#Improved Checkout

[shadyhouse]

hey 👉👈 if anyones able to throw a few bucks at me so i can get lunch at work the next few days itd be very much appreciated, I typically spend around $6-$10 a day thanks to my employee discount but im broker than broke rn and just embarrassed myself with a declined card 🙃 literally anything helps i just wanna be able to eat

vnm: tobias_leviathan

pp: paypal.me/bewearrr

[totodiletears]

You know part of me is wondering if I should plan to get a PS5 in order to play some games I was hoping would make it to the Switch 2, but like.... man, home-console-only gaming. It's just, something about my brain feels like there are a bunch extra steps to playing a console on a TV, and sometimes those extra steps feel like too many steps.

Part if it is I don't have that much space to set things up to use with the TV. The switch dock is already one of those things and I doubt getting a PS5 would change Switch usage frequency, so it's not going anywhere. And then I have a blu-ray player, and with that most of the available space is taken up. Meanwhile the Wii U stays in its box except for when I feel like a really good long session. And that takes planning, because I need to make sure the game pad is charged up for a long gaming session. And then I gotta take out the Wii U and set up space for it to sit while being played. I do it sometimes! But nowhere near as often as I play Switch or 3DS because those are just easier.

Maybe if I decided to put the blu ray player into storage except for when I'm specifically using it?

[croquetserasera]

listen I worked retail for 5 years and it was a big huge phenomenal breakthrough when the self checkout machines could take bills backwards or even (gasp) upside down. for years atms and the like needed the bill to not only be face up but the top of the face had to be on the right. let alone how they could only take one bill at a time and it couldn’t be crinkled or folded or torn at all. and even with this advancement our cash machine got jammed one night and I had to pull the whole thing out and go through each piece until I found what caused it - one of those little rubber cement dots that holds a gift card to the package. something that human cashier me would’ve likely not noticed shut down the entire cash out process for half an hour.

machines like this are really cool and useful and rapidly advancing but they repeatedly run into problems when faced with the uncertainty of the human condition

[mingapace]

𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝕸𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨. 𝙇𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 9,1ᴋ

It’s not even noon when you hear the doorbell ring for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Mondays were always bustling with customers because of the early weekend closure. The business complex was small compared to the big chains downtown, but older folks and local regulars much preferred stopping by a small center rather than driving miles to reach a larger one and stand in endless checkout lines.

You barely lift your gaze from near the stockroom, where you’re logging invoices to send to your trusted accountant at the end of the month. An elderly woman leaves with a polite smile and a bag that jingles.

You hurry to thank her, and she responds with a slow, gentle nod before disappearing into the gray street.

Outside, the sun is scorching the pavement even though it’s only early spring. When the door opens, the smell of freshly baked pizza from the bakery next door makes you sigh with pleasure. But no—you had to hold out until the evening. Remmick was surely cooking something while shut in at home, far from the sunlight.

You smile at the thought of how essential he had become in your life. When you came home from a hard day, he was always there—waiting, comforting you—and like magic, all the fatigue would melt from your shoulders.

His cooking skills were slowly improving, and even though he had no real need to eat, he still did it for fun. He was dead, and normal food didn’t satisfy him, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste buds.

You close the folder and slide it onto the shelf. Then you stretch your arms above your head, yawning slightly. The morning had been calm—aside from the usual parade of indecisive customers and two men asking where to find the most ‘aesthetically pleasing’ toilet paper.

Your coworker, Iwan, is lost somewhere between the shelves. He’s stocking boxes full of new kitchenware—bamboo spoons, decorative cutting boards, all those cute and useful things people buy when they need a little comfort.

Your boss had decided to hire another employee due to the increasing customer flow, and you were grateful—it was getting hard to keep up with everything alone. It hadn’t been a difficult selection. The guy showed up with politeness and precision, a university student, perfect for a part-time role. And you were always happy to help young people who, even while studying, rolled up their sleeves to become independent.

You’re about to dive back into bookkeeping when you hear him arrive.

Fast steps. A thud. Then a low, almost choked voice calling your name.

You’re distracted by a paper your boss left under the register and only look up when he knocks twice on the counter with his knuckles and adds:

“Something happened.”

You frown. Iwan was always a nosy gossip. He knew everything about everyone, and the old ladies loved hanging around the shop to chat with him and whisper the latest news. Of course, he always rushed back to tell you everything—even though you were never much for gossip—and he always had that excited look.

But not today.

Iwan has a face you’ve never seen on him before. Not scared.

More… hollowed out. As if reality had gently taken the words out of his mouth.

“Go on,” you say, concerned. “What is it?”

He removes his baseball cap, holding it in his hands, twisting and turning it like there’s something alive inside.

“Have you heard the news?”

You shake your head, as usual. Ever since you started living with Remmick, your world had shrunk into a bubble.

“No. Why should I?”

“Because… they found a body. In the river. Early this morning. Right behind the spillway, under the small bridge—the one near here.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn’t unusual news, especially in recent decades with the whole hunt for night creatures and everything else, but the fact that it happened in the little suburb where you lived—where nothing much had happened in a long time—sets off alarm bells.

“A body?”

Iwan lowers his voice and leans over the counter, getting closer. He looks left, then right, like some browsing customer might overhear and eavesdrop.

“It was one of the guys who came here often. A man around thirty, thirty-five. The one who always had his shirt unbuttoned and wore sunglasses even when it rained.”

You freeze. Your hands stiffen on the counter. A small knot forms at the base of your throat.

“Oh…”

Iwan nods.

No names needed. You remember him perfectly.

He’d come in at least five times over the last few weeks. He’d stand between the shelves, staring at you. Asked dumb questions. Always tried to get closer than necessary. One time he even asked if you lived alone.

You told him: “Just with my pets.”

He had laughed.

You hadn’t.

“A guy from the police said it at the café next door. They found him at dawn. Floating face-down. But the weird part is… the neck. It’s not just broken. It was torn.”

He continues, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it won’t be long before the Custodians show up around here.”

A cold, slimy shiver runs down your spine.

“What do you mean… torn?”

You try to sound skeptical. But your voice already drops lower.

“I don’t know. They didn’t explain it clearly. Just that it wasn’t an injury from a fall. It’s something… unnatural. Like he was bitten—”

Iwan stops, noticing the expression frozen on your face.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You snap out of it, erasing the look from your face and shaking your head.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… a big thing to hear.”

You step away from the counter. Your hands tingle.

Part of you wants to ignore it all. Close your ears. Say you don’t care, that the guy was deeply creepy and whatever happened to him, he probably deserved it.

But that’s not true.

A man died.

And in circumstances that seep into your skin and your mind, feeding your unease.

At 1:43 pm, you step out of the shop with a weight pressing on you that you can’t shake off.

You asked Iwan if he could extend his shift today, said you weren’t feeling well and didn’t feel up to continuing, and he only nodded, his face locked in that silent kind of concern that kind people wear when they’re unsure whether they should ask more.

You didn’t let him.

You politely greet the people you know and the customers heading into the shop as you walk toward your home. The sun is still high in the sky. There’s no wind, but the air has that sticky, heavy quality that comes before slow thunderstorms—the kind that simply weep melancholy onto the sidewalks.

You cross the bridge that separates your shop from the river, and for a moment, you stop.

Down there.

Exactly down there.

Dark green water. Murky. Slow.

And in the center of that unremarkable canal… early this morning… there was a body.

The body. You knew that man. You’d rung up his groceries, talked to him, looked him in the eyes.

Now his neck is broken. And not because he tripped.

No. Iwan said that part clearly.

Like it had been torn.

You inhale.

The smell of the river hits your nose—iron and moss, with a tired trace of mold. The kind of smell no one really notices anymore around here.

But today, it stings your throat. Clings to you.

You turn away quickly and head down the plane tree-lined boulevard, walking straight home.

Every step feels heavy.

Not because you’re tired—physically, you’re not at all—but because of that feeling in your gut. That feeling that things are starting to line up.

And you’re just pretending not to notice.

A subtle tension walks beside you like a shadow—unseen, but constant.

You grip your shoulder strap tightly. Your headphones dangle from your bag. You don’t feel like listening to music. Not today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—just once. A notification, maybe your boss, maybe Iwan, maybe the police.

You don’t check.

Beneath your feet, the cobblestones are damp with moisture.

Now and then your heel slips a little, but you don’t stop.

And then you remember that conversation.

Not yesterday. No. More than a week ago. One of those evenings when Remmick had come to see you for no apparent reason. He was sitting by the radiator in the shop—even though he didn’t need it. Legs drawn up, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you like he was studying your existence in quiet sips.

You had mentioned the guy to him, just in passing. To fill the silence. To include him in your day—usually uneventful, but not entirely that one.

You had said it lightly, almost joking.

“The idiot with the snake face tried again today. He never gives up.”

Remmick had lifted his gaze slowly.

“Did he lay a hand on ya?”

“Nah. Just talked. Doesn’t seem like the type. And I’ve got you to protect me, if anything ever did happen.”

And he had smiled. A smile that, now, days later, comes back to you with a different shade.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

It felt like a promise.

But it was just a joke, right?

Remmick had caught your sarcasm. He must have. He knew you by now.

You cross a small square where pigeons have taken over the benches.

The river’s no longer visible, but you still feel it at your back, as if the water is following you.

Each step toward home brings you closer to a possibility you’ve been trying not to name:

That Remmick knew.

That he didn’t let it go.

That he acted.

And no, not because you asked him to.

But because you’re his.

In that ancient, animal, visceral way, in which certain creatures look at you and don’t see a person—they see a reason to live.

And if someone threatens that reason…

Well.

You’re not entirely sure how it ends.

You reach your front door with your heart beating a little too fast.

You drop the key the first time. You pick it up and slide it into the lock as if nothing happened.

Open.

Close the door behind you.

The cat watches you from the living room window, looking satisfied, lying on a blanket that Remmick has probably folded with geometric precision just for him.

You hear a sound coming from the kitchen: the clink of a ladle, a cabinet closing gently, the soft rush of water.

It’s not an unusual scene.

Remmick often does things for you.

Small things. Careful. Almost invisible—unless you know how he tries to earn his place under your roof.

When you step around the hallway corner and into the kitchen, you see him.

From behind.

A loose t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks so normal, so human.

He’s standing in front of the stove, which is turned off. In his hand, a wooden spoon. In the pot—sauce. Simple, fragrant. Like the kind made on good Sundays.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps.

And for a moment… he looks surprised. Then instantly happy.

A flash. Like a dog that wags its tail without thinking—pure instinct.

“Oh—!”

His voice is a breath, suddenly full of enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch, sweetheart.”

You usually never came back before evening. Your shift was continuous, but you couldn’t stay in the shop with that knot in your throat making it hard to swallow.

He sets the spoon in the sink, wipes his hands on his apron—yes, he’s wearing the light linen apron you folded for summer—and comes closer.

“Did you forget something? Or… are you feeling unwell?”

Then he stops.

His eyes fix on your face.

You’re looking down.

Not smiling.

Keys still clenched in your hand.

Your shoulders stiff.

You didn’t come home because you were hungry. You didn’t come home out of affection. You came home with a thought that’s been eating you from the inside out.

Remmick understands it before you even open your mouth.

His face changes.

He doesn’t fall apart. But he slows. Becomes more careful. He studies you as if searching for new cracks that weren’t there before.

“What is it?”

His voice is low now. Concerned, but still gentle.

It’s not an interrogation.

It’s an offering.

You stand a few feet away from him.

The kitchen sounds—the drip of the tap, the sauce gently simmering, the cat stretching on the couch—form a normal frame.

But you two are not normal right now.

“They found a body this morning,” you say, finally.

Remmick doesn’t answer right away.

“Who?”

He looks at you.

You look at him.

Then you add: “It was someone who used to come to the shop. An annoying customer, but nothing serious. They found him in the canal.”

A pause.

And then: “I… I told you about him.”

Remmick nods. Slowly.

“I do, yeah. I remember. You said he was botherin' you. And you said you felt safe when I was there, didn't ya?”

His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just… linear.

As if he’s stating a fact. With the same honesty he’d use to tell you how many dishes he washed.

You stare at him—and for the first time since you’ve lived with him, you don’t see him as a tender, gentle creature, hungry only for your love.

And he notices. Something flickers in his gaze. A trace of red drowns in the gray sea of his irises.

A pain that arrives before any word.

Remmick stiffens.

“No…” he says, speaking with that thin voice he uses when he’s afraid he might break. “No, hang on. You don’t think… you’re not seriously thinkin' that…”

He takes a step toward you.

Not threatening—definitely unsure. As if approaching a flame that might collapse or suddenly burn brighter.

His eyes widen, like he’s just seen the fear in you.

“I didn’t do it.”

His tone is broken now. Full of anguish.

“I swear on it, I didn’t. I promised you, the very day you let me stay here. I swore—”

His voice cracks.

His claws (still kept beneath the skin) seem to press against the flesh.

