ho ho, I bet you didn't even suspect my CUNNING WILES! More fool you!

Top Five Bromantic Moments in Any Medium, suggested by apiphile:

Some Kind of Wonderful is a John Hughes movie, featuring the extremely delicious Mary Stuart Masterson in the delightful role of Watts. Watts is a soft butch sort of character -- she wears fingerless red leather gloves! with fringe! -- who has a giant crush on her best friend, Keith. Said best friend, sadly enough, has a crush on the popular girl. In order to score a perfect date with said popular girl, Keith gets the school bad boy, Duncan, to help him out. There's a moment when Keith is going to get beat up at a popular boy's party, and Duncan and his crew sail in to defend Keith's honor. Before Duncan sneers that "this must be a henhouse, because all I see is chicken shit," he and Keith share a fist bump. Why is this so appealingly bromantic? I have no idea. I just love it.
I Love You, Man is a fantastic movie, and the description of it doesn't do it justice. There's a moment where Andy Samberg's character is talking to his brother, Paul Rudd's character. Samberg's character is at a Gay Bowling Night with his father. As Rudd and Samberg talk, shots of their conversation are intercut with the father celebrating his bowling score with various other attendees of the Gay Bowling Night. There's air spanking of an air sexual partner.
Keen Eddie, when Eddie and Monty fall asleep together when they're on a stakeout, and Eddie wakes up with Monty asleep on his chest. I love how they're properly sleep-cranky, but not embarrassed at all.
Psych, when Gus is held hostage at the bank and Shawn is insanely dedicated to getting him out of there. Generally the relationship between Gus and Shawn is one of my favorite romantic friendships of all time.
Little Men, in which Dan lies and says he did something that everyone thinks Nat did, because he hates seeing Nat so sad:
"It was a kind lie, Dan, and I can't help forgiving it; but you see it did no good," said Mr. Bhaer, with a hand on either shoulder, and a face full of relief and affection.

"It kept the boys from plaguing Nat. That's what I did it for. It made him right down miserable. I didn't care so much," explained Dan, as if glad to speak out after his hard silence.

"How could you do it? You are always so kind to me," faltered Nat, feeling a strong desire to hug his friend and cry. Two girlish performances, which would have scandalized Dan to the last degree.

"It's all right now, old fellow, so don't be a fool," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat, and laughing out as he had not done for weeks.
AWWWWWW.

Top Five Ways In Which Bert McCracken Is Amazing:
Little known fact: I really like Bert McCracken. I therefore found this list extremely difficult to compose, because I had to decide between "things I find amazing, because I am thoroughly stockholmed" (his smoker's cough! his creepy-dopey smile! his inappropriately rude behavior! his eats of his own and sometimes other people's boogers!) and "things that I and perhaps also other people will find amazing." I went with the latter.

His voice. This is rather cliched to say, as it is what he does. However, I really am quite taken with his voice. I like that he doesn't sound like a singer when he's talking. I like that he has -- warning, I'm not a musical person at all -- he has this very open-throated quality to his singing, where the notes seem shouty at the same time that it's singy. It reminds me a little bit of classic Broadway divas, like Ethel Merman. Here's a recent example.
His little smile. Not the dopey asshole grin he does, but the little smile he tends to give Quinn in particular. It kills me every time.
His honesty. Let me admit that none of the bandom characters live what I would call a purely ethical life. At various points, every single person in the groups we slash has said something I find objectionable. This is also true of: my mother, my father, my boyfriend, my best friends, and Jesus.* I fully expect that everyone ever will say or do something objectionable, because that is what people do. This is all to say that Bert is a jackass, and he probably has a lot of wrong opinions (as defined by me, Arbiter of All Things). One thing I like about Bert as a public figure, though, is that he's relentlessly, inappropriately honest, and usually ridiculously earnest. Even when he's being a little sarcastic snotbag, it's oddly earnest. Now, I know I'm alone in this (and I understand why) but when someone tells me that they eat their own boogers, and that they find them delicious, I think that person is adorable.
His stupid face. I don't understand why other people do not see how cute he is. He's so cute! I just want to squish his face with both my hands and chew on his nose.

...I will give you a moment to contemplate that incredibly arousing image.
His bromance with Quinn. How are they still such good friends? The only correct answer is blowjobs and a shared interest in marijuana.

Top five ice cream sundae toppings, suggested by eyescatchfire:

Espresso. There is nothing better than a shot of espresso poured over coffee ice cream.
- SHUT UP, I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM.
- WHY ARE MY TEETH VIBRATING?
- WHO TURNED OFF THE SOUND?
Chocolate syrup. I have the taste buds of a punch-drunk donkey, so I really don't care about the quality of the syrup.
Whipped cream. I kind of prefer home-made whipped cream, but that's because you can make it even sugarier.
Butterscotch syrup. As with chocolate syrup, the quality does not matter.
Fresh fruit. Preferably in combination with one of the above. My ideal sundae would include espresso, strawberries, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream.

* - Learn more about my contentious relationship with Jesus in my book, Jesus Called Me a Retard: On Loving an Ableist Messiah, due out next fall.

As the French say, "fwoogh."

2009-08-18T15:48:50Z

How might one replicate the size, shape, weight, and feel of an OB tampon, while managing to make it more durable? What sort of material might one make it out of? My cat enjoys all of his toys, but none more so than when he manages to get his fiendish little mitts on one of my tampons. The downside of this system is that a) they're expensive, so b) when he rips off half of the plastic, and c) then drops it in the toilet, leaving it there like a half-bloated carcass, I d) get ticked off. I don't mind people seeing my tampons skittering willy-nilly across the floor, as it is hilarious, but I am too poor to keep losing tampons to the cat entertainment cause. Your thoughts would be much appreciated!

I think I'm coming to an end with bandom, and with fandom more generally. No, I will not be deleting my journal, because that is a pants thing to do. I might be winnowing my friendslist, however, should I ever grow an actual backbone. I should also figure out some sort of non-academia-related hobby, shouldn't I? Maybe I'll just find a ridiculously obscure fandom. I was contemplating writing Dark Days slash the other day. That might be the ticket. (And yes, violin_road, I will also pursue writing you ridiculous Mormon porn.)

[Note: this is not an official statement of departure. Nothing I ever say is official. I am still writing a long Travis story, for example.]

I brought T, der Boydirndl, up to New York City to meet a bunch of people who are very important to me. While he was there, he managed to roll with an involved discussion of bad fanfiction (complete with reenactments) and correctly used the word "heteronormative" in a sentence. I was very smug. As a due and just punishment for dragging him out there, I have to participate in a role-playing game at the end of the month. My character will most likely die, whoops oh well.

This morning, I got the seat right by the conductor's booth on the subway. This is always my goal, and it brightens my day when I'm able to do it. In this seat, I can see the conductor manipulating the throttle and fiddling with the switches, and I can see the track ahead of us, all dark and gloomy. Today one of my favorite conductors was driving the train, so I stopped by the booth when I got off the train and had a little conversation with him. He told me that he's been working for public transportation for "a while now," but he's been "down in the hole" (driving the subway train) for thirty-five years. Thirty-five years!

The encounter was improved even more when I managed to get out a complimentary reply ("Oh! No wonder you're so good at it!") without sounding stilted and awkward. He seemed charmed by the brief interaction, too. It made me feel much better about the day; this is good, since I arrived at school at 9am and plan to be here, studying, until at least 5pm.

Fic: Psychically Yours. Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17, 8300 words.

2009-08-17T00:15:01Z

Psychically Yours
The Used, Bert/Quinn, NC-17, 8300 words

Quinn really doesn't want to work for the Psychic Agents Division, but that's before he meets his fellow employees. For evocatory in the usedfic exchange. Beta work by thesamefire and T. Any remaining mistakes are because I ignored their sound advice.

Warning: This could be read as having dub-con elements. Please feel free to contact me in the comments or by LJ message if you need more specific warnings.

---

It's not hard for a Mover to get a job with the government. It's not really much of a choice.

"You want the job?" the agent repeats. He nudges Quinn's temple with the nose of his gun. The man's badge -- Official Representative, Psychic Ability Division -- reflects the sunlight shining through the ragged hole in the wall. Quinn squints at it, but he can't make out the agent's name.

The other agent has wandered across the room. Apparently he's bored by life-or-death situations. Quinn doesn't blame him; he would wander away if he could. The half-finished room they're in is scattered with construction shrapnel, and it's freezing cold. Pain sparks up from his kneecaps and flares into his hips. His arms are getting tired, too. He shifts his hands from the back of his head to the top of it, and lets the weight of his arms rest on his skull. The man doesn't move the gun; Quinn's wrist brushes against it. It's as cold as the concrete under his knees.

No one's gotten the drop on Quinn in five years. Five years is a long time, Quinn reasons, and a nice round number. Quinn's made a name for himself, even, just by not dying or getting drafted. The only reason they got to him this time is because the government finally got their hands on a goddamn Damper.

"Jesus Christ," the agent with the gun snaps. He nudges Quinn's head a little harder. "Do you want the job or don't you?"

"Just kill him already," the other agent says.

Quinn closes his eyes, but the gun doesn’t go off. There's a scuffling sound from the other agent, and something falls over, clanking on the concrete. Quinn opens his eyes again. The gun leans into his temple, like the agent's arm is getting tired, too. Quinn rests his head against it.

"Can I get dental?" Quinn asks.

The other agent giggles. The agent with the gun says, "Jesus. Yeah, you can get dental."

"Are you sure?" Quinn says. "My teeth are really fucked up."

"I'm sure," the agent says.

Quinn waits a little bit longer. "Okay," he says, finally, when he can't drag it out anymore. "I'll take the job."