“I swore I’d never do it. Not even if someone was hurtin' you… not even if I was tempted. Not even if I was starvin'. I… I’ve learned to keep my hunger quiet. For ya.”

His chest rises and falls. He doesn’t need to breathe—but he does it anyway. To mimic life. Or maybe to soothe his soul.

You don’t answer right away. You’re not accusing him, but your gaze doesn’t soften.

And he can’t take it.

His eyes flicker. Not because he’s guilty—but because he no longer knows how to look innocent in your eyes.

He suddenly turns, and the transformation flashes through him like lightning:

His eyes turn red.

His hands stretch and twist.

Claws emerge.

His canines sharpen like knives.

A vase on the cabinet shatters with a single swipe—a violent blow.

The shards scatter across the floor, and you instinctively take a step back to avoid being hit, a startled gasp slipping from your lips a second too late.

Remmick freezes.

He turns to you.

And he sees it. Your frightened expression.

You bring a hand to your chest, your heart pounding—but you’re not sure if it’s truly fear of him or just the raw instinct from his sudden outburst.

But for him… for him, it’s worse than any sentence.

He stands there.

Mouth slightly open.

Looking like someone who’s lost everything in a single moment.

“Darlin'…”

His voice is barely a whisper. The tone unfamiliar—like it doesn’t even belong to him.

You don’t move. You don’t know if your heart is racing or has stopped altogether.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

As if every inch between you could somehow redeem him.

“I didn’t mean to. Please. Don’t—”

His hands tremble as he tries to retract the claws, his fingers flexing convulsively as if trying to push them back under his skin.

The nails retreat slowly. One by one. His hands return to their normal size.

Then his jaw tightens.

His teeth… retract. But there’s blood on his lip. He bit himself in the process.

The red in his eyes lingers a few seconds longer.

They stare at you, lost. As if they can’t look away from the face they love—a face that now fears him.

Then that too fades.

Back to gray. Liquid. Desperate.

You haven’t said a word.

Remmick drops to his knees. There, beside the shards. Not to pick them up. But to lower himself. To take away the weight of you looking down at him.

“Don’t be lookin' at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Not like… like I’m somethin' that'd touch you when you don't want it. Not like I could ever hurt you, really.”

You swallow.

But still, you say nothing.

Remmick leans forward, hands on the floor. You see him trying to slow his breathing, shoulders trembling.

“I lost control, love. Just for a second. Didn’t mean to frighten you, but…”

He stops. The words stick in his throat.

“It felt like… you weren't believin' in me anymore.”

His tone is low, full of something breaking without making a sound.

“And I… I don’t know how… I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

There’s a nakedness in that sentence that leaves you breathless.

Not physical. Not theatrical. Real.

As if every gesture he made — every touch, every laugh, every kiss — hovered around the way you look at him. And if that vanishes, he disappears.

You can’t breathe properly. Not yet. But you look at him. This time, truly.

And you see everything.

The pale skin still glistening slightly with sweat, as if it retained the traces of transformation. Hands resting on the floor, fingers curled but human again, lined with thin red trails — maybe from the shards, maybe from himself. Lips drawn tight, bruised. Eyes locked on you, glassy, swollen. As if holding back tears.

“I'd never hurt you,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even lay a finger on you. Not at you. Never at you.”

He takes a breath, broken and ruined, and lowers his head.

The silence weighs like concrete between you.

You standing, him on his knees.

And between you… the fracture.

Remmick doesn’t move for long seconds. He stays there, frozen, as if afraid that even the act of standing might make you disappear. But then he looks at you again. More slowly. And slides a little closer. Cautious, silent. He moves like water searching for a crack, like a wounded animal with nowhere to go.

He drags himself forward on his knees. One hand brushes the floor. The other stays raised halfway, as if offering itself. He doesn’t dare touch you. But he gets closer. A little more.

And you— You lift your hand. Stopping him.

“No.”

The word is small. Not harsh. But final.

Remmick freezes instantly. As if your voice were a thin blade that just carved into his breath.

You look at him. Finally, with firmness.

“I need to… think.”

Your hand stays raised, between you. A gesture more powerful than any word.

“Alone.” you add.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t justify.

His face lowers, his eyes drift back to the floor. It’s as if every unsaid word slipped into the cracks of silence and dimmed him a little more.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn your face. And you leave.

You walk slowly toward the hallway. Every step is dense. Every breath heavy. You don’t turn back. You don’t want to see if he’s watching you leave. You don’t want to know if he’s crying, or praying, or simply waiting.

You cross the bedroom threshold and close the door.

Then lean against it, back to the wood, as if holding out a storm.

The cat must have jumped down from its spot at the window after Remmick broke down, and is now curled up on the bed. It lifts one ear. Then recognizes you, stretches, and meows in a tired voice.

You don’t go to it immediately.

Your heart is still pounding too hard.

You move slowly through the room. Run a hand through your hair. Slip off the hoodie that clung to your skin from anxious sweat. You sit on the bed and the cat slides closer, sensing your agitation, rubbing against your thigh.

You take a deep breath. Trying to push everything away. But the image is still there.

Him.

Standing beside the broken vase. The red eyes. The sharp fingers. The mouth full of teeth not meant for speaking.

You try to recall everything he said. His voice, the plea, the ruined tone with which he tried to ask for forgiveness.

“I swore to you.”

“I'd never hurt you. Never you.”

“I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

You know. You know he loves you. Or whatever distorted, deep, trembling form of love a creature like him can feel. You know he’s devoted to you. That he would never harm you.

But— But.

You saw something. Something that can’t be unseen. That can’t be ignored.

And you wonder if love, by itself, is enough to hold certain things back.

You lie down. The cat jumps up beside you, curls against your shoulder. Its body warm, heavy, familiar. You bury your face in the pillow.

You try to tell yourself: “It was just a moment. He’s sorry. You know him. You’ve seen him vulnerable, humble, small.”

But the mind…the mind doesn’t agree.

Your home. Your safe space. Shaken. Altered.

You close your eyes. The cat shifts, purring softly into your ear. It knows nothing, but senses something.

Your heartbeat slows only after long, weary, suspended minutes. And as your body finally gives in to exhaustion, as your hands relax, as the cat stretches out along your stomach…the image returns.

Not the outburst.

But his other version. The gentle one, the tame one, the domestic one. The one of a creature who loves you enough to die.

With that thought, with great difficulty, you fall asleep.

You wake up at dusk.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light. The glow filtering through the window is dark blue, thick, sunless. It’s not the middle of the night. But it’s late. Maybe seven, maybe eight. You don’t know. Your body feels heavy, like a stone sunk underwater.

You turn slowly in bed, searching for something to hold onto. The cat is gone — probably found a new cozy spot or a place on the cold radiator.

You move to sit up, and something slips from your shoulders and gathers in your lap.

A blanket.

You don’t remember wrapping yourself in a blanket. Sleep must have taken you before you could do anything.

It was placed over you, gently.

Your fingers touch it, lightly grip it, and a soft smile comes to your lips.

There’s no need to wonder who put it there.

Remmick.

A thought crosses your mind. He must have come in quietly, while you were sleeping. He must have looked at you. Maybe knelt beside the bed. Maybe he just wanted… to do something for you, even without forgiveness.

You get up, finally. Your muscles are stiff. You wrap the blanket around yourself like a cloak and open the bedroom door.

The house is dark, silent. The kitchen light is still on, faint and yellow. Just one bulb — the one above the stove. There’s no sign of him.

No bowl out of place, no cup, no note.

You search for him out of habit: the chair where he always sits, the window where he reads, the hallway where he follows you in the morning to ask if you need anything.

But he’s not there.

He must have gone out to feed, you think. He never goes out this early, but after a day like that…

Then another question comes to mind.

One you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

What was he feeding on tonight?

You don’t want to think about it.

And yet, you can’t stop yourself.

He often stayed in for days to spend time with you after work, but the next morning he always had that distant look. You always knew he was holding himself back. Even now… your mind keeps circling back to that sentence Iwan said, back at the shop.

“The neck… not broken. Torn.”

You move into the kitchen, slowly. On the stove, the sauce he had probably finished that afternoon still sits. Next to it, a plate and a portion of uncooked pasta had already been laid out. Your stomach tightens with sorrow.

You’re not hungry, but you cook anyway. To distract yourself. To pretend it’s an ordinary evening. You reheat everything in a pan. The steam fogs your eyes. You wait until the pasta is ready, drain the water into the pot, and pour a ladle of sauce over the serving.

You eat standing up, like you only do when you’re nervous. The spoon taps softly against the rim of the bowl.

The silence in the house is a crouching beast.

He should be here. Not to talk. Not even to ask for forgiveness. Just…be here.

Because Remmick, despite everything, has always been there. Even when it wasn’t needed. Even when you didn’t want him.

You finish eating. Put the dishes in the sink. Then you return to the bedroom.

You don’t think of him with anger. Not anymore. But you wonder what he’s doing, where he is.

You get back into bed. The blanket he left draped over you is still warm. You pull it over yourself again. You turn toward the pillow.

This time, sleep comes without asking permission. But it’s not peaceful sleep. It’s a sleep of waiting.

When morning comes and you wake up, you head to the bathroom to wash. You get ready for the workday, and as you leave the bedroom, you expect to see him behind the kitchen counter. However, as you pass through the hallway, sunlight floods the house through the open shutters.

And then you know. Remmick didn’t come home.

The morning light is clear, merciless. There’s no fog today, only cold, transparent air that makes everything sharper than necessary.

You hear your footsteps on the cobblestones. The echo bounces inside your chest.

You arrive at the shop a few minutes early. Iwan isn’t there yet. You open up. You pull up the shutters. Turn on the lights. Open the cash register, put on background music. A gentle playlist, full of guitars and female voices singing about love as if it weren’t something that tears people apart.

Everything seems normal. But it’s not.

The morning drags on slowly. Customers come in, ask stupid questions, impatiently flip through decorative catalogs. You answer everything. Smile. Sell. Assist. But the thought… remains.

Where is he hiding? Where did he sleep? How did he not burn?

Remmick, without your roof over his head, is just a shadow in the world. An ancient, fragile fragment that could be lost — or worse, found.

Because there are the Custodians. After the recent event, they must have split across the outskirts. You know they patrol the cities after sundown, hunting those who don’t conform. Those who show too much hunger, too much threat. And Remmick, even if he’s always obeyed you, is still a walking threat.

You lean on the counter, checking your phone for the umpteenth time. No messages. Not even a shadow of his name.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he just found a good hiding place. Maybe he’s under an abandoned church. Maybe he found shelter in the library’s underground levels, where no light reaches.

You hope.

And meanwhile, your heart pulses in your ears every time the shop bell rings.

Until…

At a quarter to noon, Iwan walks in.

He throws open the door with the excitement of someone who’s just seen an explosion.

“Did you see the news?” he asks, without even greeting you.

You shoot upright. Your heart stops. It truly stops.

He drops the newspaper on the table and the words pour out: “They caught the monster! They got him last night!”

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. The universe pulls back.

Iwan smiles, thrilled. He talks, but you don’t hear at first. There’s a ringing in your ears.

“They caught the monster.”

The phrase cuts you in two.

For a moment, you see only him. Remmick. Cold hands. Shaking voice. Eyes full of guilt. His pleading whispers.

And now... Caught.

Maybe tied up. Maybe burned. Maybe — God, no — maybe dismembered in a basement by hands that don’t know the difference between what’s dangerous and what’s merely… different.

You can’t breathe.

“Iwan…” you manage to say. “Who? Who did they catch?”

“Oh, right!” he laughs, not noticing anything. “No, wait — it wasn’t a real monster. I mean, not one of those night creatures. It was some guy. A drunkard. You know, the one we’d sometimes see passed out outside the pub down the street?”

You don’t understand. You’re still holding your breath.

“Turns out it wasn’t a mauling, no. They discovered the victim started a fight with him on the bridge. Apparently, he was out of his mind. The drunk guy smashed a bottle over his head and stabbed it into his neck.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“He fell off the bridge, they say. Hit the bottom. Broken neck. Then the current…you know. They found him later. But the bottle shattered his throat. They only figured that out afterward.”

Iwan sighs like he’s relieved, like he couldn’t wait to talk to someone about it.

“A cyclist saw the scuffle and called it in late. It’s all written down. The papers are saying it. They blew the story up at the bar last night, as usual.”

Iwan shrugs, flipping through the newspaper in front of you.

You stay completely still. Not a single muscle moves.

Your heart starts again suddenly, like it had been held underwater for hours. You grip the counter. Inhale. Hold.

And then the truth slaps you in the face.

Remmick didn’t lie. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t snap a neck. He didn’t kill. He kept his word.

And now…now you have no idea how to find him.

It’s late afternoon when you return home, walking like someone who’s been moving all day without really knowing where they were going. You’re no longer hungry. Not sleepy. Just tired—A kind of tiredness no pillow can fix.

You open the door. The apartment is just as you left it. Silent. Tidy. Empty.

You take off your jacket and let it fall over a chair. Then you hold a mug in your hands out of habit, but don’t fill it. You step out onto the porch.

Outside, the sky is a dirty orange fading slowly into blue. The approaching evening air is cool. Damp. The fig tree’s branches barely move, but they seem to be watching you.

You sit on the wooden step, facing the small garden you’d tried to keep in order—and that Remmick had offered to tend to, even though he couldn’t tell a weed from an herb.

Still, it’s thanks to him the garden is still green. Last summer, he was always outside watering with the hose. You remember how you used to watch him silently from the porch chair, and how he once sprayed you completely with water just because you’d pointed out a spot he’d missed.

You rest your elbows on your knees and let yourself slump forward, like your head is too heavy and pulling you toward the ground.

Where could I look for him?

Under bridges, maybe. In abandoned depots. In the crypts of that ruined church—the one where he once told you the silence was so complete it hurt his ears. Maybe in a library. Or maybe…

The thought ends there. You have no idea where to begin. You bury your face in your arms and sigh—loudly.

Then something moves.

A soft thump.

You lift your head suddenly and turn toward the sound.

Your cat.

It’s jumped down from the window ledge and now walks casually down the stone path, heading toward the old garden shed. You haven’t opened it in months. It had basically become Remmick’s space. He made you buy all kinds of tools for the garden and had stored them in there.

The cat stops right in front of it. Rubs against the bottom of the door. Purring.

You freeze.

Then you notice something. The lock. It’s closed.

Not slightly ajar. Not gently pushed shut. Locked.

Just like that rainy night.

Your blood freezes. Your legs tremble beneath you, but you stand up anyway.

You cross the garden in a few steps, ignoring anything in your way, and approach the door. The cat watches you, meows, then steps aside—as if making space.

You raise your hand. Heart in your throat.

Turn the handle. Pull hard.

The door creaks open with difficulty. The warm light of sunset pours into the dark shed—and you see him.

Curled up near the door, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s pale. Paler than usual. He looks like a ghost. The light hits him full on and he hisses—a low, sharp sound, like a wounded cat.

He recoils instantly, dragging himself back into the darkness. The skin on his arms smokes where the light touched him. It doesn’t burn. But it marks. Small cracks, like dried leaves.

You freeze. Just for a moment.

Then, without hesitation, you step inside and shut the door behind you. The light disappears.

You watch Remmick’s red eyes flicker in the dark as he blinks. But you’re no longer afraid. You hear him breathing heavily, and then he speaks.

“Please. Please, just let me stay, will ya? I only want to be close. Even if it's just....even just to watch you from afar.”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s exhausted. Worn down. Like someone who’s cried all night and all day and has nothing left.

You stay standing by the door.

He keeps talking, as if your silence might become another sentence.

“I didn’t want to go, but you were all shook up. I didn’t know what you’d do. I just—”

A broken breath.

“Just wanted to see if you were alright. If you could get a bit of sleep.”

You bring a hand to your mouth. You can’t speak. The relief hits so hard it bursts inside you like pain.

He was here. In your garden. Two meters away. Slowly dying in silence, like an abandoned dog waiting for autumn.

And you didn’t see him.

You sit down on the ground, back against the shed wall, knees pulled to your chest. The first tears fall without a sound. Just warmth. Silent streaks sliding down your cheeks. Then—a sob escapes your lips, dragging everything with it. Every ounce of pain. Every thread of guilt.

Remmick, probably misreading your tears, speaks again. Whispers.

“Let me stay. I won’t come out. I won’t say a word. I won’t go near the house again. Just let me be close to ya. That's all.”

You close your eyes and finally, strength returns to your voice, powered by pure relief.

“I’m sorry…”

Remmick’s red eyes go wide. He listens, not even breathing.

“I’m really sorry, Remmick. I’m an idiot. No, worse… I’m a selfish bitch.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. Breathe deep, trying to make room in your chest.

“I should have believed you. I should have. I was standing there with all the proof in front of me, and I looked at you like—” You stops, your throat tight. “Like you were something to fear. When you’ve only ever been… good. Kind.”

You hear him shift—barely. A soft, scraping movement.

“I treated you like you were guilty. You were right here and I didn’t know. So close. So alone.”

A sob cuts your breath. You can’t speak anymore. Your throat tightens more.

The voice that answers isn’t the same cracked one from before. It’s fuller. More alive.

“You’re not an idiot.”

Still faint, yes, but there’s something pulsing in it now. As if your tears had started to heal him.

“Don’t be sayin' that,” he repeats. “You’re not. You’re not.”

You see him now. His body barely emerges from the darkest corner. His eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with something not quite tears, but close. Hair a mess. Hands shaking. He looks at you, but doesn’t take that final step. He waits.

Like he always does.

So it’s you who makes the move. Small, but clear.

You reach out a hand toward him and Remmick moves instantly.

In a moment—just one—he’s there.

His arms wrap around you, anchoring to your back and pulling you against him. Your body slides into his, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces. He leans into your neck and stays there, breathing in your scent. Yesterday, you would’ve been afraid. You would’ve pushed him away. Today, you just feel stupid.

You let him hold you. Give in to the contact. Close your eyes.

The sigh he lets out is the sound of someone who’s been held underwater for days and is finally breathing again.

He touches you with almost childlike devotion. Fingers gently combing through your hair, across your nape, down your spine.

“I thought I’d never get to hold ya like this again.”

His warm breath brushes your neck, and you feel him nuzzle there. You hold him tighter. Afraid he might change his mind and pull away for having been hurt. Your chin rests on his shoulder and you smile. The scent of his skin—that faint, cool note of night and wax—fills your lungs.

He rocks you slightly. As if to soothe you. But also, himself. As if just touching you brings him back to the world. His world.

“I won’t scare ya again, sweetheart. I promise.”

Your eyes soften. You sit up a little straighter, pressing your hands to his shoulders. At first, he resists. He doesn’t want to let you go. But then, sensing you’re not pulling away, just grounding him—he relaxes. You take his face in your hands, fingertips tracing small, delicate caresses and you guide his gaze to meet yours.

“I know, Remmick.” And you say nothing more.

You stay in the shed for hours still, giving the sun time to vanish from the horizon, letting night fall around you once again.

This time peaceful. Together.

When the sky turns a deep blue and the sun is finally low enough not to hurt his skin anymore, you decide it’s time to bring him back inside.

Gently, you disentangle yourself from his embrace and stand up. He looks at you, still a little lost in the tangle of emotions.

You hold out your hand without speaking. He looks at it as if it were a sacred offer, then slowly takes it with both his hands and lets himself be helped up. He walks beside you in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look for words. He simply trusts.

The house is warm. When you enter, the cat watches you from the armchair with the air of someone who has been on guard, and accepts Remmick’s return without any hostile gesture, as if it understood. You close the door behind you and guide him down the hallway to the bathroom.

You turn on the light and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Remmick stays still at the threshold, as if unsure whether he can really cross it.

“Come here,” you say, motioning with your hand, and he obeys.

He moves slowly, like something fragile, as if afraid to break something just by walking. He passes by you and stops in front of the tub, silently. You bend down, turn on the warm water, and let it run until you find the right temperature. He raises his hands over his shirt but then stops. His eyes search for yours. There is no shame, not really. There is only… hesitation. As if he’s afraid of making a mistake again.

You say nothing. You move closer, take the edges of his shirt, and lift it over his head, pulling it off. Then the pants, slowly, without hurry. As if you were undoing, piece by piece, the tension that had stuck to him.

He stays naked there, full and clear like wax. His skin is dusty, knees scratched, hair stuck to the nape of his forehead. Yet he seems beautiful to you. Because he has come back. Because he is here.

You help him into the tub. The water wraps around his legs, wets his pubic area, belly, chest. He takes a deep breath—not necessary, but freeing. He sits and stretches out his legs. His back relaxes for the first time. His chin lowers to his chest and he stays like that, silently.

You kneel beside him. Take a bowl from the cabinet and pour warm water over his hair. He closes his eyes without protest, and you repeat the gesture two, three, four times until his hair clings to his forehead like black silk threads.

Then you open the shampoo, pour some liquid into your hands, and begin massaging it gently onto his head. Your fingers move carefully: roots, nape, temples. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his breath deepen. He lets go. You understand this from how he slightly tilts his head, from how he trusts your hands like an animal cared for after days of rain.

“Have you ever let someone wash you?” you ask softly, wanting to fill the silence.

He makes a guttural sound, a mix between a moan and a stifled smile.

“Never. Never like this…”

“You could get used to it, huh?” you say with a little smile, to break the emotion.

“If you’re offerin', I’m not sayin' no, that's for sure.”

You laugh softly, and he smiles without opening his eyes.

You pour more water until all the foam disappears. Then you take a soft towel and wipe his face, ears, and the back of his neck. His eyes now look for yours, no longer uncertain. Only full. Of unspoken things. Of silent gratitude. Of a calm you’d seen slip away.

You take the liquid soap and pour it onto the soft glove. Then you start washing his shoulders. The touch is slow, respectful. There is no desire, but something more silent and deep. You wash him like you would wash a beloved body that has suffered too much. Without hurry. Without speaking.

The shoulder blades, the arms, the hands.

Then you slide down the ribs, following the shape of his lean back, the hollow side, the flat belly.

His breath changes, becomes longer, more held. At first, you don’t pay much attention.

“You’re treatin' me like a precious ornament, love,” he says at some point, his voice suddenly tense.

“You are. A bit dusty, though.”

“Still sittin' on a shelf in your mental livin'' room, I am.”

“Sometimes above the fridge, along with glasses I don’t use.”

He laughs. It’s a low, soft sound, echoing lightly against the tiles. It seems like the first real laugh in days.

The sponge reaches his lower belly but you turn and move to his thighs, pressing there. His pelvis shifts a few centimeters but you feel it. You feel the erection pressing firmly against the inside of your wrist.

It makes you smile. Always so sensitive to your touch, even after you almost kicked him out of the house.

Your fingers nestle among the wet hairs at the base of his penis like a tease, and this pulls a new sigh of pleasure from him.

It’s what you want to hear for the rest of your life. Him enjoying your attention.

His hand closes on your wrist and you stop, uncertain.

When you lift your gaze, his gray eyes are fixed on your face. For a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. That you misunderstood and he didn’t want all this.

“I can stop if you—”

He shakes his head and takes your hand out of the water to give a tender kiss on the inside of your wrist.

“Ah, fuck, darlin', no. It’s…,” his voice vibrates in a sound like your cat’s purring, “It’s grand but… let me get out of here first…”

You sigh in relief and continue washing him.

Piece by piece, while the water turns lukewarm, then cool. Only then do you help him stand up.

You take the towel from the small hook and wrap it around his torso. He stays still, arms open to be wrapped. He lets you dry his hands, fingers, even the backs of his knees. When you finish, kneeling, you lift your chin and look him in the face, smiling slightly.

His cock is still erect, pressing against the base of his abs with a slight spasm as if to catch your attention.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He just nods, not trusting his own voice.

You stand up and take his hand. You walk down the corridor and when you catch sight of your cat from the corner of your eye, you decide to close the door behind you once you reach the bedroom. You didn’t want any conflicts tonight, of any kind.

Tonight was for him.

“Sit down.”

He does it, without thinking twice. He sits on the mattress but as he does, his hands rise and rest on your hips, making you collapse into his lap.

You blink confusedly but he looks at you intensely.

His fingers move away from your hips and go up to your face, tenderly brushing your cheeks.

The way he looks at you, the way he touches you…

You had been so blind.

His lips press on yours. The kiss is neither demanding nor hurried. There is gratitude in it, a feeling of infinite ease and safety. His thumb traces circles on your cheek, making you part your lips for him and pulling you closer.

His beard scratches your face but it’s fine; it was a pleasant pain to bear. Surely less debilitating than what he had been through.

He moves his hips just enough to press his erect cock against your inner thigh, covered by leggings, and moans into your mouth.

You push him back by the shoulders, making his back hit the mattress and the soft fabric of the sheets. You leave his lips and slide down his body, showering him with kisses and touches, enjoying the small needy sounds he didn’t intend to hold back.

When you reach his cock and your fingers carefully circle it, feeling the warmth and weight against your palm, Remmick groans hoarsely.

“Fuck, darlin'. You don’t have to do this…” he says cautiously.

“I know.” Your eyes gleam mischievously and you squeeze just a little tighter. “But I want to.”

Remmick swallows and looks down at you, one arm placed behind his head so as not to miss a second.

“My boy is always so good. So attentive. He would never disobey me.”

You whisper, deliberately sliding your hand along his shaft, pressing your fingertip against the prominent vein running along the underside.

The vampire’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing your hand and pressing into your clenched fist, clearly affected by your words.

“I think you deserve a reward for being so good. Don’t you think?”

Remmick nods and a thin trail of saliva drips from his mouth, sliding down his chin.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

A shiver runs down your spine realizing the power you have over this creature, and slowly you lower your mouth where he needs it most.