The agent smiles. "Took you long enough," he says. He doesn't holster his gun, but he drops it, at least.

"You really don't need the gun," Quinn tells him. "I can't do shit around a Damper."

The agent shrugs. He says, "You could punch me in the face." He looks over Quinn's head, then, to the other end of the room. "Yo, bitch," he calls, and gestures at the other man with the hand holding the gun.

"Yo," says the other man. "Yo yo yo."

The agent rolls his eyes. "Just do it already," he says.

The other agent walks over. Quinn watches him approach, thinks he looks like a demon, maybe. Like a hot demon. He doesn't realize what's going to happen, not until the guy's already got a handful of his hair. Quinn leans into it, trying to lessen the pressure. "Pow pow," the other agent mouths, softer than a whisper. Quinn's vision does the backstroke, and--

--and he opens his eyes to white.

Quinn blinks rapidly, and the white haze sharpens into a shadowed surface, textured with bumps and scratches. There's a brown stain on the ceiling, to his left. It looks like -- Quinn turns his head slightly and squints -- it looks like an antelope.

"Your head is like a warehouse," he hears.

Quinn automatically tries to sit up, and nearly chokes himself on the metal guard around his neck. His wrists move a few inches and then stop. His powers are clamped in with him, somehow. Quinn sighs, and turns his head.

The man who spoke is the other agent, the one who grabbed Quinn's hair. He's sitting on a bed, feet swinging a foot above the floor. He's still wearing a PAD uniform, but it's unbuttoned at the throat and there's a smear of something yellow on his trouser leg. He looks too dirty to work for the government.

"Who are you?" Quinn asks.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" the man says, ignoring Quinn's question. Quinn shrugs, as much as he can in the restraints, and the man pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Do you want one?" the man asks.

"No thank you," Quinn says politely.

The man lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, then breathes out twin plumes of smoke from his nose. "I'm Bert McCracken," he says.

"Quinn Allman," Quinn says.

"I know," Bert says. "It took me forever to find, though. You really need to reorganize up there." He taps the side of his head with the hand holding his cigarette.

Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He doesn't want to think about that. Bert could still be in his head, listening in. Quinn follows the outline of the stain on the ceiling with his eyes, instead. It could be an antelope.

"So you're a pouter," Bert says. Quinn doesn't respond. "I've run into a couple of types of people," Bert continues. "I thought you would be a ranter. You seem like you're being a pouter, though."

"I suggest talking first, then digging around in my head after," Quinn says harshly. "I'd be more likely to talk to you if you hadn't just pranced through my brain uninvited."

There's a short silence. "Sorry," Bert offers.

"Whatever," Quinn mutters. There isn't much he can do about it, though, so he finally adds, "It's fine."

Bert takes another long drag. "If you're not pouting," he says slowly, "Maybe you're being the strong silent type?"

Bert is just going to keep talking, Quinn thinks. They might as well have a conversation. "Hey," he says, "does this stain on the ceiling look like an antelope to you?"

There's a long silence, then a thump and a squeak. Bert's face lunges into Quinn's view of the ceiling. "Hmm," Bert says. "I think it looks like a naked woman."

"Yeah right," Quinn says. "It's a fucking antelope."

"Maybe it's a naked lady antelope."

Quinn considers this. "Maybe," he allows. "I could see that."

"A naked lady antelope with big teats," Bert says.

"Do antelopes have teats?" Quinn asks. He considers the concept and adds, "They do eat grass, I guess."

Bert folds his arms on the edge of Quinn's bed, and rests his chin on Quinn's shoulder. He doesn't answer. Quinn keeps staring at the naked antelope, for lack of anything better to do.

"I like you," Bert says.

Quinn twists his head awkwardly. Bert's eyes are way too close to his. Quinn blinks, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pucker up. "Already?" he asks. "It's only our second date."

Bert says, "I like your brain."

"Even though it's like a warehouse?" Quinn says. Bert nods, pressing his chin down into Quinn's shoulder. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"What, the warehouse thing?" Bert asks. Quinn nods. "I don't know. It's just how your brain is. It's all big space and high windows and filing cabinets."

"What's in the cabinets?" Quinn asks.

"You," Bert says simply. "But your filing system is for shit."

Quinn contemplates this for a long moment. The guys he used to squat with told him he was too intense. Actually, Dave had said, "The only time I can deal with you is when you're high." Quinn remembers it with perfect clarity. It seems odd that someone who's too intense, who can remember a four year-old slight with perfect clarity, would have a disorganized warehouse for a brain. Quinn won't ask now, though. He files it away for later.

"Would you suck on an antelope's titties?" he asks.

"Depends on whether she's hot or not," Bert says promptly.

---

Half an hour's worth of bestiality later, Bert tells Quinn to sit tight while he talks to someone. "What else would I do?" Quinn inquires, but Bert is already leaving the room. Quinn looks back up at the ceiling. He waits.

"Jesus fucking Christ," someone eventually says. It's not Bert. It's a short man with platinum-blond hair and a weak chin. Quinn tries to think of a witty opening line, but he can't. The man saves him by saying, "Bert always forgets to let them up."

"He was supposed to let me up?" Quinn says stupidly.

The man just goes to the panel by the door. "My name's Feldmann," he says, as he types in some sort of code, "It's nice to meet you." The restraints holding Quinn to the bed snap open. Quinn cautiously sits up. He reaches out with his powers and touches all the surfaces in the room, just to get his bearings. When he's done, he looks at Feldmann.

"Follow me," Feldmann commands, and leaves the room at a brisk walk.

Quinn reaches out with his mind automatically, and just catches the door before it swings closed. He slides himself off of the edge of the cot. His legs are a little wobbly, but he manages to make it to the door. Feldmann is almost all the way down the hall already. "Wait," Quinn calls. Feldmann turns left at the end of the hall. He doesn't stop. Quinn breaks into a slow jog, feeling the strain in his stiff calves.

He rounds the corner just as Feldmann is disappearing into a room. Quinn holds the door open, so he can see where he's supposed to be going.

When he comes in, Feldmann is facing the doorway. He throws a pen at Quinn. Quinn lets the door fall shut behind him and bats the pen away with his hand. "What the fuck," Quinn says.

Feldman just scribbles something on his clipboard with another pen. "Good," he says, turns around, and takes a seat behind the desk in the room. "Have a seat." Quinn sits, looking warily at Feldmann. Feldmann doesn't look up at him. He stares down at his clipboard and reads, "The Psychic Abilities Division, hereafter referred to as 'PAD,' is pleased to have you as a volunteer." Quinn snorts. Feldmann's expression doesn't even twitch. "You have given us your personal information, and have successfully passed the psychological evaluation--"

"When?" Quinn interrupts.

Feldmann looks very slightly pained. "Bert," he explains. "Your psychological capability and stress response have been rated as the highest possible level."

"Bert's a fucking whackjob," Quinn says. "He goes poking around in my head without my permission, and he's supposed to judge my mental state?"

Feldmann makes no sign that he's heard Quinn at all. He says, "If you pass this examination and your training period, you will be asked to join team 57U, headed by Agent J. Howard. Agent Howard acts as a neuropathic and neurokinetic inhibiting specialist, also known as a class 3. Inhibiting specialists are able to inhibit the abilities of other specialists temporarily, hence--"

"Oh! He's a Damper," Quinn interrupts.

There is a pause.

"Insults are unwelcome at PAD," Feldmann says. "Agent Howard is an inhibiting specialist."

"Damper," Quinn mutters.

Feldmann's lips press into a line for a moment, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "Agent R. McCracken is the second in command on 57U--"

"Bert?"

"Yes, Bert," Feldmann says impatiently. "Agent McCracken is talented in neuropathics--"

"A fucking whacko Mental," Quinn says.

"A neuropathic specialist," Feldmann corrects firmly. He takes a deep breath, then continues reading, "As a neurokinetic specialist, you will serve as a valuable asset to this team. Please describe your powers. Your response will be recorded." He stops, scoots his chair back, and digs in a drawer for a moment before taking out a tape recorder. He sets the tape recorder on the table, clicks a button, and sits back.

Quinn leans forward. "I'm a Mover," he says distinctly.

Feldmann raises one eyebrow and huffs an irritated breath. "I'm a Mover too, you know," he says.

"I'm so glad you shared that with me."

Feldmann picks up a pen in his right hand. "What I’m saying," he begins. The pen disappears from his hand and reappears in his left. "Is that there are different types of Movers."

That makes Quinn blink. He's never thought about it that way. When he's fighting someone, it doesn't really matter that they have a different type of power. The only difference between a thirty-eight and a forty-five aimed at someone's head is the size of the splatter, after all. The only time that Quinn ever notices a difference in someone's power is about two seconds after he takes advantage of the difference. Maybe the government gives a shit, though; they don't have anything better to do. Quinn says, "It feels like an extension of my body, but it's not shaped like my body."

"Are you able to reach through matter?" Feldmann asks.

"No," Quinn says. "I can punch through it, though."

"I'm sure," Feldmann murmurs. Quinn makes a face, but he stops as soon as Feldmann looks up again. Feldmann asks, "What age were you when you first demonstrated your powers?"

"I don't know," Quinn says. "Maybe-- I don't know, thirteen? I pantsed a guy." After a beat, Quinn clarifies, "He was being a dick." Quinn had actually had a massive fucking crush on the guy, and was feeling wounded because the guy was hitting on Sarah, Quinn's best friend at the time. He figures Feldmann doesn't need to know that, though.

Feldmann doesn't ask, anyway. He says, "Number of years rogue?"

"Wait, like," Quinn says. "Does faking out the tests in school count?"

"No," Feldmann says. "Just the years out of the system entirely."