You start by kissing the tip of his cock, spreading the viscosity of his pre-cum over your red lips.

That alone is enough to break him. His hands clutch the sheets because he doesn’t trust putting them on you, and he whispers your name like a prayer but doesn’t move his hips. He controls himself, like the good boy he is.

You open your mouth and take him slowly, getting used to his size without hurry. The warmth floods you and he moans a sound not very manly but that makes you rub your legs to ease that throbbing pain of restrained desire.

“Yer mouth...is so hot…”

His voice fades into a new moan that can only be filled with despair as you hollow your cheeks and start sucking him, tongue pressed at the base as you go down and circling the tip as you go up.

“Ma’am… hold on… hold on a sec…”

You hum satisfied and feel him writhe beneath you, as if wanting to move away but not wanting to at the same time.

You take more and more, trying to adapt and take him fully, and when you hit the back of your throat you feel his legs tremble strongly under your hands.

“Sugar, please…” he whines pathetically, eyes glowing red again against his will. “I’m close… I'm fuckin' close—”

Remmick brings a hand to his mouth to stifle the deep sound and bites, breaking skin and flesh.

The taste of him starts to fill your mouth in torrents and you have to close your throat to keep the liquid from flowing down. You climb back onto him and, unbothered by the blood and drool that was running down his cheeks, you took his chin in your fingers and opened his mouth. The seed slips from your mouth to his in a wet, messy sound. The white liquid slid over his sharp teeth and tongue and he swallowed it all before he rose and took your lips with his again.

He sucks your tongue and plunders your mouth, searching for more of his sperm and holds your head still so he has plenty of time to do so. You taste his blood but for some reason it doesn’t disgust you. Nothing about him does.

“You’ll be the death of me, so ya will.” He whispers against your cheeks when he pulls away a little.

“You’re already dead.” You laugh as he slides your shirt and bra off with masterly skill.

“Then you’d finish me a second time.”

His hands rest on your waist, helping you stand between his spread legs and you slide the rest of your clothes down yours. You toss everything in the corner of the room. You’d have to think about it the next morning.

His cock is still hard, as if it hadn’t just exploded in your mouth and you shake your head. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. You think he’s going to grab you, throw you under him, line up and enter you in one move given how agitated he is. But no.

He looks up at you, hands pressed to the mattress for support and gasps a couple of times. It looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

You frown.

“Remmick-”

“Iloveya.”

He says it quickly, like it’s a curse. As if he wasn’t allowed to say it but he wanted to anyway.

Your lips part slightly. The heart in your chest jumps and you think that if your mouth had been slightly wider, it would have fallen into his lap.

Sarcasm, as always, is your best defense.

“Are you saying that because I just made you come or…?”

“I fucking love ya.” He almost growls at him and rests his forehead against your knees. “It’s alright if ya…if ya don’t feel the same. I've love enough in me for the both of us. I can-”

Your hand presses to his head and before he can say anything else, you muffle his words with your mouth, leaning into him and wrapping your legs around his hips. You taste the saltiness of tears in your kiss and you’re not sure if they’re yours or his. But you don’t care.

“My poor pretty boy. Of course I love you.”

Remmick shivers as the tip of his cock breaks the confines of your entrance, collecting all your wetness and sliding into your cavern.

“You’re soaking wet, love…” he moans as your arms wrap around his neck to keep both of you in a comfortable position. “I’ve missed ya so much…”

His hands settle on your butt and he lifts you up, letting his length leave you before bringing you back down and impaling you again. His drool runs down your collarbone, pooling where you’re joined and you shiver at the sensation.

When your walls have softened enough for him, you feel him push a faster pace and his hips stutter into yours in pursuit of pleasure. He’s panting against you and you want to watch him. You want to watch what you do to him.

Your fingers close in his hair and you pull him back enough to look into his eyes. The image of the bloodthirsty creature is before your eyes, its fangs wet with his blood and his eyes fiery red, but as much as you want to, he doesn’t scare you. Not anymore.

“There he is, my good boy. You fuck me so good.” you tried to keep your voice steady but it still shook.

Your thumb nestles in his mouth, presses against his tongue, grazing his fangs but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t dare.

“Who’s my good boy, Remmick?”

“I…fuck, it’s me, baby. I’m yer good boy.”

His eyes roll back in his head as you clench your walls around him and his lips close around your thumb, muffled by his whimpers. You see the muscles in his arms tense as he continues to lift you up and down on his cock, and it makes your mouth water.

You feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster, and you reach down to stroke your clit in tandem with his thrusts. It overwhelms you almost immediately, and your hand tightens convulsively on his shoulder as you come around his thick cock, screaming his name.

This seems to push him over the edge, and he pulls you down hard as he buries himself in you all the way to your balls. His seed fills you up and you’re pressed against his chest as he makes shallow, thrust thrusts to pump him deep into you, every last drop.

When his breathing calms but he doesn’t let go of you, you caress the back of his head with little scratches.

“Is everything okay?”

“Forgive me…”

You smile again and kiss the top of his head.

“No more apologizing. But I’m warning you…”

He pulls back at the stiff tone of your voice. His puppy eyes all wide and waiting at you, dreading your next words.

You grin. “Next time you break something I’ll spray you with garlic water.”

[rederiswrites]

Sometimes I'm on here and y'all make posts that just make me go, "you are very young and would benefit from learning something about our culture in the last hundred years".

Yes, people are upset by trans and enby people, because their lives are entirely structured around the different roles of men and women, and the idea that men and women are fundamentally different and inherently suited to their traditional roles. Like, that shouldn't be a big realization. That was a major part of western culture until quite recently, and still is for a great many people. We attack their basic worldview by existing as ourselves. Obviously they're wrong, but that doesn't change the emotion of the situation.

Yes, conservative cis people act like marriage is a chore. For most of history, and certainly US colonial history, marriage was a social and economic necessity that created a working partnership. Attraction was certainly a hoped-for element but not strictly required, and love was a bonus, possibly even a bit suspect as a motivation. It was still like this when my grandparents married. I know couples today who are separated but married for financial reasons. We're not talking about the distant past. Marriage has been many things through the years, and "an equal partnership based on love" is a very recent iteration. Of course our culture is littered with artifacts of the older way. The older way was like...yesterday. Today.

Yes, Grandma has trouble at the grocery store checkout. When she was a kid they had rotary phones and radios, and you paid for everything with cash. She grew up in a culture that taught that childhood was for learning and adulthood was for doing, and now the world is asking her to learn a bunch of new things that basically sound like magic, and she's not even sure she can, and she's not at all sure it's an improvement (and she's got a point, though she might not know it).

There's just....a real lack of perspective. I dunno, watch some documentaries about the fifties. Read some historical novels. Go to the local Victorian house tour.

[sufficientlylargen]

This is also one of the reasons why I'm so much in favor of universal basic income - closing coal mines would be much less of an issue if the people who have spent their lives honing the skills needed for coal mining could be sure that they'd still have housing, food, healthcare, etc when they were no longer able to mine coal. And similarly, any jobs lost to automation wouldn't have nearly as much effect on the people who used to have those jobs.

It won't stop companies from replacing people with automation that can't actually do the same job, but at least fewer lives will be ruined when they do.

We should really not go along with the corporate lingo on these shifts to automation and AI. Always remember this: They don't want to pay people to do the work.

Companies aren't replacing cashiers with self-scan machines for the customer's convenience. They don't want to pay people to do the work.

Companies aren't using AI to produce a better product. The product produced by AI is notably inferior - they just don't want to pay people to do the work.

Corporate America is not hurting for money. It's not that they can't afford employees -- profits are soaring! They just don't want to pay people to do the work.

[gholhuio]

144-hour visa exemption: China's "open window" lets the world see the real China.

Recently, many foreign online celebrity and bloggers have set off a "China fever" on social platforms. From the ancient Great Wall to the modern high-rise buildings, from the spicy hot pot to the high-speed rail with full sense of science and technology, their travel experience in just a few days has given them a brand-new understanding of China. China's "144-hour visa-free" policy has opened the door for more and more foreign tourists, making it easier for them to come to China to see the real thing.

Visa exemption has brought more "visitors"

For foreigners, China's "144-hour visa-free" policy is very convenient. This policy applies to citizens of 54 countries. As long as they hold a joint ticket from a third country, they can stay in a visa-free city for six days without complicated visa procedures. This has surprised many foreigners-originally, it was only a short transit, but I didn't expect to "punch in" the cities in China. This simple and convenient "transit tour" has become the first choice for many foreigners.

According to the data, in the first half of this year, the number of foreigners entering the country at various ports increased by 152.7%, and more than half of them entered through the visa-free policy. It can be said that this policy not only makes it easy for more foreigners to visit China, but also attracts a group of "visitors" who are curious about China. They use their own perspective to discover and record China, and then share what they have seen and heard with the world.

China in the eyes of foreigners: colorful and true.

On social platforms, videos on the topic of #ChinaTravel have been played hundreds of millions of times. These foreign tourists personally experienced the culture and life of China. Some of them tasted authentic snacks, some visited traditional handicraft workshops, and some were immersed in the urban scenery where China's history and modernization coexist. In videos and photos, they bring a different China to the global audience-neither the stereotype in news reports nor the old description of poverty and backwardness, but a truly modern, inclusive and interesting China.

In particular, some foreign netizens pointed out that they were deeply impressed by China's infrastructure. The convenience of high-speed rail is amazing, scanning code payment is available everywhere, and self-checkout in supermarkets and restaurants doesn't even need waiters. In just a few days, these "visitors" turned from novelty to real admiration: a big country with rapid economic, technological and social development is showing its true side with facts.

Let the world see a more open China

In fact, China's visa-free policy is not only to increase tourism revenue. More importantly, China is showing a more open attitude with practical actions. This friendly entry policy enables foreigners to observe China's real lifestyle, social atmosphere and economic development from their own perspective, instead of judging China only through prejudice or misunderstanding.

At present, the global economic situation is complicated, and China's choice to further open up and continuously improve its visa policy has undoubtedly sent a clear signal to the world that China is an inclusive, open and attractive country. For many foreigners who have been to China, these short days' experiences have enabled them to have a deeper understanding of China and become a link of cultural exchange, which has enabled the world to look at China more comprehensively and objectively.

[miifu666]

Ive seen people drawing my Wukong a lot! I'd thought to release his reference, incase anyone else wanted to! Dw about drawing him wrong, i mean i havent released his design till now lmao. I also tweaked some stufff

Sun Wukong - 2nd Half

" The more mature one's mind is, the more it changes one's body"

Left Suklha for a few months in order to properly focus on his journey and self improvement.

Has a hard exterior but is actually clingy, very smug, good at poetry but has a hard time making it (writers block ahh)

He's easygoing but Blunt, Cynical, has a hard time lying if it doesn't benefit him, Bad humor (like a dad's joke)

He must be less insane right? Nah he just learns how to hide it better. Hes worse actually. He would force u to drink immortal wine just so u can be extra durable when he tortures u

Because Suklha gave him fun facts, he has stupid facts about things lmao.

Still short, just know how to dress to make himself taller. (Also he's a bit chubby)

Crafty as hell. prepares necessities for the group, sew a centipede pattern on his garment.

Very proud of his healing journey. He ate better, posture isnt as bad as before, scars are healing, little nightmares but not as bad as before! He can hear through his sleep though.

Still has trauma of his family/monkeys got burnt due to his actions (more like Erlang burning the mountain down) thus VERY clingy with Suklha. Is learning to be more independent now.

A rehabilitating workaholic.

If angered, his mouth and eyes release a sort of magma out of it, theres small sparks of fire and smoke every time he talks. His fur turns into a darker, almost cool hue with red tips.

His head is shaped like a gourd, hence why he grew his hair around it to hide thr shape.

If u noticed, his headband has a gap at the center. Suklha altered it a little back then as a way to make Wukong stop stalking her (he didn't)

His tail is so wild after not using it for years, he even accidentally stole a bracelet!

He loves his wife. A lot.

So much so, he wrote "if you dont have anything to say, atleast spit on the letter and send it to me" and sent 6 of those to Suklha.

"I will leave such an imprint on you that anyone you entertain after me will have to know me to understand you"

To see more of his design! Checkout #My Monke tag in my blog!

Design note : i try to incorporate how Suklha would change JTTW lore through the design, also make it unique enough to be seen as my design, but still stick to some original interpretation. Some of the choices i made are entirely meaningful! Also, simplifying some aspects because i draw him a lot, and it saves time 🫡

[devilsudon]

♡ Checkout

synopsis: Sylus finally got you to be comfortable with spending his money. He loves taking care of you and spoiling you, so he’s glad you’re finally taking advantage of it. Except, he enjoys it a little too much. And you love teasing him about it.

pairing: Sylus x reader

content: sub!sylus, gn!reader, edging, begging, handjob, smut, might be ooc

a/n: I haven’t written anything in so long but I arrived at the airport so early I just wanted to write. I think Sylus is a switch, he literally wants MC to claim him. Also, in night of secrecy he said he’s not ready to give us control YET. And I’m banking on that “yet” so hard we need more sub!sylus in this world.

word count. 1.4k

You and Sylus are laying in his bed, your head on his chest with his arm around you as you both stare at your phone in his hand. It all started when you were scrolling and got an ad for some cute clothes and sent it to Sylus. You clicked the link for the brand, and ended up sending him more and more links because everything looked so cute! Then you got another ad for another store and.. now you’re here.

“But what is it made of? I don’t want something that’ll be scratchy, I want it soft.”

“I know,” Sylus drawled amused, “Although my shirts that you steal aren’t very soft, you know.” He looks down at his sweater on YOUR body, and nothing else. Even though he got you pajamas, his sweater found its way into your claws hands.

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, “I hope it’s 100% cotton.” Sylus focused back on the phone to check.

“I can get this made for you if it’s not.” Your hand snuck its way to his chest, rubbing soothingly and gently over his open chest from his robe. His breath hitches. “Would you… like that, sweetie?”

“Yeah, maybe if they don’t have a color I want too..” You absently say, still looking at the screen as he continued to scroll.

But that, that planted a seed of deep satisfaction in Sylus. It took him so long to get you to be comfortable with using his money, with asking for things unapologetically. There’s still room for improvement, especially emotionally, but you agreeing to custom made clothing because a store doesn’t have what you want is making his body hum.

That, and your hand started dipping lower and lower, ’till it’s basically under his robe, playing with his lower abs. It’s a bit sensitive, especially all the touches on his chest, so he flinches away. “Kitten, just where are you touching?”

“Hmmm??” You give him an “innocent” wide eyed stare, like you have no idea what he’s talking about.

He stares at you a little longer, soaking in the playfulness of your gaze. “Provoking me is unwise.”

“But I’m not doing anything?” You reply in the sweetest voice you can, as you still rub over his v line and hold back a grin.

“Mhmmmm…” Sylus’ soft agreement is interrupted by another hitch in his breath as you let your hand wrap around the base of his cock.

“Wait, click on that one.” Sylus looks back at his phone screen, totally forgetting what he was doing for a second.

“Which,” he lets out a shaky breath as you drag your fist up, “which one?”

“The burgundy one.” He clicks on the picture of a cute burgundy hoodie, and immediately clicks your size and scrolls to the materials. “Oh good! Cotton.” At your approval, he adds to cart as you continue to stroke his dick. “Scroll down, I wanna see if there’s matching sweatpants.”

At your demand, he does as he’s told, and finds the matching sweatpants. He clicks it, gets your size, checks the material, and adds to cart, all without you saying anything. “Just that color, sweetie? Or,” he breathes deeply, “another color?”

“Hmmm let me see.” Scrolling back up to the color options, you end up getting three more colors of both the hoodie and the sweatpants. And with each item he added to the cart, you stroked him faster.

You ended up getting 10 pairs of socks, 6 tops, 4 jackets, and now you’re looking at jeans when Sylus finally speaks up.

“Sweetie,” Sylus breathes out, “please just..”

“Hold on, should I get the one with rips or no rips?” The wet sounds of how much precum leaking from him fills the room alongside your voice.

“Both, just- just get both.” He’s close to hyperventilating at how desperate he is, and he’s trying to hold in his grunts and moans as best as possible.

“Orrrrr how about the barrel jeans? You draw out your question, squeezing Sylus’s tip.

“That too, come on kitten please,” Holding onto the last bit of dominance he has, he holds onto your forearm with the arm that’s wrapped around you. As if that’s gonna do anything.

“Shhhhh. Light or dark blue?” At that, Sylus lets out a whine. He throws his head back against the pillow, where he slumped down lower and lower through the process. “Aww, what are you whining about? Hmm?”

He lets go of your arm to put it back on the phone. He looks at you, pleading with his eyes to just finish him off, let him fuck you good, but huffs and looks away when he’s met with a teasing glance from you. “I’ll get all of the colors, sweetie. Just finish.. finish what you’re doing, ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ.”

“Well hurry up and add to cart then!” He does just that, and goes to the check out page. The information should automatically fill out, except.. it doesn’t.

“Oops, looks like I forgot to add your card to my phone.” He looks at you in disbelief and you’re smirking as you squeeze his cock.

“Sweetie, come on, I-“ He looks at the phone again. “I’m sure I put it in here for you, I-“ He desperately taps around the phone, going to your wallet app, and finding nothing.

“Noo.. when it updated it deleted for some reason and I didn’t put it back in….” Your voice is full of mock remorse.

“My- my wallet, uhm,” Sylus really has to think, his brain is so scrambled and he was so close, and oh god this is gonna take so long, “It’s uh…” He looks to his left, and oh thank god, he left it by his phone on the nightstand. He quickly grabs it and takes out his black card, just for you to snatch it away from him with your free hand.

“Here, I’ll read it for you.” You slowed down your strokes, and Sylus pushed his head back again in a small tantrum. “Come on.”

He looks at the phone and goes to the numbers part of the keypad.

“Threeeee…… Fourrrrr….. Sixxxxx……”

“I can type faster than-“

“Uh uh. No talking back! I need to make sure it’s correct.” He grumbles and furrows his eyebrows. At each number you draw out, he diligently types. Same thing for the expiration date, and all he needs is the security code before he can-

“Read it out to me.”

“What, kitten it’s correct, I recognize it, come on this is ridicul-“

You squeeze really hard at the base of his cock, which gets him to shut up and squeeze his eyes shut and hold in a whine. “What did I say.”

Sylus catches his breath again, before he reads out the numbers he typed. Except he only gets half way before you stop him again.

“Wait, that was too fast, start over.” Sylus takes his hand that’s not wrapped around you to cover his eyes.

“Kitten, this torture that you’re bestowing on me is cruel.”

“Well it’ll only last longer if you don’t read it again.”

“You’ll regret antagonizing me so.”

“Mhm. Hurry up.”

With a shaky breath, he reads out the numbers, slower this time. With each number, you begin to stroke faster and faster.

Finally, you read out the security code and he puts it in, thank god his address is saved, and he quickly clicks and clicks until he gets to the review order section. He’s about to click past when you stop him. He’s panting, hard, his chest moving up and down as you read the screen to make sure everything is correct while still stroking him fast and hard.

“Please, please sweetie… I’m so close, please.”

“Mmmm.. Go ahead.” At that, he takes that as the green light to finally click the checkout button and permission to come. And he does, his seed soaking your hard and getting on his robe, as he thrusts into your hand, chasing the pleasure as a reward for being a good boy and buying you everything you want. He lets out a broken moan, a little shout of relief from the tension that was building.

He comes down from his high, and can clearly see the order confirmation page. He looks down at you, with all your satisfaction, and lets out a sigh. “I spoiled you rotten, huh?”

You only giggle at his words, as he pushes you down onto the bed and gets in between your legs. “Well, it’s my turn to be indulged, kitten.”

[biteyoubiteme]

cat got your tongue?

yeonjun x fem!reader

synopsis: you and yeonjun are both models.

warnings: 🔞!!! spit kink if you squint, no protection, creampie, dom!yeonjun, manhandling, bondage (uses his tie on readers wrists), fingering, oral (f!rec),mentions of cum eating prob forgot some sorry

wc: 2.7k me when I lie and say these will all be 1-2k

an: I do not think this is my best work I think I just struggle with dom!member and I apologize lol this wasnt really requested but was taken as such ily @apeachty this was sent before the event post but on the same day so im adding it to the tag anyways lol this is not proof read forgive me sweet angels ill fall on my sword for you.

[m.list] [1kevent m.list]

You would have to spend over a month traveling together. Over a month of back and forth, car rides, flights, hotel rooms, runways, and photo shoots all while trying to deny dating rumors. The contract was easy enough, but the money earned was less impressive than the exposer. To be the face of a company for an entire season, tied to one of the biggest names in modeling history, not only the fashion house but the model himself who set trends and made people famous for one little interaction. It was a brand deal people dreamed of. 

The pen cleared the signature box faster than you ever thought you could sign your name. But then the nerves set in. It wasn't over doing your job, modeling, although hard, was now second nature. You worked well with almost every photographer you came across, following instructions without a fret, even when it came to runway you knew your walk was one companies begged to have on their sets. 

But it was him that left you questioning your abilities. He had been the only clause in the contract that made you second guess yourself. Yeonjun was well known not only in the modeling community itself but globally. His face was splashed across countless brands, ads, and billboards. You couldn't go a day without seeing him at least once on your timeline. Even at the grocery store, in line at the checkout, he looked back at you with his perfect pouty lips from the front of a magazine you could only dream of being on the cover of as often as he was. 

“You were specifically asked for,” your agent reminded you after you brought up the status difference. It wasn't as if you were not known, companies wanted you well enough that you wouldn't need the check from this single one month booking. It was the caliber at which he was held. “They want you and I wouldn't be the one to turn them away when this much press will be on you. Imagine the number of people calling to get one shoot in with you, he brings eyes,” 

It wasn't until your first photoshoot that you realized that he would be more of a pain in your ass than an inspiration. He was never mean, you would have to give him that. But it was his overwhelming kindness mixed with the teasing tone he always used on you that somehow pushed your buttons just right. It didn't help that the first time that you walked into the studio you were so shy, little smiles shared with your hands folded in front of you trying to wring out your anxiety. Yeonjun wasn't even on set yet, having shown up a few minutes later with his arms full of coffee, passing them out to each staff member, knowing them all by name. “It's nice to meet you finally. I didn't know what you would like but this is what I picked out for the little mouse,” 

“Little mouse?” it was the first thing you said to him, your head tilted just enough for him to take in the question and know the slip up of a nickname was going to stick especially when you couldn't get through the photoshoot without an apology. Shoulders stiff with his eyes on you, your nerves making you angry instead of anxious and it all had to do with the little grin set at the edge of yeonjun mouth. “I'll just step out,” and you hated how improved your film was from his absence, your heart calming down its rapt beading. 

Of course you got over it eventually, or at least the stiffness. You couldn't afford to be stiff when standing next to yeonjun who was naturally relaxed about everything. He would slink to his spot on set, lay his lazy gaze in your direction, and get all of his shots in the minimal amount of frames as if he was born to be in front of the camera. It was annoying. 

The two of you would be set up next to each other in hair and makeup, your bottom lip is finely brushed with the end of a glosses wand when he would lean on the back of your chair. His hands were always just hovering over your shoulders, never quite touching but enough to feel the heat from his palms, his head leaning next to yours looking back at you in the mirror, “You guys did such a good job, don't we just look like the perfect pair?” he would quirk an eyebrow at you, the two of you staring each other down while the staff agreed, but he was always waiting for your answer, “don't we little mouse?” 

“If you think so,” your response always made him chuckle as if you didn't see the way the media was talking about your contract together, as if you didn't feel the chemistry between the two of you. People were still talking about your first runway together, the closing of the show for one of the best collections put on display that week. 

The lead up was so chaotic, with dressing rooms stacked full of models and assistants, the floor a mess of people undressing and trying to make their quick changes as fast as they could before their names were called. Even yeonjun could feel the pressure in the room, the two of you in your designated corner stripping down back to back. 

The crowded space made everyone bump into each other. For the smallest second you were caught by the sight of him taking his shirt off, pulling it at the back of his collar showing the way his jeans hung so low on his hips that his happy trail was on display. You had turned, taking off your shirt, shoulder knocked by someone coming to do your hair, it made you stumble back into yeonjun, his hand right at the small of your back holding you upright as you fumbled with the zipper on your pants. “Careful,” he muttered, your heart in your ears as you kicked your shoes away from your space. 

The two of you were used to seeing each other in different versions of undress after all the photoshoots shared together. Comfortable enough now to be somewhat friends after all the car rides, the few interviews, and hours spent on a set together. It's what you accounted for as your key element to having such a good walk together on the runway. Every step matched, the energy vibrating off the two of you as if you had been a duo your whole life instead of just having been paired together less than a month ago. 

Even at the afterparty people swarmed you two, asking about your relationship as if they could sense the livewire of that conversation hanging around your heads. It was the first time you had ever seen him flustered enough to stutter over an answer. “I um- you never know,” 

The paparazzi loved the two of you, the crowd outside any event was packed full of them, their cameras following you around the city. The two of you always shared a car to your hotels, yeonjuns hand warm in yours leading you through the flash of every blinding light while you tried to shield your eyes. He would pull you in front of him when you finally reached the waiting car door, hand on your back gilding you in before climbing in after. 

Even shutting the door behind the two of you only muffled the sounds of their questions to a faint murmur. It isn't until the car pulls away from the venue that yeonjun speaks up. 