"Oh," Quinn says. "I left school when I was fifteen, so five years."

Feldmann's pen pauses over the paper. Quinn looks away so he can avoid seeing the look of pity Feldmann will be giving him. Quinn fucking hates that look.

When he looks back, Feldmann's head is bent back to the paper. "That's actually all of it," he admits. "Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah," Quinn says. "The guy who volunteered me said I would get dental. Will I get dental?"

Feldmann looks startled. "Yes," he says.

"I have another question," Quinn says. "Have you ever sucked dick for money?"

The chair dematerializes from underneath him. Quinn lands on his ass with a squawk. Feldmann stands up from his chair. "Yes," he says primly. "Now follow me."

"Really?" Quinn says, but Feldmann's already walking out. Quinn scrambles to his feet and follows. Feldmann seems to have a habit of not waiting, though; he's already down the hall and turning the corner when Quinn pokes his head out of the doorway. Quinn runs after him, giving up all pretense of cool. Feldmann doesn't look at him, even when Quinn catches up and asks, "How much money?"

They march through a series of identical drab hallways, until Feldmann comes to a stop at a featureless door. "Here we are," Feldmann says.

Quinn waits, but Feldmann doesn't bother to open the door. "Okay then," Quinn says, and opens it himself. The room behind the door is extraordinarily similar to the one they were just in, except that this one is completely empty. Quinn walks into the room and sees that there's a plexiglass booth in one of the corners by the door. Feldmann brushes past him and climbs up into the booth. He presses a button and leans in to what is apparently a microphone. "This is a physical evaluation," he says. The speaker crackles. "For the first exercise, please store the objects in their appropriate receptacles."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Quinn grouses. Feldmann doesn't answer. A red ball pops into existence in the middle of the room, and, after a beat, a blue plastic bucket. Quinn sighs, but he runs to get the ball.

He doesn’t even bother with his power for the first five rounds. It’s all kiddie games, and it's just easier not to strain his powers. Still, by the end of the fifth round Quinn’s starting to drip sweat on the concrete.

"Can I take my shirt off?" Quinn asks.

The speaker clicks on, and Feldmann's "Agent Howard took his tests in the nude," comes through with a dry hiss of static.

"Awesome," Quinn says. He strips off his shirt, and then takes off his shoes and socks as well.

Feldmann intones "Please incapacitate your opponent," while Quinn is kicking his discarded clothing into a pile by the door.

"Finally," Quinn sighs.

"Shut up," Feldmann says patiently.

The first guy doesn't do much to make the process more interesting. He's a Screamer, but he doesn't give Quinn anything more than an earache. He looks astonished when Quinn punches him in the mouth, and crumples obediently to the floor.

"You're supposed to use your powers," Feldmann tells Quinn, after he's popped the kid back out of the room.

Quinn rolls his eyes. He's starting to feel a little underappreciated. "Make me," he says.

Feldmann doesn't, at least not for the next three rounds. Quinn punches another Screamer, kicks a Shifter in the head, and hogties a fellow Mover with his own shirt.

During the fifth round, against a skinny thirty-something Shifter, Quinn realizes what the problem is. The Shifter is trying to become a tiger, but Quinn's got him in a good chokehold. The guy has no idea how to break it, and he hasn't even thought to go for Quinn's balls. "None of them are mean enough," Quinn says. The Shifter finally passes out, and Quinn lets him thump onto the floor.

Feldmann looks up from his papers. He mouths something, then looks irritated and clicks on the microphone. "What?" he repeats.

"You heard me," Quinn says. "I bet all of these people were trained here, weren't they?"

Feldmann has the courtesy to look a little pained. "Yes," he admits.

"No wonder," Quinn says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "That guy didn't even try to kick me in the balls."

"You want to get kicked in the balls?" Feldman says.

"I want it to be interesting," Quinn says.

Feldmann smiles. Quinn grins back. "Okay," Feldmann says.

Quinn turns around and backs up. "C'mon number six," he murmurs.

Number six is a teenage girl. She is wearing black raver pants that pinch her waist, and three black t-shirts. Her hair is the sickly green of a home dye job. She has a lot of acne.

"This is interesting?" Quinn asks, and looks at Feldmann. Rookie mistake. She rewards him for this boneheaded move by covering him in writhing, hungry maggots.

"Shit on me," Quinn says. He wastes a few precious seconds slapping at the maggots, but he can't shake them. "Fucking shit on me," Quinn reiterates.

She smiles and lights his hair on fire.

The maggots are churning across his skin, digging into the rotting flesh on his arms and on his torso. It hurts only distantly, like peeling a scab, but the sound of their bodies rubbing together while they feed is nauseating. His burning scalp is a simpler feeling: it's just pure excruciating pain. He can feel the tender skin blistering and peeling away from his skull. His nose fills with the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair.

Quinn closes his eyes. He brings his hands up. He feels for where she's standing in the room, tries to get her shape in his mind.

Quinn's father says, "I'm so disappointed in you," from behind him. Quinn hasn't seen his father in five years, not since he ran away. He wants to turn around to see him.

Except his father would never say that. It's not him. This isn't real.

Quinn slams into the soft part of her cheek, rocking her back on her heels. His hair extinguishes with a hiss when she stumbles. "My dad usually told me I was screwing the pooch when I fucked up," Quinn tells her. He takes a step forward. "Try that, maybe I'll believe it this time."

She gets to her feet. "Kill yourself," she says. Quinn's throat squeezes shut obediently, but he manages to wheeze in a breath before it does. All he needs is the space of a breath, really.

He comes in and up, ramming into her chin and snapping her head back. The maggots blink out of existence, and she weaves on her feet. Quinn hits her in the gut then, hard enough to make her fall to her knees. He hits her in the head again, a swift punch to the back of her head, and she folds to the floor. Quinn's throat opens, and he sucks in a grateful gasp. He takes a few more deep breaths, and then walks over to her side.

She's sweating a little. Her concentration isn't that great; she's still young, still a little inexperienced. Vicious as hell, though. Quinn smiles down at her. She's almost cute when she's passed out.

Quinn looks up at the booth. "Much better," he tells Feldmann.

The girl vanishes from the room. Feldmann raises an eyebrow and makes a notation on the paper in front of him.

"Can you tell her that she was awesome?" Quinn asks. "The thing with my dad's voice tipped me off, though."

Feldman looks constipated at Quinn's request. He apparently obliges, though, because he says, "She'd like you to know that you can go fuck yourself."

Quinn laughs, delighted. "Yeah, I want more like her."

---

Fifteen rounds of "more like her" later, Quinn's vision is blurry. He feels like someone's used a rake on both the inside and the outside of his head. His powers are-- well, for lack of a better word, they're floppy. He stops and braces his hands on his knees. Feldmann, happily, doesn't bring anyone new into the room while Quinn is trying not to throw up. Quinn counts it as a kindness.

Quinn lifts his head and says, "Can I have a break? I need a juice box."

Feldmann actually smiles at him. He opens the door to the booth and leans out of it. "I think it's time for you to quit for the day," he says.

"I could kiss you," Quinn says.

"Or not," Feldmann says blandly. "C'mon, I think they have eggplant parm at the cafeteria."

Dinner is pretty decent, at least for cafeteria food. The bed Feldmann shows Quinn to after dinner is even better. Quinn dimly registers hitting the covers face first. After that, there's nothing.

---

A gang of rogue Shifters is chasing Quinn through his hometown. They want his unfinished history paper, but Quinn's not going to give it to them; he wants a C in this class, has to get one if he wants to stay at his parents' house any longer.

Quinn takes a look back over his shoulder to check their progress and smacks right into something. Quinn grunts with the impact, twists away, and then somehow runs into the something again. It's not just a something, either; it's a someone, and they're grabbing his arm. Quinn struggles, but the person gets a tight grip on his forearm.

"They're coming!" Quinn shouts, prying at the person's fingers.

"No they're not," the person says.

Which is true, Quinn realizes. The Shifters are nowhere to be seen. "I thought--" Quinn says stupidly. He gestures with his history paper. "I have to finish this," he tells the person. Now that he's not running for his life, Quinn realizes that the person is Bert. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

Bert finally releases his arm and takes a seat on the asphalt. He lights a cigarette and then answers, "I'm waking you up."

"I'm asleep," Quinn says. It starts off as a question, but rapidly loses its lilt. He can feel himself lying in bed, even though he's still standing on the pavement in front of Bert. "Oh," Quinn adds, dumbly. He thinks about falling back asleep, even though he was having a nightmare.

"Pick waking up," Bert interjects. He blows out cigarette smoke dramatically. "I'll just keep bothering you."

Quinn opens his eyes.

Bert isn't in the room with him. Quinn drags his feet off of the end of the bed and uses the momentum to pull himself upright. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He can't feel Bert in his head anymore, but that doesn't mean anything. A Mental once hid out in Quinn's head for three days, with nearly no sign at all. Quinn does what he did then: thinks of a series of the most annoying sounds in the world.

After a beat, the door to his room opens. "I'm not in there, you know," Bert says conversationally. "But you're projecting like a bitch."

Quinn stops considering the noise of skin dragged against cling wrap. "I had to make sure you'd gotten out," he says awkwardly. "You know, of my head."

Bert has the nerve to look hurt. Quinn feels like he ought to apologize, but for what? He keeps his mouth shut, stubbornly. Bert doesn't say anything about it, anyway. He gently kicks the bottom of the doorway and says, "You want breakfast?"

"Shit, I must have slept for a while," Quinn says. He gets to his feet and follows Bert out.

---

Quinn expects that Bert will take him back to Feldmann after breakfast. He drags his feet when he leaves the cafeteria, dreading another endless day. The door Bert stops at, however, is not the same door as yesterday. There's a crude line-drawing of a man with a giant head on it, for one. For another, there's a cluster of sad-looking plastic daisies sitting in a pot nearby. Bert opens the door, sails into the room, and flops down on the couch in the room. Quinn stalls out in the doorway and gawks.

It's a sparsely furnished room, but it's completely trashed; Quinn can barely make out the carpet under all the crap. The couch that Bert and another guy are sitting on looks like they got it off a street corner. "How long have you lived here?" Quinn asks. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the moaning from the hentai on the battered TV.

Bert looks over, pausing in the act of lighting a cigarette. "At the Center? Like, forever." He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "Two years?"

"Yeah, two years," the other man says. He doesn't look away from the TV. Bert nods and lights his cigarette. The guy adds, "But we've been in this room for about a week."

"Maybe two weeks," Bert says.

"Okay," the guy agrees easily. It's the same man that 'volunteered' Quinn, or at least Quinn thinks he's the same man. Quinn edges a few inches into the room, just to check him for a gun. He doesn't seem to have it on him. However, he does have a hard-on. Quinn looks away.

Bert laughs, abruptly. "Scared by a boner?" he hoots.

The man looks at Quinn, finally. He's definitely the Damper from before. He looks stoned, this time. "Whoops," he says. "Sorry about that." He turns off the television, and the room goes quiet.

"I'm Jepha," the guy says. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"You recruited me," Quinn says.

"Oh, right," Jepha says.

Bert and Jepha both stare at Quinn. Quinn prides himself on rolling with the punches -- five years without the government catching him, he's got to be pretty good at thinking on his feet -- but this is just awkward.

"Is it baby's first day of school?" Bert says.

"Fuck off," Quinn says automatically.

Bert cocks his head, considering Quinn, and then smiles. His eyes close. He looks stoned, too, Quinn thinks. Actually, Quinn's starting to feel stoned, just from being around these two.

"So--" he starts, and then has no idea how to finish the sentence.

"Your room's over there," Bert says, and points to the right-hand wall. He turns back to the blank television and takes a drag off of his cigarette.

"Great," Quinn says.

The room is surprisingly neat, after the chaos of the main room. It's already furnished, with two bureaus, two beds, two bedside tables, and one uncomfortable chair. Quinn sits on the edge of his bed, and then gets back up. "Hey, who's my roommate?" he asks, leaning out into the main room again.

"No one yet," Bert says, tipping his head back so that he's speaking to the ceiling.

Quinn ducks back inside the room. He hears the television clicks back on. "Oh yeah," Bert says, loudly enough that his voice carries into Quinn's room. "Feed me that calamari, baby. C'mon, Quinn, get in on this. Jepha's boner won't bite."

Quinn doesn't think about it; he just reaches out through the door, across the room, and turns off the television.

"Real cute," Bert says.

Quinn doesn't feel Bert pushing against his mental blocks; he's just suddenly there, in Quinn's head, making Quinn's skin prickle and twist. Quinn yanks on Bert's balls in retaliation, pulling a little too hard because he's panicking. Bert promptly makes Quinn feel like he's got a garter snake wriggling around in his asscrack. Quinn's begun pulling Bert's hair out strand by strand when everything just-- stops.

It's possible for a person with powers to choose not to use them. It's probably the smart way out; hiding is about the only way a person with powers can have a halfway decent life expectancy. If Quinn thinks about it rationally, objectively, he probably should have kept his powers to himself. It isn't something rational, though. Once Quinn had discovered his powers, they were always right there, waiting for him to give in and use them.

If there had been a Damper around him, though, Quinn might have been able to resist. It isn't like his powers are muted or tied up; it's like they're not there at all.

Bert is chanting, "Unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair, unfair," in the next room, his voice a steady drone. Quinn gets up off of the bed and goes to the doorway.

"Quit whining," Jepha says, "And quit pulling Quinn's pigtails."

Bert stops chanting to huff, "I'm welcoming him."

Quinn sticks his index and pinky fingers into his mouth. He walks across the room, and, aided by Bert's inability to read his mind, successfully sticks his index fingers into Bert's ears and his pinkies up Bert's nostrils.

"I feel very welcomed," Quinn announces, over Bert's obscenities. "And your porn is really gross," he adds.

"Thanks," Jepha says, after a beat. He stops damping, then, and turns back to the television. Bert launches himself over the back of the couch, and he and Quinn go tumbling to the floor.

Bert's a wriggly little fuck, and he's persistent, but Quinn has height and reach on him. He gets Bert into a headlock pretty quickly, and pulls just tight enough to keep him still. "Say uncle," he says.

"No way," Bert says, and kicks Quinn directly in the balls.

Quinn's vision goes sparkly. He curls up, cradling his suddenly heaving stomach and cupping his balls with his other hand. "Jesus fuck," he grits out.

"What did you do?" he hears Jepha ask. "Did you kick him in the junk?"

"Only a little bit," Bert whines.

"You can't kick someone in the junk 'a little bit,'" Jepha points out.

As soon as Quinn's testicles stop trying to crawl up into his body, he's going to choke Bert to death. "Don't be mad," Quinn hears, and then Bert's inches away from his face, breathing on him. He slides into Quinn's mind, so easily that it's almost like he was already there. "I'll fix it, I can just--"

"Get out!" Quinn shouts. He squeezes his eyes shut and says, "Keep out of my head, asshole."

"I'm already out," Bert snaps, "I don't know what the fuck your problem is--"

"Give me a goddamn second," Quinn grits out. He's not going to choke Bert to death, not really, but he is pretty sure he's going to punch him if he keeps talking.

Once Quinn's balls have finally stopped throbbing and his stomach has calmed down, though, Quinn feels like maybe he's overreacting.

"Everyone's like that when someone nails their junk," Bert offers.

Quinn opens his eyes. "Could you just wait until I actually say something?" he asks. He sits up. He's acutely aware of Jepha watching them over the back of the couch.

"Stop thinking so loud, then," Bert mutters.

"It's--" Quinn starts.

"I'm not trying to get in," Bert says defensively. "I'm sorry, but-- it's easy. I don't even know I'm doing it."

Quinn darts a look over at Jepha, who scrunches his nose up. "If he says he'll try to stop, he'll try," Jepha offers.

"Okay," Quinn says. "I mean, it's not-- it's not like it's horrible, or something. It's not bad, I get that that's what you do, I just. I don't know, there's like that moment, when you're in my head, and it's like--" He gestures, groping for the feeling of someone being so completely integrated in his mind that he doesn't feel them there. "It's not bad, right, but it's scary." He stops, frustrated. "I'm not making any sense."

"But that's the problem," Bert says. He smiles, sort of, and says, "I know exactly what you mean."

There's a long and profoundly uncomfortable pause. Jepha breaks the silence by asking, "How long have you known each other?"

"We met the same day you met him," Bert says.

"And when did you start dating?" Jepha asks. He sounds genuinely curious.

"Fuck yourself," Quinn tells him, and flops back onto a pile of dirty clothes.

It's his first day on his brand new government psychic squad. As it turns out, it's a pretty good introduction.

---

They settle into a routine over the next couple of days. Quinn doesn't ask questions, since he's happy to be left to his own devices. That plan is thrown out of whack one morning, though, when Bert announces at lunch that they have a mission the next day.

"A mission," Quinn repeats.

Quinn's visions of rappelling down a skyscraper dressed all in black are quickly dashed. "We have to go to the mall and catch this guy," Bert explains. "He can go invisible, and he's been perving on girls and shit."

"We're catching a peeping Blinker," Quinn says.

Jepha grins at him. "No one said it was glamorous."

"I think he does electric shocks, too? Nothing major," Bert says. "Might get a little tricky with the invisibility, but it should be a good warm-up for you."

---

It turns out to be a terrible, terrible warm-up.

Quinn turns hard at the corner of the Gap, catching the edge of the window display and careening through a gaggle of teenage boys. He doesn't bother returning their insults, just keeps running. He's catching up.

Bert is up ahead. He's thinking through the crowd; they docilely move out of his way. Quinn isn't nearly so persuasive. He just pushes out in front of himself and ignores the yelps and swearing. He's managing to move faster than Bert, even with the clumsy technique. Quinn sprints a little harder, shoves a little faster, and finally reaches the edge of Bert's wake through the crowd. Quinn puts his head down and shoulders through to the empty space just behind Bert. He has to slow down to match his pace to Bert's.

"Where is he?" he says, surprised by how out of breath he sounds.

"Herding him," Bert gasps back. "I can't-- keep track-- and run--"

"Get in my head, then," Quinn says. Bert slants him a look, and Quinn says, "Yes, I fucking mean it." He speeds up, letting his legs stretch, matching his footfalls to his breath.

Change of heart? Bert asks.

Fuck you, Quinn thinks, as loud as he can.

Turn it down, moron, I'm right here, Bert shoots back. And turn left at Orange Julius.

Quinn takes the left and relaxes into sprinting. He feels his brand-new PAD uniform rubbing at the skin of his armpits and groin, the shock of his feet hitting the tiled floor, the burn of his breath in his lungs, but he doesn't think about them. Bert settles into it, too; he doesn't give Quinn directions, just fires the processes to make him turn.

Bert only interrupts after Quinn's sprinted most of the length of the mall. Jepha's up ahead, just keep running, he offers. Quinn doesn't bother responding; Bert knows that he's heard him. It's going to feel good to stop fucking running, but Quinn realizes with a start that he kind of likes having Bert in his head.