“You did well tonight, you looked…” 

“Good, I hope,” 

“You always look good, better than good, i was trying to come up with a different adjective,” it wasn't the first time he's complimented you, but it never stopped you from logging it away to giggle over it in private. “Sometimes I don't know what to say to you,” 

You chuckle, “I never took you as shy,” 

Strands of his hair hang in his eyes, head tilted just enough to catch what little light makes it in from the tinted windows, “no, not shy, just cautious,” 

“What, afraid you'll break me? Hurt my feelings? Or maybe my ego will get too big,” 

He lets out a soft breathy laugh, the sound taking up the space in the backseat. You loved the way his chuckles went down your spine, like a caress of his fingers on the skin you wished he touched. “You’d let me get close enough to break you?” 

“I don't think you could,” it's a light jab and yet it sets everything off kelter. The car ride charged with an energy you couldn't get back into its box. Now opened, the two of you looked back at each other as if you hadn't felt this pot simmering over. 

His eyes flickered down to your mouth, his tongue running over his bottom lip before he shrugged, “Okay,” he loved that you wanted to play this game with him, as if you hadn't always been slowly picking away at the short wall between you two. It was inevitable that you would end up pressed up against the mirrored walls in the elevator up to your hotel floor. 

He wasn't even going to do anything, he was going to let you go to your room while he mulled over your conversation, picturing exactly what he wanted to do to you. But then you leaned back against those mirrors, your body reflected around him as the doors slid closed behind him. Your eyes traced the line of him, lashes hooded just enough for you to look through, like a siren on the rocks, beckoning him closer. You didn't stop him when he cupped your jaw, thumb running over your bottom lip, nose dipping to yours. Even when he gave you enough time to pull away, lips ghosting over yours when he asked, “You'll be good for me, won't you?” 

Your answer is hummed right into his mouth when he kisses you, devouring you, pushing you into the corner giving you nowhere to go. His body is hot against yours, cageing you in as he kisses down your jaw, sloppy wet spots cooling in the air as he nips at your neck. “God, imagine them having to cover up all the marks I leave on you during tomorrow's shoot,” his hand is heavy on your hip, dragging down you cup your cunt over your jeans, “Everyone is going to know I fucking ruined this pussy for anyone but me,” 

Your whimper is eaten by the sound of the doors opening behind him, your tight grip on his shirt not loosening when he drags you out after him. He pushes you to his bed when you get past the threshold of his door. His slow walk to the nightstand to flick on the light gives you enough time to think about exactly what's happening. 

He loosens his tie, veiny hands curled around the fabric as he nods his chin in your direction, “Take your clothes off,” it was only a few hours ago when he saw you topless, and yet your fingers shake when you reach for your hem. “Don't be shy now little mouse, always all talk and no play,” 

The heat on your cheeks spreads to your ears at the nickname. Yeonjun takes to matching your state of undress by tossing his tie next to you before unbuttoning his shirt, the outline of him in his pants is mouthwatering. He watches the way you try to speak, hands twisting in the duvet not realizing he's come up so close to you before he's hooked his hand on your chin, tilting your head up before slipping his thumb into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue. He swirls the digit around, grinning at how willing you are to follow his command even without words, “one day ill fuck this pretty mouth, but for now, I need you on your hands and knees for me,” he shoves your face away, putting his slick finger in his mouth to taste you. 

Turning around and having him at your back is both chilling and exhilarating, not knowing when he's going to touch you until his hands are sliding up your back, unhooking your bra, and letting it fall off of you. He lets his hand press between your shoulder blades, pushing down hard enough for your arms to give way beneath you, the side of your face pressed into the sheets. “Every photoshoot I kept thinking about what it would be like to finally get you into my bed, I kept thinking about how I would finally fuck you, how exactly I could use your body,” 

His hands slide down your arms, tugging them behind you until you whimper, the silky material of his tie sliding along your fingers as he wraps up your wrists to keep you in place. “And every time I just came right back to thinking about putting you just like this, fucking you dumb; using you like my perfect little toy,” 

With one hand holding your tied wrists his other slips down to tease you over your soaked panties, fingers following the lines of your cunt like he was made to map you out by touch. You can't even form words and he hasn't done anything, your pathetic little whimpers pushing him further and further. “So quiet now, I wonder if it's because someone's scared I'll break her?” 

“Please,” it's so soft you don't think he's even heard you, but he's aching for every little sound. 

“Please what? What do you want me to do?” he pushes your panties aside, grinning at how wet you've gotten over so little. Your hips push back into his hand, his fingers slipping into you just enough to prep you for the stretch of taking him. 

“Fuck me, break me, anything-” he's so quick to press his cock into you that you're gasping losing all thoughts. His fingers had done little to let you grasp the sheer size of him, even all your slick couldn't help that pleasure mixed with pain as his tip kissed your cervix. 

He doesn't even hold off from moving, not once he's finally felt your warm gummy walls sucking him, so perfect he doesn't know how he will ever stop from coming back to you. He keeps one hand on your hip, fingers digging into your flesh, the other wrapped around the slack of his tie, tugging your arms and using them as leverage to keep his harsh pace as he fucks into your greedy cunt. 

You feel so full, so completely stuffed that you're a mess of incoherent moans mixing with the slapping sounds of your connecting bodies. Yeonjun is mesmerized by the way your ass ripples with each slap of his hips; mesmerized by the way his cock is disappearing in and out of you. “So fucking perfect,” he's grunting, “I'm going to fill up and then eat my little mouse out until she screams, kiss your pussy better after taking me so well, does that sound good?” 

“Yes, god yes!” Your voice is muffled by the way you are pressed into the mattress, arms slightly numb as he pummels himself into you, thrusts getting sloppier with the build up of his orgasm. He tells himself that he will pull out but then he's cumming, body shuddering as you clench around him, his rumbling moans following the steady pulse of his leaking cock. 

When he pulls out of you he watches the way the dribbling cream coats your puffy lips. Untying your hands he lets you roll onto your back, slotting himself between your legs and attaching his mouth to your swollen clit. Your fingers still gaining feeling fall to his hair, pulling on the strands and he brings your orgasm back to the surface. The obscene sounds coming from his fingers trying to match his previous pace makes him chuckle, the feeling of his laugh vibrating against your clit. It takes little work for you to tumble into your orgasm when he curls his fingers just right, your body following every command he lays down. 

His hand is covered in your combined cum when he's done with you, the stickiness capturing both of your attention before he shoves them into your waiting mouth.

taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join! want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

[xmalereader]

Bruce Wayne x Male Reader

☆ — MASTERLIST — ☆

REQUEST: Could you please write Burce wayne x male reader who has trouble ordering food. Like in a restaurant when the waiter asks, he either stutters or goes completely quiet, and that's why he asks Bruce to order for him. And i would like to see Bruce's reactions when a waiter is like "you don't have to order for him. He can order for himself. I wasn't asking you, i was asking him" just the waiter assuming that Bruce is kinda controlling. The reader is silently crying in his seat, having to order on his own, like he knows the waiter was trying to do something good. (Totally not speaking from personal experience 🤭)

WARNINGS/CONTENT: Fluff, mature language, social anxiety, Bruce is a good boyfriend, mentions of fears, judgment, request, relatable events, everyone struggles.

TAGS: @one-green-frog

WC: 1.5K

NOTES: I used to struggle with ordering food due to anxiety and fear of people judging me ��� but as I got older they fear kind of went away and I’m able to do it with no problem but everyone deals with anxiety differently and takes time to get come it so I ain’t judging. It’s like that with my older brother he’s 26 and still makes me order for him due to his own anxiety. But hopefully you enjoyed this shot and apologize for the long wait!

Everyone has social anxiety.

Y/n struggled with it at a young age, not being taught how to speak with others in public without getting the intense fear of judgment from others. He figured that he would improve as he got older, but it didn’t change and still struggled with the simple things. He could go out and run errands alone without any struggles since majority of place now had self checkout which was a god send for many.

He’s able to hold a conversation with strangers or with people he knew in the area, but his anxiety would get to him when it came towards the simplest tasks. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was an over thinker and would think that he did something wrong or if he perhaps pronounced something incorrect, thinking that people were judging him for the smallest things. It took time for him to improve but the anxiety still remained during important moments.

One of the easiest things that many were able to accomplish is ordering food. Their were times that he hesitated or froze up when ordering his own food, having to apologize each time he orders and forcing a nervous smile or laugh in hopes of getting through the few minutes that he is there. He struggled even more when he went out on dates.

Very few people knew about his anxiety and very few friends were kind enough to do the ordering for him without hesitation and providing the assistance that he needed. With strangers it was a whole other story, he didn’t want to force them into placing his own order due to his own fear and would struggle with speaking the words.

His dates never went well after that and hated the way he felt each time he stumbled upon the problem. If the waiter or waitress wasn’t staring at him intensely he’d probably order his food without a problem and his day would go fine. But the feeling of their eyes staring at him as he looked at his choices of food made him stutter and grow nervous when ordering.

Forcing that smile as always and getting through the day of embarrassment.

If he had this kind of anxiety how was he suppose to handle his future dates when he couldn’t do a simple task? He’s able to do a whole presentation in a room full of board of directors but he stutters and hesitates when it comes towards ordering a simple meal or even asking for help whenever he’s in public.

He figured he’d spend his days locked indoors while making his own meals while watching a good movie.

He didn’t think he’d end up bagging Bruce Wayne. Gothams Golden boy.

Y/n had thought that this was all a trick or a joke when Bruce first asked him out. He wanted to laugh at the mans face and tell him that he doesn’t need to make his life miserable by playing a mean joke, only to realize that Bruce was in fact not joking around.

Y/n worked at Wayne Enterprises but in a lower department not expecting himself to bump into Bruce Wayne and getting asked out by the man himself. Their first date was simple with a cup of coffee and muffins. He would have thought that bruce would take him someplace fancy on their first date, but when he didn’t he was a bit relieved.

Bruce was a great man and didn’t do anything that made him uncomfortable. Y/n figured that he’d only get lucky to have one date with bruce and then never see them man again, only to get asked out again and again and again. The first four months went well without any problems and enjoyed his time with Bruce as their time together grew their dates slowly got fancier.

Resulting into Y/n confessing to Bruce about his anxiety and fear of others judging him because he couldn’t do a simple task that only required a few words. He thought Bruce would laugh at him or use it against him and force him to confront his fear, instead Bruce smiled at him and asked.

“Do you want me to order for you?”

He said it with the most calmest voice ever showing no hints of judgment.

Y/n wanted to cry that night. It was a simple favor, but it meant a lot to him.

As their dates continued they created a routine each time they went out to eat. Y/n would either look up the menu online ahead of time and already have his order in mind and tell bruce before getting their orders placed. Bruce even memorized the dishes that Y/n liked whenever they went to a repeated restaurant and would for him on the spot without needing to be told what he liked, already knowing the mans interests.

A year into dating and it became a normal thing between the two.

During their one year anniversary, Bruce decided to take him to a new restaurant and getting seated in a nice secluded area and away from others. Y/n scanned the menu and hums. “This looks good.” He speaks up as he checks the different dishes until one caught his eye.

“You know the rule, order whatever you want.” Said Bruce, always reminding him that he can get whatever he wanted. Y/n was hesitant about the prices at first but with time he got adjusted to the idea of Bruce paying for everything and no matter how many times he tried to pay himself, Bruce had already paid ahead of time.

“This pasta looks good.” Y/n points out on the menu and shows Bruce who looked up form his own menu and smiles. “Is that all you want?”

“Can I also get this for dessert?” He points behind the menu where a picture of a nicely desert is presented, getting Bruce to chuckle as he nods his head. “You better share with me because I already know you won’t eat it all.” Y/n laughs at his words and sets his menu down, leaning back in his seat as he looks around the restaurant and takes in the interior, distracted by the place that he doesn’t notice the waitress coming over.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Yes,” Bruce smiles at the women and starts with his order first, letting her know what he’d like. “And for you?” She turns her attention to Y/n who gets his attention pulled away from a painting he was staring at and looks at her with wide eyes. “I…”

“He’d have the pasta and the chocolate desert.” Bruce is quick to cut in when he noticed Y/n freeze up.

The waitress gives Bruce the stink eye by how he interrupts Y/n. “You don’t have to order for him. He can order for himself.” Bruce froze with wide eyes, opening and closing his mouth in shock. “I wasn’t asking you I was asking him.” She points her pencil at Y/n and puts her attention on him.

Y/n can only gap at her, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to speak but I can’t. He was caught off guard and reached out for his menu. “I’ll like…the—the…” He’s stuttering and doesn’t know what to tell her. “Do you need another minute?” She asks which only make the situation worse, he’s turning to Bruce and staring at him with eyes full of fear and hesitation silently screaming for help.

“I assure you miss my partner would like the pasta and desert.” Bruce says again in hopes of getting her to note down the order and she does, not without rolling her eyes which only makes Y/n whine.

“Your food will be ready soon.” She said while taking their menus and walking away, leaving them in silence.