Quinn has to stumble to a stop, though, when the target suddenly sheds his invisibility. The man turns around, planting his feet and raising his palms toward Quinn. He's not as athletic as Quinn expected him to be. That's nearly all Quinn has time to think before blue light arcs out of the man's palms; that, and Get out Bert get--

The problem with non-lethal electrocution, Quinn discovers, is that he's conscious for the experience. He isn't conscious of much, though, beyond the painful tingling just under his skin and the rapid patter of his overworked heart. Quinn's breath is getting short. He goes to his knees, trying to think past the pain so he can fight back. It doesn't let up, that's the problem; the guy is unloading on him now, and Quinn doesn't think he can make it, he can't.

But then Quinn is not in the mall. He looks around, slowly, trying to understand how he got to be in a big empty room.

"Help me," Bert says. Quinn blinks and looks at him, trying to figure out what he's doing here.

"What--"

"No time," Bert says. He points to a pile of paper in the corner that, Quinn realizes, is rapidly building. The stack looks like it's going to topple. "Fifteen minutes. Where do you keep your grudges? I thought it was under childhood, but--"

Quinn's almost protests that he doesn't know what Bert's talking about, except that somehow he does. He points to a drawer in a cabinet that stands over by the wall. Bert runs to it, muttering, and digs into it. "Good, okay, go back," he yells at Quinn. "Go on, go back, I'm done with you here."

Pain arcs through Quinn's body, making him arch his back and then crumple in on himself against his will. Quinn plants his hands on the floor and thinks about giving up, going back to the warehouse and going to sleep.

Something makes him drag his head up.

Mrs. DeRiel never thought Quinn would amount to anything. Quinn hated Mrs. DeRiel, with her red fucking face and her obnoxious fucking laugh. Quinn was eight, eight, and she had told him that he wouldn't amount to anything.

Quinn pushes himself back up to his knees. He gets one leg up, his left foot on the floor. He fucking hates Mrs. DeRiel, and that's enough, just enough, to get him on his feet again. He sways there, twitching and jerking from the electrocution.

Mrs. DeRiel reminds him of Ms. Penn, his fifth grade teacher, the one who had laughed at him when he peed his pants during a school trip. She had dug her nails into his shoulder as she steered him to the bathroom to clean himself up, and she had been laughing at him. Quinn staggers forward, dredging up his powers from under all the pain and throwing them blindly forward, shoving as hard as he can.

Laughing. Tom had laughed at him, too. Fucking Tom had laughed at Quinn's stupid fucking declaration of love. Bastard, Quinn thinks, and pushes as hard as he can. The target skids backward, his heels squeaking on the tile, screaming something that Quinn doesn't care enough to hear. He cuts the electricity, making Quinn stagger and nearly retch on the floor, and goes invisible. Quinn's got a grip on him now, though. He can feel the space the man is taking up, and now Quinn's focused and can keep pushing him back.

Tom hadn't been there to help Quinn, the first time Quinn was driven out of a squat. The hopped-up asshole that Quinn had been crashing with had freaked out, and forced Quinn to stumble out into the freezing street. Quinn'd had to leave his dog behind. Quinn pushes harder. The guy reappears and tries to electrocute Quinn again, but Quinn breaks his fingers and punches him in the head. He can feel the guy sagging in his grip. Quinn keeps pushing.

Ten more feet, Bert murmurs.

Quinn nearly stumbles again when he remembers why he got the dog in the first place. He was lonely, when he first ran away from home. Quinn remembers his mother's face when she walked into his room to find him twirling his pencil in mid-air. He remembers his parents' whispered arguments when the school had called them in for yet another meeting.

Quinn finally pushes the man into Jepha's range. The man wails when his powers give out, flailing wildly. Quinn rushes to close the distance. His own powers abruptly give out, as well, but Quinn manages to fall on top of the guy. He clumsily pins him to the ground and punches him once across the face. It's just enough to knock the target out.

Quinn rises to his knees, still straddling the target, swaying with exhaustion. He bursts into tears.

---

An hour later, after a chocolate milkshake, processing by a guy in a suit, and Bert somehow muting his memories again, Quinn manages to stop crying.

"Let's never, ever do that again," he says hoarsely. He sniffles, and blows his nose on the crumpled tissue in his hand.

"Let's say you dodge streams of electricity that are headed for your chest," Bert snaps. Jepha rolls his eyes and slurps at the end of his vanilla milkshake.

"You were in there too," Quinn points out, "you could have dodged it for me."

"What," Bert starts, but Quinn keeps talking.

"And you were the one who brought up all that bullshit at the end. I was repressing that for a reason, asshole."

"Oh, so sorry for not letting you die," Bert spits, suddenly venomous. "Jesus fuck." He gets up from the food court table and stomps away.

"Where is he going?" Quinn asks Jepha.

Jepha shrugs. "Walking off the rage," he says, and takes another noisy slurp of milkshake. "He'll be better when he gets back."

"I'm going to follow him," Quinn decides.

Jepha laughs. Quinn looks at him, and he holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm not going to stop you," he says. Quinn just flips him off and shuffles after Bert.

He catches sight of Bert heading for the restrooms. He's still stomping angrily. Quinn ought to run after him, but he honestly doesn't have the energy. He speed walks, at least, though it makes his legs feel like they're going to fall apart. He chants Bert's name in his head, until Bert finally snaps back What?

I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. Bert doesn't respond. Quinn shoulders into the restroom. Bert isn't at any of the urinals, but Quinn didn't really expect that. He bends over and shuffles alongside the stalls, looking for Bert's battered Vans. He finds them at the end of the row. Let me in, Quinn thinks, and slaps his hand on the outside of the stall. After a beat, the door lock clicks open.

If anyone notices that Quinn's joining another man in the bathroom stall, they don't let on. Quinn only has a moment to appreciate the laissez-faire attitude of men's bathrooms before he's yanked inside. He locks the stall door behind him automatically. Bert fists his hands in the neck of Quinn's uniform and stares in Quinn's face. Learn to fucking dodge, Bert thinks, and kisses him.

It's an angry kiss. Bert's lips smash up against his. Their teeth click and slide painfully together. Quinn freezes in place. He thinks Bert will pull back and deck him next, but it doesn't happen; Bert loosens his grip on Quinn's shirt, instead, and looks down like he's going to apologize. Quinn catches the sides of Bert's head, keeping his eyes up, and leans in to kiss him. This kiss is gentler, and under Quinn's mouth Bert softens. I'm sorry, Quinn thinks. He pulls back and sinks to his knees, pressing the side of his face into Bert's stomach. Bert fists his hands in Quinn's hair, and he tilts Quinn's head back so that Quinn has to meet his eyes. Bert's expression is fierce. Quinn half-expects him to speak, to break the strained silence between them, but he doesn't.

Quinn tentatively touches the waist of Bert's pants. When Bert doesn't stop him, he undoes his fly. Bert bites his lip, and his fingers tighten painfully in Quinn's hair. Quinn leans forward, opens his mouth and breathes out over the shape of Bert's cock through the fabric of his underwear. Bert abruptly lets go of his hair. Quinn's head rocks back on his neck, and his mouth drops open. Bert shoves his underwear and his pants down around his thighs so he can pull out his cock. Bert strokes himself, guiding Quinn's head forward to nudge the head of his cock into Quinn's open mouth. Quinn relaxes, letting Bert do the work. Suck, Bert thinks, and Quinn complies.

Can I-- Bert starts, and Quinn thinks Yes, whatever, yes. Bert slides into his mind, and suddenly every aching muscle in Quinn's body is strung tight with pleasure. Quinn whimpers at the feeling, and Bert shoves roughly into his mouth. Quinn lets him, takes it, swallowing around the head of Bert's cock and sucking hard.

Bert leans forward, bracing himself on the inside of the stall with one hand. He digs the fingers of his other hand into the back of Quinn's neck, going unerringly for the spot that makes Quinn arch helplessly. He thrusts into Quinn's mouth, holding him in place and using him to get off. Quinn's jaw slowly starts to ache, and drool creeps down his chin, but he can't bring himself to care. He wants to come. He's desperate, pleading mentally for Bert to push him over the edge, but it only seems to ratchet impossibly higher.

When Bert's hips stutter, Quinn is mindless, twisting and slack-mouthed, barely holding back his groans around Bert's cock. Bert pulls Quinn's head in tight, pressing Quinn's nose against his stomach, and finally tips Quinn over the edge. Quinn comes, thrusting helplessly. His moans are only slightly muffled by Bert's cock in his throat. His hands twitch against Bert's thighs.

He's still shuddering when Bert pulls back. His breath is rasping in his throat. Too much noise, Quinn thinks, and sorry.

"No one can hear us," Bert tells him. "I'm making them think someone's taking an explosive shit in here." His voice is raspy. He gives Quinn a sex-stupid grin, and Quinn grins back at him, finally letting himself pant as hard as he wants. "Jesus fuck," Bert says appreciatively.

"Shut up," Quinn says. "My pants are sticky. I hate you."

"Sure you do," Bert says smugly. He drops to his knees, too, awkward in his undone pants, wedging in between Quinn and the toilet. He cups the side of Quinn's head. Please don't die, he thinks. There's still a worried edge to his mental voice, one that Quinn wishes he could take away.

I'll try, Quinn promises. It's all he can offer. After a beat, he adds, Jepha probably thinks you killed me.

No, he thinks we're fucking, Bert says. He says hi.

That's the point when Quinn starts giggling. Bert starts to giggle, too, resting his forehead against Quinn's and his hands on Quinn's shoulders.

---

Quinn doesn't have his wallet, so he has to commandeer a new pair of pants from Old Navy. Bert flirts with the clerk who's manning the dressing room while Quinn gets changed, and Quinn swans out of the place with no hassle at all.