Y/n lets out a deep sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say, she probably thinks you’re an asshole now.” He groans out while covering his face with his hands. Bruce can only chuckle while shaking his head and reaching out to grab him by the wrists. “Don’t be, not everyone knows about your fear and besides she was only doing it because she probably thought I was controlling.”

“You’re not!”

“She doesn’t know that. If I wanted to be asshole I would have yelled at her like other people do, but I’m not doing that. It was a simple misunderstanding.” Bruce reassured Y/n as he held his hand and smiles. He didn’t think that something like this would happen since they’ve never had this issue in the past at the other places that they visited.

“All you have to worry about is eating all of your food and sharing your desert.” Bruce tries to lighten up the mood which works for Y/n as he chuckled and nods his head. “Fine and then after we go home and watch a movie and not come back here again.” After this misunderstanding its most likely he doesn’t want to come back and face the same issue again.

“We stick with Jimmy’s…” He mumbled out, referring to his favorite restaurant that serviced amazing chicken wings and fries. Bruce laughs while nodding. “Next time we go out will go to Jimmy’s.” At this point they were already considered regulars that the owner memorized their orders, which made it better for Y/n.

[newtkive]

confectionary clash - carmen berzatto

pairing: carmen berzatto x afab!reader (established relationship)

summary: carmy's girl is the human embodiment of a sweetheart. that is, unless it's that time of the month and richie provokes her.

wordcount: 3.2k

warnings: swearing, fighting, weaponized incompetence from richie but we still love him.

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble but turned into 3k words. so it's written kinda like a drabble?? (hence the lowercase i can't be arsed to change) but just... long. idk hopefully its entertaining. also, i don't mean to demonize richie, he's my favorite character i think,, i just love writing him as problematic lmao cuz he's so funny. anyways, enjoy!

as carmy’s confidant and girlfriend, you were always the voice of reason. with just a string of words, you’d be calming him down after a hectic work day, giving him a fresh perspective on his work dilemmas since you were outside of the restaurant circle. in the time he’s known you, he hadn’t seen you do as much as barely raise your voice. maybe the occasional snap, but you always follow it up with swift apologies and big watery eyes.

that is, unless you’re in pain. specifically cramps. the sight of you 180ing from a sweet girl with a bright smile and even sweeter words, to an evil sorceress with spells rolling off your tongue, inflicting curses onto anyone who irritates you is jarring. a bit dramatic, sure, but that’s what you were during that time of the month—dramatic.

carmy tries best to dote on you. you would never ask him to go out of his way for something, unless it’s grabbing a heating pad or water, but carmy wants you to. it takes prying to hear your desires and cravings after asking a million times, and you begrudgingly give in with no expectations. nevertheless, you end up with exactly what you asked for, or something close to it, and you’re endlessly grateful.

on days when you stop into the restaurant when you’re feeling down, carmy enacts this same routine. if it’s food, he’ll cook it for you; desserts, he’ll grab any extras marcus has (or marcus happily makes it from scratch if they're not busy, claiming he needs the practice). if you want snacks, he sends his right hand man richie out to grab them despite your protests.

richie does it often whenever you stop into the store, and he acts like it’s a chore sometimes, but everyone has a hunch that he really loves it. come on, twenty dollars to get a few items for you and pocket the rest for himself? plus a break from work? done deal.

richie wouldn’t admit it, but he liked taking care of you too. you were always a sweetheart to him, but it wasn’t in his personality to be as sincere as you, so this was a little act of service to show his love. besides, the year and a half you’ve known him has definitely earned you the title of a friend, and you’d agree.

now, you don’t ever want to seem ungrateful, but when you ask for a specific treat, you get disappointed when you don’t really get it. maybe it’s the fluctuating mood talking, but you always end up snapping at richie due to his poor choices. if you ask for one thing, he’ll get you the next, and you even suspect he does it on purpose sometimes. pulling reactions from people is his specialty.

it’s not like you’re a complete bitch about it, because he took his time out to go get you something, but richie has a problem with weaponized competence even with his new and improved attitude. you know he can get you the jolly ranchers you suggested, but he chooses to grab goldfish because it’s closer to checkout. it was annoying, but you never really brought it up to carmy. it's not like you needed to, it wasn't a huge deal. you figured richie could use the little break, and you don’t hate the snacks he brings.

except on days like this.

you were at the restaurant on a slow day, dragged yourself out of bed despite your cramps just to see your little grumpy boyfriend and hide in his office. even as you entered the establishment through the back you glared at richie (who sweetly waved) in passing, side eyeing a few of the newbies who ran in front of you despite their apologies. none of your usual bright smiles and cheery greetings. the bee line straight to the office was a clear enough explanation for how you were feeling.

upon entering, carmy looked up in a panic, which quickly melted into a soft smile at the sight of his girlfriend. “hey, baby.” he cooed softly, immediately scooting back from his desk to reach out to grasp at your waist. you let him, but pushed down the irritation, not favoring touch at the moment. however, his rough hands sliding a little under your shirt to grasp at the flesh of your hips calmed you down, earning a small quirk of the lips from you.

“whatcha doin’ here, love?” he asks, bringing one of your hands to his lips to kiss softly, still looking up at you.

you shrug, squeezing his hand, face a bit stoic. you’d been like this for a couple of days so he wasn’t surprised by your lack of friendliness. knowing you this long, carmy became accustomed to your monthly mood swings, and he felt privileged that you didn’t feel the need to put up an act for him.

“missed you.” you finally sighed, scooting closer so you stood between his knees. palms found both sides of carmy’s face and tilted it upwards a bit so you could study his appearance. stressed and tired. however, he seemed to glow at the mere admission of you missing him. it took a few seconds for his brain to rewire, looking up at you like you created the cosmos. the only reason you heard his soft, shy, ‘missed you too’ was because of the stagnant silence.

“hungry?” carmy asked, beaming from the attention. you shrugged again, allowing him to tighten his grip on your sides and tug you onto his lap. whining a bit in protest, you reposition yourself, legs falling over his lap and arms around his neck. your faces were closer now, and carmy looked at your sad eyes with a little pang in his chest. brows furrowing, he tilted his head and snuck a hand under your chin. long, tattooed fingers tickled at your chin, and before you knew it you were giggling and grinning while batting his hand away.

“cmon, i know you must want somethin’.” your grin was infectious and laced in his soft words. you hummed, already cheered up, and tapped a finger against your chin to make a thinking face. carmy chuckled, brushing a lock of hair away from your eyes and patiently waited.

a thought crossed your mind and you met gazes again. “i might go grab some little debbie snacks from around the corner.” you decided and nodded to yourself as if solidifying your decision.

as you started sitting up more, carmy’s grip tightened on your waist. “ah, ah, no. stay here.” he protested. soon enough he was calling out ‘cousin!’ and richie came bounding over, opening the office door.

richie’s face used to contort in disgust at any visual sign of affection exchanged between you and carmy, but he was used to it now. “what’s up, cousin?” he asked, almost seeming out of breath, eyes flickering between the both of you.

a short exchange between the two occurred: carmy asking richie to run to the corner store, handing richie a twenty, and richie asking you precisely what you wanted. you made it simple and easy, something he could remember: oreos and ho-hos, a midwestern's guilty pleasure.

“ight, cap’n, i’ll be back.” richie says, saluting you two before heading out. both you and carmy exchanged an amused smirk, knowing the only reason richie went was to get himself some cigarettes and hot fries he would scarf down on the walk back.

__

in the twenty minutes richie was gone, the kitchen had gone to shit. the newbies had been running the wrong food to tables, online orders were filling the tablet nonstop due to a discount glitch, and carmy was close to losing it. sitting in the office, now alone with the muffled sound of your boyfriend yelling, you were more grumpy than before. arms crossed, you snapped your head to the side once the door creaked open. in walked richie with a plastic bag, inside of it holding your hope for a better day.

"what took you so long?" you frowned up at him, but sat up straighter in anticipation. you eyes almost shone as you looked at corner store logo on the bag.

"went the long way." he mumbled, digging in the plasic. the skeptical look on your face didn't leave as he pulled out an item and set it on the table. your frown deepened further as you noticed there was nothing at all you asked for, only met with a crushed sleeve of crackers.

“where are the oreos?” you sighed out, lips pursed in a bit of a pout.

“didn’t find any, so i got you some peanut butter crackers.” he mumbled, digging around the bag again, as if he didn’t just break your heart. if it was anyone else you'd believe them, but with richie you figured he just got bored of looking.

your jaw fell slack and you gaped like a fish for a moment, waiting for him to pull out more treats from his bag. but that time didn’t come, as he fished a pack of cigarettes out instead. “and the ho-ho’s?” your voice was hopeful.

richie perked up at that, putting the cigarettes down next to the crackers. the next second he presented you with a smushed mountain of brown and white concealed in a plastic wrapper sitting atop the palm of his hand. eyes flicking between the disappointment before you and his face, you frowned in disbelief.

richie only managed to emote as much as a ‘yikes’ face before placing it on the desk. “got smushed in transit, but tastes the same!” he gave his best attempt at a smile. your brows grew taut together and anger bubbled up in your chest. you were sure your face was quickly turning red.

“carmy gave you twenty dollars, and you come back with this?!” you hiss out, daring to look at the dry crackers and smushed up dream of a ho-ho. the sight only made you become angrier. this was something a senile old person would give you, not a competent 40-something-year-old man. his lack of care was clear, and you were boiling.

richie just scoffed—he had the nerve to scoff.

“no, not just that! i got a sprite and a few pack of cigs for myself and the guy.” he waved around one of them to prove his point. if you thought you were mad before, you reached a new level of anger. usually, you’d deal with the disappointment and thank richie for even going—aside from a smart alec remark.

however, the demon conducting your period for this month did not make your rational decisions seem clear nor enticing. as you shot up from carmy’s chair, you only knew you wanted to make richie as upset as you were in this moment.

with one finger poking his chest, you began raising your voice. as soon as you started talking, richie's eyes turned wide as saucers, exactly like a deer in headlights. a string of curses snuck into your tirade, between phrases such as “you always fucking do this richie!” and “are you fuckin’ dumb?! did you get dropped on your head?!”. you only figured he didn't fire back right away because he was so stunned.

outside of the office, the kitchen was calmer now. things were finally falling into order but still required carmy’s supervision until the sudden rush ended. the only disturbance was you. now, it was your voice yelling behind closed doors and not carmy’s.

the chef—in the middle of helping sydney plate a dish—just about gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around to look at the barely cracked door of the office. there was the telltale muffled yelling, but what shocked him was it was clearly you yelling.

turning back around, carmy gawked at sydney who silently shared the same look of surprise. it was only until they heard richie start yelling back that sydney silently pushed him toward the door. it didn’t take more than a second for carmy to snap out of his surprise and march over to the office.

throwing the hand towel he was using over his shoulder, he yanked the heavy door open before all but body slamming his way into the room and slamming the door closed. the yelling was suddenly clear, as if carmy was being pulled out from underwater.

“YOU GET ME WHAT I ASKED YOU, OR GET ME NOTHING AT ALL!”

“THEN YOU’D BITCH ABOUT THAT TOO—“

“OR NOTHING AT ALL!”

“hey, hey, HEY!” the two of you were too busy at each others throats to even hear carmy enter, until his voice brought you both to a halt, heads turning towards him.

carmy’s eyes were immediately glued to you, not paying the least bit of attention to richie. your arms were stiff as boards to your sides, fists and jaw clenched, brows taut, and race beet red. the man had never seen you look like this before, and his instinct to comfort you took over. turning to richie with a look that could kill, carmy finally spoke. “what did you do?”

“what did i do?! except take precious time to get your girl shit she didn’t even want?!”

an offended gasp left your mouth, and you retorted instantly. “oh please! because a crushed up sleeve of crackers and a mountain of mushed up cake is just what i asked for!”

“you’re ungrateful.” richie pointed a finger at you now. carmy launched forward and slapped it down. he knew richie would never hurt you, and you knew it too, as you just rolled your eyes in response, but carmy’s instinct’s took over. richie didn’t even look phased, just irritated. carmy stood in front of you and forcefully turned richie around by his shoulders to send him to the door. if carmy didn't have half of a sane mind, he would’ve kicked richie's bottom with his shoe for good measure.

“go take a break chef! or do whatever the fuck, i don’t care.” carmy shouted after richie, and the man left with a slam of the door.

you simply watched the scene unfold with arms crossed and that same deep set frown. carmy turned around to face you as the air settled, a hand running through his hair. blue eyes raked over your tense form and carmy decided he would give you a little space to calm down. however, the second he saw your bottom lip wobbling and eyes grow watery he threw that thought to the wind

“hey, no, no, don’t cry.” carmy extended his arms and collected you into them. the tense posture you held relaxed into his slouched form as he held you close; one hand in your hair, and the other rubbing circles on your back as you sniffled.

a pit of guilt burned in your stomach and spurred you into attempting to bury yourself into carmy. blue straps of his apron rubbed against your cheek as you shuffled impossibly closer. usually, carmy would love this, but right now he'd do anything to not see you so out of it. shushing you, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

there were a few beats of you hiding away before you decided to pull back a bit to face him again—and boy did you look pitiful.

the same cheeks previously bright with anger were now flush with embarrassment and stained with tears. a tattooed hand found itself sitting on your cheek, thumb rubbing under your eye to collect a fallen tear. at the touch, your eyes fluttered closed, and carmy’s heart broke at the sight.