Jepha holds up his hands when he sees them. He's cleaned up their food, but there's a folder sitting in the middle of the table. "I don't want any more details unless you're going to let me watch," he says. Quinn's about to try discussing it with Bert, but then Jepha continues, "And we have a mission in a couple of days."

"Can we not?" Quinn says plaintively. He drops down on the bench next to Jepha. Bert sits down across from him and opens the folder.

"It's a Shifter," Jepha says. "Daniel Whitehouse, or Whiteplains. White-something."

"Whitesides," Bert says absently. He flips through a few more pages. "Do you think he'll join the team?" he asks, and he and Jepha share an unreadable look.

Quinn only feels left out for a heartbeat. No one should work for the government forever, Bert murmurs to him. And it's easier to get out if you work as a team.

Oh, Quinn thinks. He slides the folder over and takes a look at the picture of the guy. "He looks like a frog," he observes, and slides the folder back.

"A naked lady frog," Bert says. "With big fucking teats."

"Now that's just weird," Quinn says. "Frogs don't eat grass."

"That's true," Jepha says. He slides the folder away from Bert and peers down at the photograph. "Welcome to the family, Quinn. Put up your feet and stay awhile."

"Don't mind if I do," Quinn says. For the first time in a long time, he feels safe sticking around to see what comes next.

---
END
---

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback of all kinds (including criticism) is very much welcome.

Danger ranger likes your dress.

2009-06-23T02:22:36Z

Discussion of warnings on fic is going on again. I am leery of entering this debate -- last time I entered it, I was unclear, unintentionally hurtful, and misunderstood to the point of absurdity -- but I think I can get away with linking and a brief blither.

Link: untappedbeauty's post here, which in turn links to impertinence's very personal and illuminating post.

I really liked that untappedbeauty called out the use of analogies in this discussion. Analogies are extended comparisons, that are used to reveal the underlying reasoning or assumptions someone makes without thinking about them. I find them really useful in the classroom. I often use a rhetorical strategy where I say, "If 'straight' and 'gay' were really sufficient to define sexuality, you'd all be turned on when you're around the ladies in the nursing home." It's a comedic analogy, intended to point out why it's hilarious to assume that our current organization of sexuality is natural or unavoidable. I like what analogies can reveal.

It's important to realize that analogies, however, like metaphors, are descriptive. They illustrate the problem; they don't offer solutions. Even worse, I often see them used in online discussions as a means of distracting from the core of the discussion.

For example: fandom is not the local bookstore; regardless of whether or not warnings should be included in books, your fanporn is not actually a published work, and the context of a fanfiction work is different than the context of a book in a bookstore. This analogy has been used in several places, ostensibly to clarify the lack of responsibility on the part of the author; since, it is implied, a book author is not responsible for their (detached, invisible, temporally/spatially delayed) reader, then the fanfiction author should not be responsible for their reader.

There are a couple of problems with this comparison. First, a book in a bookstore has been read over by editors and publishers; the publishing house chooses to market the book in a particular way, and categorizes it in a certain way. (If you think that books are completely warning-free, you are a n00b to culture and market capitalism. We're affected by extra-textual clues that are placed intentionally.) More to the point: the internet is not a bookstore, and a fanfiction story is not a book. If it were a book you were writing, sure, you wouldn't necessarily have to think about your reader, but it isn't a book. Fanfiction provides a community of like-minded readers who offer feedback, but this direct contact also means that we have to think about those readers far more than we would if our work was published.

As an aside, arsenicjade, whose BBB unfortunately dredged up all this, behaved admirably in this situation. She was asked to warn for something in her story. She did so quickly, quietly, and without fanfare. I want to point that out; she's been unfailingly classy in this, as per usual, and that deserves esteem.

---

I realized today that part of my apathy with and dislike for fandom right now might have to do with stress from my job, which means that I might be better able to deal with it when I'm done with this semester (on Friday). It's certainly also that this journal has felt like a far cry from the space for thinking through things that it used to be -- as I told hetrez on the phone tonight, I only post here when I'm sure already, this space no longer having much room for being incorrect or in-progress -- but at least there's another context to it.

Fic: Thing-Thing (Master Post)

2009-06-13T16:01:41Z

Thing-Thing
MCR - Frank/Gerard - 43300 words

Summary: When Gerard signed the admissions paperwork for the Fordhaven School for Boys, he knew he was signing up for four years of sexual frustration. No one was gay at Fordhaven. Gerard was all-too-aware that he would be a virgin until he graduated. In his senior year, though, this stupid gay freshman disproves Fordhaven's straightness, and throws Gerard's entire world off-kilter.

Now, in between drawing, avoiding bullies, running an incredibly serious tabletop RP game, failing out of math, and hanging out with friends, Gerard is also busy kind of falling for this asshole who's way too young for him. It's not what he planned on, but it's what's happening. In conclusion: high school sucks.

Parts: one | two | three | four | five | community post

--- extras ---

Mixes:

bexless's mix, "Thing-Thing," is here.
somethinguncool's mix, "The Dungeon Master's Guide to Surviving High School (And Everything That Falls In Between)," is here.
spuzz's mix, "High School is Hell (And Other Life Lessons)," is here

Art:
Two pieces by theopteryx, here.

Thanks to:
wearemany for the beta. hetrez for the rah-rah. bexless for read-overs, beta work, and reassurance. helluvalot for making a safe spot for me to indulge myself, and to her, stereomer, and featherduster for cheering it on. The bandombigbang mods. My mixers and artist. Anyone else I've whined to about this.

Disclaim:
Any resemblance to real people is largely coincidental. (Except for Fack: rest in crabby, Mr. P. I miss you.)

BBB: Mix #3 - Spuzz, High School Is Hell.

2009-06-13T08:21:37Z

High School Is Hell (And Other Life Lessons) (mediafire folder link)
A mix by spuzz.

Summary: A nostalgic mix with a lot of popular American songs from the eighties, mostly hopeful love songs. It works really well as a soundtrack to the story, and makes fantastic background music for reading.

---

01: Teenagers From Mars - The Misfits
Fantastic song, especially because Frank being into the Misfits is what gets Gerard to really notice him (in that way, at least). The Misfits are perfect music for feeling like a freak, and so they're perfect music for being a teenager. This is especially true when they sing, we want, we need it, we'll take it, baby.

02: My Prerogative - Bobby Brown
The mix opens with a punk song, but it shifts into more of a pop eighties mix after this. And it starts that shift with Bobby Brown! Bobby Brown! No, seriously, this song alone makes this mix worthy of a download. Everybody's talking all this stuff about Bobby Brown. Why don't they just let him live? They say he's nasty, but getting girls is just how he lives! (WHY WON'T THEY LET HIM BE GREAT!!!!) Even better than how awesome this song is, though, is that it actually matches the story; this is a great song for the way that everyone seems to want to meddle in Gerard's life.

03: Take a Chance on Me - Erasure
Best love song ever. What's amazing about this is that it's a classic pop song, great for dancing around in your underwear, but it's also about waiting on someone to realize that you're perfect for them. I never think of this as a song about pining, but it really is.

04: You Spin Me Round (Like a Record) - Dead or Alive
There's a song by Flo Rida out right now that samples this. I get angry-faced every time it comes on the radio, because I think that it's the Dead or Alive song, and then it proves to be... Flo Rida. It's an abomination to this amazing song, with it's thumpy backbeat, great synthesizer, and amazing vocals. I set my sights on you... And I've got to have my way little baby. Yow!

05: I Want to Break Free - Queen
As I said in my review of bexless's mix, Queen is incredibly close to my heart. (When I saw a second mix included a Queen track, I skimmed through the story just to make sure that I hadn't mentioned them anywhere; my love is pretty epic, and I worried that I might have randomly included a Freddie Mercury reference without even realizing it. That's how much I love him.) I hadn't thought about this song, but it's utterly, utterly perfect. First time love, and how that makes you -- paradoxically, sometimes -- want to escape everything you know. And the most amazing synthesizers.

06: Into the Groove - Madonna
I have a lot of hipster friends, and sometimes I go dancing at hipster bars, so there are a lot of Madonna songs that I am sick of. This one isn't one of them, and I don't think I could get tired of it. It's a kicky, perfect pop song, one of those songs that I just have to sing along to when I hear it come on. It follows the Queen song really wonderfully, too: it's about getting tired of being free and alone, and wanting someone else who's worth your time.

07: Don't You Want Me - Human League
If you don't know this song, I am weirded out by you, as you apparently live in an underground bunker. Regardless of where you reside, however, this is a great song for this story; I was editing while listening to this once, and was working on the final locker scene when this came on. The moment when Gerard says that he thought Frank was his friend has now become That Point In The Story Where I Sing "FRANK. FRANK YOU WANT ME."

08: Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
I love the vocals in this song so much; they're deep and dark and sort of world-weary, like the singer is predicting something that he wishes wouldn't happen but he knows will happen no matter what he wishes. It's such a teenage love song for me.

09: I'll Stand By You - The Pretenders
I think Gerard would wish that he was this kind of boyfriend, but wouldn't ever realize that he's actually pretty close to it already. The vocals to this mesh perfectly with the previous track; they're husky and strong in the same sort of way as the Joy Division song.

10: Close To Me - The Cure
This is a dancing song, with simple background beats that make it hard to listen to without tapping your toes. The simple background contrasts perfectly against Robert Smith's singing, which is woebegone and slightly rough. The horn solo in the middle is pretty much how I feel when I get excited about someone, and so this works incredibly well for me. Note: there are two Cure songs on this mix. spuzz obviously doesn't know that my first-ever music purchase was a Cure tape... unless she's psychic. GET OUT OF MY HEAD, SPUZZ.

11: Saturday Night - The Misfits
I love the Misfits, seriously, and this is so perfect for the story. I listened to it three or four times in a row while I was writing this, just rocking out with my eyes closed (like a nerd, I know). This is a song for smoking cigarettes and sneaking drinks behind school, feeling incredibly tragic about how much your life totally sucks; it's a high school sort of song, but it works no matter what age you are, I think. There was something I forgot to say/I was crying on a Saturday night. It's a punk song, with thick fuzzy guitars and crooning vocals. If you like Fall Out Boy, actually, you might like this song. (I just realized the similarities between the vocals right now. Huh.)

12: Friday I'm In Love - The Cure
HOLY CRAP THIS SONG. I wore out that Cure tape, and this song was one of the reasons. (I had this el cheapo walkman, and I would sit there and rewind carefully to get back to the beginning of the song, over and over again.) It's seriously one of the greatest songs I know, honestly. It's about sex and love and being crazy about a crazy person, about falling for someone who's more than a little weird, about being unsure and hopeful all at once. I used to draw elaborate pictures to illustrate this song and how amazing it is. They were SYMBOLIC, okay, it was intense. And that is how Gerard and Frank feel about each other. ♥

13: Any Way You Want It - Journey
This mix Journeyrolls you and makes you like it: fact. I like this song a whole lot, is the thing, and following the Cure song, it always inspires me to emphatic hand gestures and and sing along like I'm performing to an arena of screaming fans. It is truly a sight to behold. (Now imagine Gerard singing this alone in his room while he's waiting for Mikey to get out of the bathroom. Awww.)

14: Fuck You - Lily Allen
This is a sweetheart of a song telling bigots to fuck off. It follows perfectly on the eighties mix with its simple beat and background synthesizers. Warning: you might start singing it on public transportation and frighten your fellow passengers. Speaking purely hypothetically about a situation that totally didn't happen to me, obviously.

---

It's a great mix, and I hope you download it. Leave comments here letting spuzz know how much you like it (because you will).

BBB: Mix #2 - Somethinguncool, The Dungeon Master's Guide to Surviving High School.

2009-06-13T08:04:33Z

The Dungeon Master's Guide to Surviving High School (And Everything That Falls Between) (mediafire link)
A mix by somethinguncool.

Summary: This is rough-sounding indie rock with a pop sensibility. The songs have rock guitar effects, but they have hooks and lyrics that pull you in. A really good example of this is the Ronettes cover, which has the sweet pop attitude of the Ronettes song done by an indie group. The songs closely relate to the content of the story.

1. In the Garage – Weezer
This story is really closely related to my high school experience in a lot of ways, so seeing a Weezer track on this mix made me feel like I had been found out; Weezer first started being popular when I was in middle school, and they were established as common knowledge among my peers when I was in high school. This song’s lyrics in particular are utterly perfect -- it’s about being a nerd in high school, and needing a place to escape – and could serve as a one-track summary of the group. It's a sing-along song, too. Every time I've listened to this mix I've ended up singing along to this track.

2. Tom Sawyer –Rush
He gets right on to the friction of the day. This is obviously a Frank song, even though it's not a Frank genre of music. He's a modern-day warrior! After I listened to this mix, I went back and read the story over, thinking about how Frank thought about himself, and it helped me revise a little bit more.

3. D is for Dangerous - Arctic Monkeys
Here's the part where I start wiggling around in my seat on the bus, tossing my hair back and forth like a drunk hipster at 80s night. I love this song, it's so bouncy and dark at the same time. And try and keep your trousers on makes me laugh every time.

4. Creep (Radiohead Cover) – Muse
I really love it when mixes shift back and forth between tempos; for some reason that's my favorite kind of style. (No comments about my hither and thither personality, please.) This is a perfect example of how the tempo shifts – the cover is slow and quiet whereas the previous track is a dancing one – but how the tone is the same.

5. Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
After a lot of contemplation – no lie, since I've received my mixes I've listened to all three on repeat when I'm not working or actively engaged in conversation – I've decided that this is my favorite song from all three mixes. Creepy, obsessive, sexy, dark, good to dance to, with monotone vocals. I think it gets at the way a crush can be about wanting to get all of the other person. It's only just a crush, it'll go away/It's just like all the others it'll go away/Or maybe this is danger and you just don't know/You pray it all away but it continues to grow.

6. Lousy Reputation - We Are Scientists
When I first heard the opening bars of this song, I cracked up. I love We Are Scientists, and this album (With Love and Squalor) is one of my writing albums. I won't let your lousy reputation throw me off is all about – at least for me – protesting vehemently that you don't care what people say about someone while secretly still totally caring.

7. Twilight Omens - Franz Ferdinand
The previous song clicks really well with the previous song, flowing smoothly into this track, but the vocals are really different. It's a fabulous love song, matched with how Gerard feels about Frank.

8. All Apologies – Nirvana
Really dorky overly-personal story time! When I was in elementary school, I was really unpopular, but occasionally the semi-unpopular girls would let me sit on the jungle gym with them. I was sitting there one day when they were making fun of this girl. I was totally silent, because I was a wimp who wanted to belong. The girl they were mocking walked up, and one of the girls on the jungle gym said, "Go away, we don't like you." The girl turned bright red and burst into tears; since I was a crybaby of epic proportions, I sympathized, and I dredged up the courage to say "you guys are way mean and you suck" and slide off the jungle gym to go be friends with that girl. It was a wise decision: she was too cool, pretty, and intelligent to be my friend without that kind of goad, and she introduced me to Nirvana before anyone else had heard of them. This is a song that still makes me sniffly. Okay then! Enough of that! This is totally an amazing song for the two of them, too, sarcastic and sharp and self-conscious.

9. Be My Baby (Ronettes Cover) - We Are Scientsts
I love the Ronettes and We Are Scientists. This song is a giant win for me. Like I said in the summary, too, this is a perfect example of the sensibility of the mix as a whole, how it's indie rock that holds on to that bubbly pop feeling. It's a sweet, yearning song, too, perfect for a yearning romance.

10. Hope You're Happy Now - The Sounds
I love this song so much, and it's perfect for the way that Frank feels after Gerard disses him in the locker scene. You can call me a slut, you can call me a liar goes into Hope you're happy now, but I'm not giving in/I hope you’re satisfied with your bullshit and your lies. You hurt my feelings, in other words, and now I am going to EAT YOUR FACE.

11. There's a Fire- Okay Go
I never say quite what I mean, and never mean quite what I say,/and how did that get out of me, and what the hell did I mean to say? It's a great, simple song about misspeaking, and how hard it is to get people to believe you, and how much it sucks when you don't quite say the right thing.

12. Walk Through Hell - Say Anything
This is so completely Gerard's song about Frank that I can't even get into it. It’s all about imagining yourself as a hero for someone, wishing you could have impossible situations where you prove yourself. It finishes perfectly, too, with the singer singingNow I’ve walked through hell for you/What's an adventurer to do/Than rest these feet at home with you. This was another candidate for my favorite song; it’s the kind of song I want to sing earnestly to strangers while I'm walking down the street. I have, in fact, sung it earnestly into my hairbrush a few times, completely unironically.

13. Love Song - Tilly and the Wall
A soft, sweet song. I wasn't sure about this at first, because it seemed almost too sweet, but I love the chorus, and it works well in contrast with the louder love song of the previous track. I love, love, love the lines, oh you and me will bloom/on the windowsill.

14. Rise Above- Black Flag
I mentioned before how much I love tempo changes, and this is a fantastic example of just that. Black Flag jumps up the energy (characteristically enough). It's a shouter of a song. I think it speaks to the sense of solidarity that I think Frank and Gerard both still crave and are able to recognize in their friends. It's kind of about the potential of rebelling against the people who have always picked on you, too, and it inspired me to keep a particular scene that I was thinking of cutting out.

15. Hysteric - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
I love the Yeah Yeah Yeahs to a ridiculous degree, and any time there's a YYY track on a mix for my story (see last year, thesamefire put "Art Star" on her mix, "You're the Answer to My What-to-Do"*) I flip out with joy. I think "Love Song" could be the song that Frank and Gerard slowdance to, but it could also be this song, and whenever I think about it I imagine this song playing for them.

16. Alright – Supergrass
This is a great, sweet ending to the mix as a whole, and gives a sense of how happily things can end for the two of them.

* - warning: if you do a mix for me, I will become obsessed with it and listen to it over and over again and keep it on my ipod and still be listening to it a year later.

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Please leave feedback here for somethinguncool; it's an amazing mix, and I'm certain you're going to enjoy it.

BBB: Mix #1 - Bexless, Thing-Thing.

2009-06-13T07:56:21Z

Thing-Thing (mediafire link)
A mix by bexless.

Tracklisting:
01: Who Wrote Holden Caulfield? - Green Day
02: Teenagers From Mars - The Misfits
03: Freak Me Out - Weezer
04: Teenage FBI - Guided By Voices
05: If You Got The Money - Jamie T
06: Teenage Kicks - The Undertones
07: Beat Your Heart Out - The Distillers
08: Cocksucker Club (Live) - Pansy Division
09: Why Can't You Be Nicer to Me? - The White Stripes
10: You're Standing on My Neck - Splendora
11: Somebody to Love - Queen
12: Smokin' in the Boys' Room - Motley Crue
13: Laundry Daydreams - Soltero
14: This Is Hardcore - Pulp
15: My Baby is a Headfuck (Live) - The Wildhearts
16: You're the One For Me, Fatty - Morrissey
17: The Way You Wear Your Head - Nada Surf
18: Anyone Else But You - The Moldy Peaches
19: Dance With You - Bowling for Soup
20: Let's Go Get Stoned - Ray Charles
Bonus track:

Summary: This is a punk and classic rock sort of mix. The songs flow into one another very well. The whole thing has a sort of driving beat to it, and it’s great for walking to work or working out. The lyrics match very closely to the story, and could serve as a soundtrack.