“you gonna tell me what happened?” your boyfriend asked, trying not to make you feel even more guilty. his full attention was on you. exhaling slowly, your eyes fluttered back open and were met with those bright blue ones that always calmed you down.

“i dunno, i just-“ you shook your head and carmy waited patiently, “it wasn’t even a big deal, but richie just really set me off for some reason.”

“yeah, may as well join the club.” carmen’s words were light, not at all sarcastic, but aiming to ease you and bring out a smile. it worked, your lips turning upwards and carmy mimicking the half smile. he looked down at you with such love, head tilted to follow every time yours moved, and thumb caressing your cheek as he took in every expression.

your smile finally faltered as you glanced back at the office desk. “i feel so awful. he went out and got me stuff and i just yelled at him.” you sputter out.

carmy followed your gaze over his shoulder to finally see what started all of this. at the sight of the crackers and ball of what looked like mush, carmy scoffs in both disbelief and amusement, because of course richie would bring you that. turning back towards you, the chef finally gets it.

“baby, if someone brought me that shit while my insides were shedding i’d kill them.” he chuckled.

“really?” you asked hopefully, smile forming again.

“yes, really. even if i wasn’t goin’ through that i’d actually kick his ass.” carmy mirrored your smile.

nodding, you let yourself chuckle along with him. strong arms found you again and you were wrapped in a tight hug, allowing his squeezes to take away some guilt you were feeling. a moment passed and you knew carmy had to get back to work. with a sigh, you pulled back.

it was your turn to reach up and cup his cheek. guiding his face close, you met him halfway and pressed your lips to his in a kiss. lips moving against his, your noses brushed, and after a moment you let the kiss dissipate; lips slowly falling away from where they were molded together. one last peck was placed on carmy’s lips, as if saying, ‘thank you for being so attentive’. that earned an appreciate hum.

you both beamed, faces still close as you came back down to earth. “you gotta get back to work, and i gotta apologize.” you murmured and carmy nodded obediently.

with apprehension, carmy let you go, arms floating in the air for half a second as he walked backwards towards the door. “don’t go easy on him, though. richie lives for a fight. that was probably his anger management for the day.” carmy smirked, grasping the doorknob.

you just shook your head, eyes narrowed teasingly. before he turned to leave, you called out to him. “thank you, carmy.”

the man just gave you a confused look, chuckling. “don’t thank me, you're my girl.” with that he was back to work and you were left to your own devices. with one more glance at the monstrosity on the office desk, you left the room and went on a search for richie.

thirty minutes later, carmy was due for a smoke break and approached the back door. he slowed his tracks, lighter and cigarette in hand as he cracked the door and heard giggling. the sight before him was drastically different than before: you and richie sitting on a ledge next to each other, giggling and bumping shoulders. carmy breathed out a laugh at the sight and fully walked out. this caught both of your attention, grinning ear to ear as you clearly made up.

“hey, cousin!” richie grinned, and you both waved. figures.

[signalcli]

Security, Security… The SSL Story

“We have to get our trust center going IMMEDIATELY!” “YES SIR”, we replied. Pulling aside the IT director, we started discussing what that really meant. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, we found ourselves reminiscing over a few beers…

Rip-off of the 21st Century: How Google Boosted the SSL Industry

Let’s rewind a bit, back to 2010. Dinosaurs weren’t roaming, cars were everywhere — not perfect, sure, but good enough.

Website security was straightforward. Regular websites? Chill, nothing special needed. Websites with logins? SSL was sensible — encrypt usernames and passwords, simple logic. E-commerce sites? Checkout security was a no-brainer. Simpler times indeed — our IT director once casually received over 50,000 credit card details via email (password-protected, naturally!) during a site migration.

Google faced occasional ranking confusion — sites existed as HTTP, HTTPS, www, and non-www versions. A small mess, but manageable and amusing.

Then, suddenly, 2011 arrived. Rumors started swirling: “Google rewards fully HTTPS sites!” Interesting, right? No actual security improvement required, just better SEO rankings and more visitors.

Fast-forward another year: HTTPS became mandatory. Browsers like Chrome began labeling non-HTTPS websites “unsafe,” although security wasn’t the primary reason — more a convenience thing. And certainly not the user’s convenience.

More Encryption, More Resources, More Profits

Encryption — required to support secure communication — isn’t free; it demands additional resources. Additional resources translated into requirements for larger, more expensive servers. Encryption doesn’t merely happen on the server; someone has to decrypt it. While desktops hardly noticed the difference, smartphones certainly did — demanding noticeably more RAM and CPU power. Hardware upgrades surged. SSL certificates became lucrative businesses overnight. Suddenly, free certificates from “letsencrypt” weren’t “good enough.” Companies shelled out money for essentially identical commercial SSL certificates, boosting profits for hosting providers, certificate issuers, and smartphone manufacturers. But wait, there’s more…

New Standards, Same Old Devices

A few years later came newer TLS standards — 1.0 to 1.3. Were newer versions significantly more secure? Only marginally, closing theoretical and academic vulnerabilities never exploited. Yet enforcing standards like TLS 1.2 and 1.3 forced users with older hardware — devices unable to support these new standards — to upgrade unnecessarily, funneling even more profits into the tech industry without boosting real-world security.

Security scanners? Oh god, we absolutely loved those. Our IT director regularly received dozens of panicked emails: “OMG our site is not secure, please help us fix it!” Yet, examining the scan details typically revealed only one “vulnerability”: support for perfectly functioning TLS 1.0. Occasionally, scanners were ordered without proper heads-up, causing our automated security systems to block them immediately. Another flurry of emails followed: “Please unblock our security scanner — it’s unable to scan the website!” But wait — if security was the goal, wasn’t blocking unknown scanners a good thing? “WRONG,” said corporate bosses, demanding immediate unblocking. Logic had officially left the chat…

The Reality of Our Trust Center

This brings us back to our Trust Center dilemma. Our SignalCLI platform’s security rivals Fort Knox. Logging in? Like walking between skyscrapers on a tightrope during a hurricane — fingerprints, selfies, the whole nine yards. Getting information out? Not exactly possible.

Yet, after lengthy debates, we recognized the need for “paperwork security” — documentation and policies designed mainly to appease compliance folks. Welcome to 21st-century security: installing antivirus software on Linux systems — completely unnecessary but required on paper. Bureaucratic security, not practical security.

Now, we’re proud owners of our Trust Center, complete with extensive paperwork that few read but compliance teams adore.

It reminded our IT director of another story, which I’m sure he won’t mind me sharing. A couple of decades ago, he was working for an international company and, wanting to know who he was hiring, insisted on participating in interviews. A candidate walked in, applying for a senior developer position.

“How’s your English?” our IT director asked.

“I have an upper-intermediate level,” the candidate replied confidently, proudly handing over his certificate.

Our IT director (a multilingual guy — and yes, I’m jealous) switched to English: “So, can you continue the interview in English?”

Silence. The candidate couldn’t understand or respond in English. But he had a certificate — that’s the important part, right?

Final Thoughts

Real security matters. Bureaucracy? Not so much.

Still, quite the SSL story, isn’t it?

Be good out there!

Enjoying the content? Awesome! If you’d like to support me, you can send USDT (BEP20) to the wallet below: 0x7241275b9D37CcF0621480fD408CFf401762c485 Your support keeps content free and accessible to everyone — thanks!

[midnightfairy1]

hiii i am still working on improving my art style slowly but surely bc i want to start making a comic for my ocs. i made this fanart of @ilovegt’s characters trevor and bennett based off this post! that’s all thank you

btw if you haven’t already you guys should totally go checkout the comic they’ve made. it was one of the first things i found when i first joined this app and ive fallen in love with their art style and ocs

[gilbertscurls]

fairy duty — chris sturniolo

You had only been gone for one hour.

One hour.

Your only errand was picking up a birthday gift for your cousin — quick, in and out — and you would have taken your little sister with you, except she had a very dramatic meltdown about how she “can’t go to Target again, they have too many lights and not enough Barbies.”

Chris had volunteered before you could even bribe her.

“I got her,” he said, with a shrug and a smile that should have been your warning. “I owe you for sitting through Fast & Furious 8 anyway.”

“That movie changed you,” you replied.

“It did. I’m a better person now. Let me be the hero.”

So you left him, the gallant and brave hero, in charge of your six-year-old sister — who had the energy of five espresso shots and the negotiation skills of a UN delegate. At the time, you were almost touched. He was stepping up, being mature. He even gave you a goodbye kiss on the forehead like you were the one who needed babysitting.

But now?

Now you stood frozen in the entryway of your apartment, your keys still dangling from your fingers, your mouth partially open in stunned silence.

Because what you saw left you speechless.

It's not every day that you see your boyfriend in a sparkly pink tutu, a plastic tiara tilted on his head, glitter make-up smeared over his cheeks, and — perhaps most horrifically — a pair of fairy wings strapped tightly to his back as he danced to "Barbie Girl" in the middle of your living room.

And he wasn’t alone.

Your sister stood beside him, equally glitter-bombed, flapping her wings with deadly commitment as they both sang along with heartfelt conviction.

"I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie worrrrld — life in plastic—IT’S FANTASTIC!"

They both struck a pose at the same time — jazz hands and twirls, Chris even attempting a pirouette that nearly took out a houseplant.

You didn’t even blink. Your brain refused to reboot.

Was this real life? Had someone slipped you something at the checkout line?

It was your sister who noticed you first.

"YOU’RE BACK!" she squealed with the joy of a thousand suns. "Chris is the Barbie Queen now!! He won the glitter crown fair and square!"

Chris paused mid-twirl, turned toward you, and grinned like he hadn’t just annihilated your expectations of what a boyfriend should look like while chaperoning a child. His tiara slipped slightly. He adjusted it with poise.

“Hey, babe,” he said, breathless, like a man who’d just run a marathon of magic. “Didn’t hear you come in. We were... rehearsing.”

“Rehearsing?” you echoed, still rooted to the spot.

“For the Barbie Talent Gala,” he said with mock seriousness, gesturing to your sister like she was the executive producer. “Strict entry requirements. Glitter quota. Dance skill. Wing stamina.”

“He took the Barbie Oath,” your sister chimed in. “It’s legally binding. He’s committed now.”

Chris nodded solemnly. “She’s not wrong. There was a ceremony. I cried.”

You stared. Hard. “You’re wearing lip gloss.”

“It’s called Pink Unicorn Kiss,” he said, puckering. “And it tastes like bubblegum and regret.”

You finally stepped into the living room, slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“Chris,” you said, voice dangerously calm, “how did this escalate from ‘Hey I’ll watch your sister’ to you being crowned the Barbie Queen of the Galaxy?”

Chris scratched the back of his head, one glittery wing flapping lazily. “Honestly? One second she was showing me her dolls, the next I was in a dress doing pirouettes and being threatened with exile if I didn’t commit to the bit.”

“She takes playtime very seriously,” you muttered.

“She’s terrifying,” he agreed.

Your sister beamed. “He passed the test! He’s officially my Fairy Boyfriend.”

“Fairy Godboyfriend,” Chris corrected gently. “There’s a whole hierarchy.”

“I’m afraid to ask what you had to do to win the crown.”

“Improv monologue, interpretive dance, and... a lip-sync battle against three of her Barbies.” He lowered his voice. “I lost to Malibu Dreamhouse Barbie but came back in the freestyle round.”

You were going to need therapy. Or possibly a drink.

“Okay,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Time to de-glitter and de-Barbie. We have to be at dinner in two hours.”

Your sister let out a tragic groan, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “But Chris promised we’d do Frozen next! He said he could hit the high note in Let It Go!”

Chris blinked at you, caught. “It was a moment of weakness. She bribed me with cookies.”

“She doesn’t even have cookies.”

“She said she did.”

You exhaled and dropped your bag on the table.

“Go wash the glitter off, Chris.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, trying to saunter dramatically out of the room, wings bouncing behind him like a true theater kid. He paused at the hallway. “For the record, I do hit that Let It Go high note. Don’t ask how I know.”

And with that, your boyfriend — the once chill, seemingly unflappable Chris Sturniolo — disappeared into the bathroom wearing fairy wings, a tiara, and your sister’s admiration.

You turned back to your sister, who was now arranging her Barbies in what looked like a courtroom scene.

“You owe me one for this,” you told her.

She didn’t even look up. “Nope. He said he wants to do it again next week.”

You groaned.

And in the distance, you heard Chris start singing in a dramatic falsetto:

“Let it goooooooo, let it gooooooo—”

This was your life now.

And honestly?

You were kind of okay with it.

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