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01: Who Wrote Holden Caulfield? - Green Day
This is such a killer song. It's characteristic of the rest of the mix: a driving beat, shouty punk vocals, and lyrics that match the story. The chorus is a great description of how Gerard starts out in the story: There's a boy who fogs his world and now he's getting lazy/There's no motivation and frustration makes him crazy/He makes a plan to take a stand but always ends up sitting/Someone help him up or he's gonna end up quitting. What I like about this song going first is that it addresses how Gerard progresses (or at least how I wanted him to progress) in the story. He really doesn't know how to take a stand at the beginning, and by the end he's learning how to do that, and when.

02: Teenagers From Mars - The Misfits
This is on spuzz's mix, too, and I think for a good reason. The lyrics are mostly about the half-violent alienation that teenagers feel. Teenagers from Mars, and we don’t care! It's a perfect song for this story, especially because I have always misheard the chorus as "teenagers in love," and I think of the song as being about both alienation and love. The Misfits would probably punch me in the face if they read that.

03: Freak Me Out - Weezer
As I'll say in my post about somethinguncool's mix, putting Weezer on a mix for me is a great move, because it gives me a little nostalgic trip back to middle school. This song is lyrically really perfect for the story, too, because it's about that feeling of freaking out about a crush, and especially about trying to make yourself "good enough" for the person you have a crush on. It's a slower song, and I like it as a break between songs.

04: Teenage FBI - Guided By Voices
I love the sort of smoky, hazy background noise that happens in this, because it feels like the fog of being a teenager, confused and trying your best. That background noise and the slightly off-kilter tempo of the singing match up perfectly with the lyrics: Someone tell me why I act like a fool, when things don't go my way. When you're around me, I'm somebody else. This is the sort of song I dance to like a doofus, ideally with a friend who’s laughing at me.

05: If You Got The Money - Jamie T
Gerard doesn't have a ton of money, so that's the obvious side of why this matches up. It's the quickly-sung verse lyrics that match up best to me, though: Do you give a toss, or are you looking away?/Wondering why you can’t eat/Why you never sleep/Drunk all the time/Cold in the heat/What you sow is what you reap. Gerard's dissatisfied and he can't figure out why, can't get a grip on things. The tone is perfect to a story about teenage boys, too, cocky and unsure at one and the same time.

06: Teenage Kicks - The Undertones
A wobbly-voiced punk song, but the song itself is like a Motown track, poppy and full of hooks and handclaps. This is a great song, sweet and fast. It's the song that I think of as the sort of heart of the mix, if that makes any sense; it has just the right tone, that quintessential teenage yearning, that I tried so hard to get across.

07: Beat Your Heart Out - The Distillers
I absolutely love this song. It's perfect, too, for the mixed feelings I've always had when I've fallen in love with someone: there's nothing left, so take the rest. This is a great thrasher of a song, perfect for going nuts and dancing like a crazy person.

08: Cocksucker Club (Live) - Pansy Division
OH MY GOD PANSY DIVISION. This song is one that I never would have thought of if I were mixing for myself, but it's so perfect. The singer has this wry attitude when he's singing about first times, but at the same time it's sort of nostalgic, too? I don't know, I've always heard this song as being both like, "Man, that first time was such a first time, I thought it was such a huge deal," and "I kind of miss that feeling of it being such a huge deal." I think that's why high school AUs appeal. Or at least that's why they appeal so much to me.

09: Why Can't You Be Nicer to Me? - The White Stripes
This is the ultimate drunk song. The sound of it, the way the music warps around, and then the lyrics and especially the chorus. Goddammit, why can’t you be nicer to me?

10: You're Standing on My Neck – Splendora
I think of all the characters in this story as a weird combination of Daria (the wry, sarcastic loser) and Quinn (her ditzy, vicious sister). Only drunk. Anyway, this means anything associated with the Daria series is perfect, of course. The best part of this song is how perfect it is for any teenager worth their salt: Excuse me. Excuse me? Excuse me! I’ve got to be direct: You’re standing on my neck.

11: Somebody to Love – Queen
I used to make mixtapes all the time when I was a little kid and a teenager. They weren’t very good -- a far cry from my mother’s gorgeously crafted thematic mixes -- but I really loved making them. I have strong sense memories of sitting tailor-style on the rough hardwood floor, staring at the numbers on the stereo, giant headphones over my ears while I recorded Talking Heads, the Cars, or (you guessed it) Queen onto a tape. I absolutely love Freddie Mercury -- I think he helped to establish the tradition that lets Gerard be the frontman he is -- and this song is perfect. There's a line in the story that I imagine Bex was thinking of when she put this track on here: "The guy Gerard loves won't have to do anything except be his amazing self. All he'll have to do is let Gerard love him." I think of Gerard as such an optimist, so hopeful and confident that he's going to be a great boyfriend, even though he's not at all. At the same time that he's kind of a sucky boyfriend candidate, he still needs somebody to love, because it's going to teach him to be a better person and a better boyfriend. It's the sort of person I was when I was putting Queen songs on mixtapes; I think it's the sort of person you are when you're young and foolish and unbelievably hopeful.

12: Smokin' in the Boys' Room - Motley Crue
What's hilarious about this song -- other than the fact that it's by Motley Crue, lolololol -- is that it's a total bespandexed hair-metal song, and yet the time when Gerard smokes in the boys' room is when he's humiliated and scared. It actually made me think of an epilogue of the story, when Gerard goes to his high school reunion, and he finds out that a lot of kids thought he was the badass violent criminal of the school, not the loser. "But I was always hiding in the bathroom!" he says, and the other guy says, "You were always smoking in the bathroom!" "And crying!" Gerard says, and then they just look flabbergasted at each other.

13: Laundry Daydreams - Soltero
I want to get drunk/On important occasions. This is beautiful for this mix, and is one of my favorite songs overall. It's drunken and weird, on the one hand, and on the other it's about fantasizing about a perfect person, if we were in a movie.

14: This Is Hardcore - Pulp
The flow of the previous song into this one is really cool. It moves from a wobbly-voiced song with simple background music to a produced, triphoppy sort of song with smooth, deep-voiced lyrics. Both mention movies and desire, but that's about the only similarity. I love that move -- I love juxtapositions like that, especially when they happen smoothly -- and I love that both songs match the story lyrically. You are hardcore, and you make me hard is pretty much the story of Gerard looking at Frank. It's a perfect song for the awkward sex they have (and any awkward sex you want to have).

15: My Baby is a Headfuck (Live) - The Wildhearts
This moves back into the shouty punk arena. This would be where I inevitably started bopping around on the sidewalk, looking like a dork and frightening fellow pedestrians. The title of the song says it all, too: my baby is a headfuck.

16: You're the One For Me, Fatty - Morrissey
Gerard totally spanks it to Morrissey, for one -- probably not as often as Pete or Ryan, okay, but still -- and even better, this song speaks to the working title of the story: "Fatass and Chunkstyle Fall In Love." I crooned this to a performer from a sideshow I went to, and earned a lot of cool points in their book. Thanks, bexless!

17: The Way You Wear Your Head - Nada Surf
Don't push me, 'cause I'll fall in love. What I sort of tried to get across in the story was the way that the person you fall in love with (in high school and beyond) isn't necessarily the person with whom you think you ought to fall in love. Gerard had a giant crush on Kyle, who I think of as an innocuous, hot guy. Kyle is nice enough, and he'd be a good boyfriend. Frank, on the other hand, pushes Gerard to be more himself. They have a contentious relationship, but that makes it better.

18: Anyone Else But You - The Moldy Peaches
What the Moldy Peaches do best is in this song: they sing about the strangeness in life, and how utterly right that strangeness can be (oddly enough). Squinched up your face and did a little dance/Shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants/I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else/But you. I love the idea of Frank and Gerard together; they're two weirdo losers who everyone else discounts, but they think the world of each other, and they make each other better.

19: Dance With You - Bowling for Soup
I think of this song as one of the songs that Frank and Gerard dance to at formal, before they slow dance. It's a strong, boppy rock song. I think of this as the song that is descriptive of the way that they get together, that they each got into each other despite all of their well-maintained defenses. I love thinking about how they're each others' first loves, and how you got me, and now we can't go back/you'll never get me again.

20: Let's Go Get Stoned - Ray Charles
Pretty much everyone's anthem in this story. Whoops. I love how this winds things up, a slow sort of bluesy number to pull it all together.

Bonus track: Bill Bailey - Ballad
An acoustic song that veers from high romance to high dramatic hatred. Hilarious. I listened to this for the first time walking down the street in the middle of the city, and I grinned so hard that people started to double-take. You could read this as predicting the end of Frank and Gerard... but whatever, you'd be wrong. They totally go to their thirty-year reunion together. (It's perfect for the teenage mentality, though.)

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Make sure you download this, give it a listen, and leave feedback for bexless. I'd really appreciate it, since I want hard work and awesome mixes to get due praise.

BBB: Art Post.

2009-06-13T07:20:03Z

theopteryx drew gorgeous art for my story.

I saw this one first, and thought "oh, I expected that she'd draw that one."

I love the detaails in this, the surrounding atmosphere of the drawing.

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When I realized that she'd drawn this scene, though, I flipped out. It's one of the scenes that's most central to me, and I can't say enough about the drawing.

I love absolutely everything about this: the coloring, the expressions (especially Frank's face!), Frank's right hand, the lines of the lockers, the fliers stuck on the lockers-- it's gorgeous, and just right.

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Seriously, take a look, and leave feedback here for theopteryx. She did an amazing, amazing job.